Dogs Playing Poker Poem

Expectation Doing!!! A bell sounds And three dogs, A Great Dane named Basso, a collie named Archibald, and a Dachshund named Federico Begin to salivate. A mousy lab assistant In a dingy frock Serves the frothing dogs Pig entrails and mash. The dogs eat ravenously. Later the dogs talk Amongst themselves. They agree the humiliation Is a small price to pay For aiding Pavlov in his Crucial research and Besides the lab girl Has nice legs. Federico says It’s poker night. The dogs laugh In dog language. Pin It

Same Shit, Different Day

Same Shit, Different Day On Anderson Cooper 360 last night Dr. Gupta recommended A regular inspection Of stool samples to Ensure proper digestion And absorption of Objects intended for Nourishment. Later that evening I read in Wolfram Van Punkblausen's tome Might and Magic if I Wrote the names of My enemies on paper, Smeared them in shit And blood, then Swallowed it, I'd Absorb their souls... So I did. Next evening at work When Mean-Eyed Joe From Human Resources Invoked the Bumper sticker classic "Same shit different day" We were finally on equal Intellectual footing. "You got that right, man, I laughed, Feeling more regular Already.

This was the original back cover I wanted to use for my book Submerged Structure, but it was a little busy, and would have doubled the cost of printing. 

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A True Story

A True Story You ruined my marriage You son-of-a-bitch She wrote in an electronic Mail that appeared From nowhere You had drinks with My husband at Some dive bar and Now he thinks he's A poet. What's wrong with that? I replied. He left for Canada two Days ago to cut timber And be a poet. Does this mean You're single? I inquired Electronically. She wasn't.


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An Interview With Cheese

An Interview


"When did you first
See the cheese?


"I believe I was
Very young, maybe seven.
The cheese appeared
In a Filet-O-Fish.


"Can you discuss the
Impact the cheese has
Had in your career?


"The cheese
Is a constant reminder
Of form and structure.
Especially in the
Too often neglected
Area of dairy.


"How can you justify
Calling this a poem?


"I am a poet.
And I like cheese.


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A Large, Smelly Beast

A Large, Smelly Beast

Small packs of children

Laugh hysterically as

I crush rotten vegetables

In the huge excavating

Machine that is my maw,

And there's a crescendo

Of hoots as I lather my

Thick hide in a cologne

Of mud and feces then

Saunter over to mount

My bulldozer of a girlfriend.

You'll surmise I'm a sluggard

As the homosapien hoses down

My perfectly fitting hide,

But I've seen them carry

Seven generations of snow

Leopards out of here

And while you were mocking

Your wife was home

Fucking the Great Dane.

I remember writing a lot of the poems in the first half of Submerged Structure on a yellow legal pad on the porch on one of my frequent layoffs from the service industry. 

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Let It Bleed

Let It Bleed

There is one less
Of us tonight,

The one I
Came from.

An agent of the State
Arrives immediately
To account for
The morphine so
There can be no
Unauthorized dulling
Of pain.

The mortician arrives
With far less urgency
For what's left
Of where we once lived.
His hat tips but
None of us knows how
To look up from
The cards we've been dealt.

I am now
The elder
Of my clan
And we are called
The Lost.

Submerged Structure by Thomas Vaultonburg

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The Millennium Falcon Sear's Catalog 1977 Poem

The most unlikely things can break a young boy's heart. Or in this case, the most likely things. For Christmas 1977, or maybe it was 1978, I wanted only one thing: the Millennium Falcon from the Sear's catalog. It was $27.00, and at that time that was way too much for our family. Still, I had hopes. I didn't have resentment for opening my gift and seeing I had gotten the much cheaper Land Cruiser instead, I knew the difference between $9.99 and $27.99 to our family, and I enjoyed what I had. But I longed for that Millennium Falcon. I could easily at this moment go online and buy that toy, even new in the box if I choose, but I never will. It would never be the one from the Sear's catalog I wanted all those years ago. 

A few weeks after Christmas, my little guy, Jack grabbed an Angry Birds toy as we were shopping at Walgreens. When his mother started to explain he wouldn't be getting it he flipped out. Not the normal flipping out of a greedy boy, but the flipping out of someone who is about to be heartbroken over a toy. Jack is not greedy, and he doesn't do this every time we shop, so I bought him the Angry Birds, which he played with steadily for the next few weeks. I wonder what poems he will write about me.

The Millennium Falcon

Poetry is the land cruiser
When you wanted
The Millennium Falcon

The A/V girl
When you wanted
The cheerleader

Poetry is a broom closet
At the Ritz

A Swiss Army Knife
In a nuclear showdown

Being given Tinker Toys
And asked to build Paris

Poetry is half
A loaf of moldy
Bread and enough
Peanut butter to
Last the night

Which is to say
It is everything. Pin It

Watching Braveheart With John

Watching Braveheart With John 
I made the mistake
Of watching Braveheart
With my friend John.

