More Outsider Poetry By Thomas L. Vaultonburg

After my last blog entry, a mere five minutes ago, many people contacted me and asked me for more Outsider Poetry. Despite the fact, that like many others claiming the title of outsider poet, I didn’t even know what Outsider Poetry was two weeks ago, I felt as if I could oblige that request. So here you go. Outsider poetry by Thomas L. Vaultonburg.

Maritime Law by Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Maritime Law by Thomas L. Vaultonburg

It is fortunate I remembered this poem, from my book Detached Retinas, because it is one of my friend Tim’s favorite poems, and since he’s animating another poem from the book, “The Jackal,” for Fall Art Scene, I really should  frame this print and give it to him. I’m excited about the Jackal. He asked me what music might be appropriate for it, and I at first suggested Satie, but he eventually gravitated towards “Pop Goes the Weasel.” What really sucked about choosing that particular piece is that it doesn’t increase the word count of this blog at all and now I’m going to be at this all night.

Unless…

Future Cliches

Tourists go to Mars, successful real estate developers go to Jupiter.

One download of SOMA a day will keep your aspirations of socialized yet effective health care away.

Treat a hologram like your wife and an automaton like a clone.

If water was wet everyone would drink it.

Behind every successful simulacrom is an androgenous lab assisstant.

It is what it is. Again.

Two megagigs may be enough to open a neuropeptide bar in Bakersfield, but it’s not going to get you into my pants.

In the future each one of us will be relieved of the enormous burden of fame our videocast has brought us for exactly fifteen minutes.

Only President Justin Bieber could go to China.

Bouge. You like that poem? I wrote it while sitting on the bank of the Rock River in a location that was an ancient Native American fishing village, then an artist’s colony for decades. Then they decided to put a bar and a dock there so a bunch of rich white assholes could pull up their boats and act like jagbags all summer long. You know where you can see more groovy Outsider Poetry like that? not quite blank. Back to my story: my brother bought that bar and for three summers I lived in the dive motel annexed to it, and occasionally sat on the bank of the Rock River thinking this place might have had some mystical mojo at some point before all this white trash floated ashore. Then I’d write a poem about Buck Owens and go in to work. It’s hard to complain that people are sinful boozehounds when they’re throwing around hundred dollar bills like Rick James at a Shoe Carnival. Sure, that didn’t make any sense, but you weren’t reading it any way. The rain has stopped outside, and I just heard the five year old sneeze, so yay let influenza season begin. Three more words.

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