I Am Rockford History

In a Midwestern city not too far away in a future far, far from now, Zombie Logic Press became part of Rockford History.

The only issue I have is the story is dated 2907, and while I might not mind living a 1000 year life, I'm not sure I want to do it in Rockford, or after a trump administration. One of my conciliations is that I never believed I would live until fifty, and I as I approach fifty it's certainly no certainty I'll get there. This latest book is meaning more and more to me the more I think of it.

Before my heart surgery I really didn't make a lot of preparations for my death. A few. I signed a power of attorney form and destroyed some old journals I didn't think anyone would want to or need to read, but I just couldn't do it. Almost four years later I still haven't prepared for my death, even though the realistic odds of it happening at any time are 1,000 times greater than yours.

When Jasper was younger I'd be with him and I'd think "If I died now I wonder if he'd remember me." It was always a constant reminder to be who and what I'd want him to remember me as if I didn't have all the time I wanted to create those memories with him.

Now he makes books more complex than the one I'm about to release. And the twelve year old has written two novels.

He made a functioning pop up book all by himself. 

Finishing off Atrocious Poems A To Z was difficult for me. I didn't really have the energy or vigor I needed to drive it home, but I did my best. And maybe I'll still get a couple more cracks at it.

Buy your copy of Atrocious Poems A To Z 

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Brother S 1500 Whisper Word Processor

Last free write of the day before I anticipate Jenny will show up and we'll head out to Spring Art Scene. I'm watch The Incredible Hulk on MeTV, and it seems like he's close to Hulking out for the first time. I wonder if the writers had a formula where they were required to make him Hulk out at least twice per episode. 

This is a Brother 1500 S Whisper word processor with an attached printer. I would like to have something like this even though I know there is no way to transfer these files digitally. Maybe I could just write up a few poems, print them out, and stuff them in an envelope the way Charles Bukowski did. 

I think I might have a tablespoon of baking soda before we head out. Sort of settle my stomach and prepare it for whatever carnage might be coming its way. Hard to tell at these art venues. Sometimes they'll be cool and have a few beers or a bottle of whiskey around, but generally its wine, which is an instant migraine headache for me. 

Set off the smoke alarm earlier making chicken wings. There was no smoke at all, I just just think it sense my panic whenever I cook and reacts. I jumped up and managed to grab it from the wall, and it stopped beeping after three sharp, shrill beeps. I ran downstairs with it and hid it under a stack of towels. Now I have to go down and get it. 

Bottom of the hour. I feel like someone is about to twist David Banner's arm within the next minute. 

"You want to fight? I'll give you a fight."

Bad idea, dipshit.

I have been wanting to watch this with Jack since it started airing on MeTV a couple of months ago, but I keep forgetting how early it is on, and tonight he's at grandmas. 

Made a list of Outlaw Poets earlier today. Running Hulk. That's it. Baking soda time.

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Unwitting Outsider Poetry From Thursday

I wrote a poem I didn't write today. For some weird reason I had this flashback to a bartender I worked with almost two decades ago who was always telling me about this goof she was dating. She died suddenly, and I had this bad feeling for her that the end of her life was wasted. The title came to mind and I immediately decided I wouldn't write the poem because I've been there and done that on the foul language and poetry about terrible subject matter. Instead I wrote on Facebook about how I thought of the title then decided to do something else, and my friend Andrew reposted what I said in poetry form, and it seemed like a poem to me. Not the one I was going to write, but a perfectly valid poem about why I didn't write the poem I was going to write, which you now know the story of, too.


Her Last Few Fucks Were Wasted

I just had a sudden urge to write a poem titled
"Her Last Few Fucks Were Wasted,"
and even ten years ago
I would have too,
but instead I walked
to the bathroom,
trimmed my nosehair,
and decided this poem need not exist.
You're welcome.


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You Are What Your Record Says You Are

In the National Football League there is a saying that goes after a certain amount of games "You are what your record says you are."

I suppose in the writing profession after a certain time you are what your record says you are. Maybe there are exceptions of undiscovered genius, like Kafka or Confederacy of Dunces, but in general if people aren't taking to your work it's probably because it doesn't warrant very much attention.

I haven't enjoyed writing in almost twenty years. Nobody much liked my first book, Concave Buddha, and I still have boxes of my second book, Detached Retinas, in my closet. I did have some early success in placing my poems in small press zines, but I think that was largely due to imitating the style of the day. The Bukowski style. 

I really stopped writing as a serious endeavor in the early 1990's, and stopped submitting my work for the approval of others then. All my subsequent books are self-published, and all my poetry appears only here or at Zombie Logic Review. Occasionally I'll write something late at night and share it to Facebook.

I really like to leave some sort of permanent record here at Zombie Logic about what I watched, what I saw. I rarely have anything to say about my private life or interactions. I'm trying to keep it vaguely literary. Actually right now I'm just trying to get to 500 words to appease Google, because I haven't written in days. 

Google, like the rest of the world, isn't particularly interested in what I write, either.  I am reminded of that occasionally when I see a tripod page, long scuttled, and of poor quality of the first place, outranking one of my blogs on the same topic, written only weeks before. It's alright, though, because invisibility is a superpower. 

Largely, when anyone bothers to comment on anything I have written, it is because they are angry and disagree with me. It's rare for me to ever make a statement out of sheer desire to incite the anger of others. I write what I want, and I say what I believe. Is this 500 words yet? Should I post a picture also...

Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls.

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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 read 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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