Midway through the
Torture sequence
(And keep in mind
This is a first viewing)
John catapults into
A tirade:

"That movie, Signs,
What the fuck was
Up with that, motherfucker?
Worst fucking movie
I ever saw.
Hope you're suffering
You son of a bitch.
Oh yeah, shove that thing
All the way up his anti-
Semetic ass.
M Shammalammadingdong
My ass.
I want my seven godamn
Dollars back.
I hope it hurts
Like hell you
Motherfucker."

I didn't get much
Out of the movie after that

And it didn't seem to
Make any sense explaining
To John

That addressing your problems
To a two dimensional

Fictional character portraying
A mythical 11th century character
Wasn't going to get his
Money back or make
M Shammalammadingdong
Movies any more watchable.

But I guess I know
How he felt.

Most likely the same way
You feel about
Me right now.

But you're not getting
Your money back
Either. Pin It

Submerged Structure: A Poetic Memoir of Schizoid Personality Disorder

     Because I doubt any interviewer will ever ask me this question, I will pose the question of myself. What does the title of your new book of poetry, Submerged Structure, mean?


    The title refers to Schizoid Personality Disorder, which I was diagnosed with at the age of sixteen. It has become a rather rare and archaic diagnosis these days, but the most common symptoms are

• Neither desires nor enjoys close relationships, including being part of a family
• Almost always chooses solitary activities
• Has little, if any, interest in having sexual experiences with another person
• Takes pleasure in few, if any, activities
• Lacks close friends or confidants other than first-degree relatives
• Appears indifferent to the praise or criticism of others
• Shows emotional coldness, detachment, or flattened affectivity 

Although impediments to a career in sales to be sure, probably not so much a "career" in poetry. In as much as anyone besides Dr. Maya Angelou can be said to have a career in poetry in the modern world. 

     It's a disorder that involves something missing. But it's a paradoxical disorder because it's a disorder about something missing that the sufferer doesn't miss. Or doesn't know that they miss. At least emotionally. 

     There's a road sign, or was as of three years ago when the picture on the cover of the book was taken, between Byron and Oregon Illinois. The sign reads Submerged Structure, warning those who might be tempted to dive in to the water of the Rock River that something unseen is resident beneath the murky water. I grew up driving past that sign quite frequently, and each time I passed it the words seemed to become more and more personal to me. I would often wonder how many signs like this in the entire world there were. Not many I concluded. Maybe not even any. Maybe it's the only one in the entire world. 

     What lurks beneath the water there? I've never known. But to me it seemed like a perfect metaphor for those of us who suffer from Schizoid Personality Disorder. Except in our case there's no sign we can plant in the ground to warn others. Even if there were it would be virtually impossible to explain that some part of us has broken off and submerged deep inside our psyche, and is either just gone or nearly impossible to get to. 

     Nearly impossible.

     And that's the conflict. That's one of the ongoing challenges of my life. To find ways to be with other people. To reclaim what has been submerged, to bring it to the surface, and to keep it from sinking again.

     That's what the title means and by and large that's what many of the poems are about. About all the ways and all the situations in which I tried to drag myself to the surface, either successfully or unsuccessfully. 

     Thank you for asking.

     You can find out more about me at 

     Zombie Logic Press

Buy Submerged Structure and Zombie Logic Press Books

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Dumbing It Down - A Poem By Thomas Vaultonburg

As a poet a good lesson I have learned over the years is to never evaluate the quality of your own work, especially immediately. I had a of an ancient poet, perhaps Ovid, whose advice to poets was to put your work in a drawer for five years before you ever even considered showing it to anyone. This poem, "Dumbing It Down," was something I found written in a notebook years after I had first written it, and I loved it. I wondered why I hadn't thought it was good enough to include in the rotation of poems I was considering for the next book. Maybe I thought it was too facile. Now I think of it as one of my favorite poems I have ever written.

Dumbing It Down

I dumbed it down.

I fed it McNuggets

And put it to sleep

With pop tunes.

I made it join

The Republican party.

I drugged it with

Cable television,

I bribed it with

Guilt-free sex

And threatened it

With religion.

I spent a lifetime

Beating it

Into submission and

The ungrateful bastard

Still writes this poem.

My fourth book, Submerged Structure

Update December 11, 2012. A local distributor just bought out the entire first printing of our children's book The Toughskin Rhinoceros Wrangler Company. So that feels pretty good, but means now I have to get cracking on the second printing. I wish someone would buy out these poetry books, but that seems unlikely.

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