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Has there ever been Anyone Here or There

I believe and perceive insanity has arrived and I’m not deprived

when I look again and whales swim overhead as I walk around

on yellow clouds with angel shoes on a road constructed

from yellow clouds leading to heaven if there’s no misstep

when wearing those shoes that destroy a rain-drop

that’s sent down below where broken souls go and

rain-drops bring cool moisture there to cool extreme

heat intended to punish transgressors who refused to

put on the shoes

and refused to see the magical road leading to the five-star

province without end suspended in time and interstellar space

It’s so lonely when there are empty shoes in a pile beside the clouds

that are beneath obsolete webbed feet that enable me to stand tall

on any creamy yellow cloud or road

but a pair of those angel shoes are needed to find the way across

the sky when upside down and my feet kick white clouds pushing

away from the golden grains of yellow onto clouds of red to instill

thoughts that come from the creation factory out there creating

flickering feelings and sending them this way

they transmit hundreds every day to put heat in every heart that often

becomes shattered and scattered into little pieces like when a hammer

hits frozen glass and some pieces become remorse and others quickly

convert to celebrity joy and compassion flickering like a traffic light in

a cloudy night changing from green to yellow to red and back again

changing and enlightening thoughts that never stop until fate takes control

and death arrives to stabilize the light to make it clear there has never been

anyone here or there



Joe Dibuduo

Winner…Jerry Jazz Musician.Short Fiction Contest #31

“Night Cafe”

Published November, 2012


Winner…Jerry Jazz Musician. Short Fiction Contest #34

“Alto Saxophone”

Published November, 2013




I have always been interested in art. One of the first novels I wrote, was one I always wished to see on bookshelves, but never did. Though interested in art, I often got bored turning page after page of paintings. I wanted to a book with illustrations of famous paintings, but rather than just pictures, I wanted a story to connect each painting to encourage a reader to go on to the next painting, and the next. I visualized a coffee table book, large enough to show off the paintings, but due to the expense, we’ve published, The Contest as a paperback. (Now available on Amazon)

The artist who most impressed me was Van Gogh. I saw his Starry Nightpainting close up and as I beheld it, his creativity coursed through me. My arms tingled as I imagined how it felt to add the brush strokes to this beautiful image. His thoughts came from my imagination as I seemed to know what traveled through his mind as he painted. I found this the most moving experience I ever had from a piece of art.

As I wrote The Contest, I studied his painting the Night Café, and thought about how Van Gogh must have felt and acted when getting released from the asylum. The story “Night Cafe” isn’t at all factual, but this is how I imagined him. Before the book was published, I sent it to Jerry Jazz Musician as an entry to the fiction contest. It surprised me that I won as when I wrote the story I was a beginning writer.

Joe Maita invited me to send another story for another contest and I sent “Alto Saxophone,” which I wrote after listening to and speaking with Milt Cannon who plays a sweet alto sax and is the founder of the Prescott Jazz Festival. As in Van Gogh’s story, everything in “Alto Sax” comes from my imagination. I was very proud to win twice and have not entered since, but may enter the next contest if I think of a suitable story.

I continue to write almost every day. Jaded Ibis productions published my memoir, A Crime A Day. In 2015,Cryonic Man and The Contest were published by Tootie Doo Press, The Mountain will Cover You is self-published, as is, Karoake Time @ The Chicagoua Café. I ‘ve published short story collections and a poetry book, Out of this World Sci-Fi Poetry which continues to sell a few copies monthly.I also had stories printed and in online anthologies.








Le Cafe de Nuit/Vincent van Gogh, 1888


Night Cafe


Joe Dibuduo

(Winner…Jerry Jazz Musician.Short Fiction Contest #31. Published November, 2012)




…..When my doctor released me from the asylum in Saint-Remy, he warned me to stay away from absinthe or my hallucinations would worsen. I didn’t tell him I had no need for absinthe to hallucinate. I often had company, even when there wasn’t anyone with me.

…..I’d spent some of my time in the asylum playing billiards. Everyone assured me that I was a natural, the best player they’d ever seen. Maybe, instead of painting, I’d play billiards for a living. As soon as I walked past the gates of the asylum, I headed to Arles and the Cafe de la Gare at 30 Place Lamartine. I’d heard many stories about the fine billiards table in this tavern and the ample crowd of gamblers willing to bet large sums of money on every game.

…..Night descended as I entered the cafe, lit by four hanging lamps made of lemon-lime glass that emanated a greenish light. The blood red walls seemed to ooze into a lower section painted in a dark yellow, and the green billiard table in the middle of the room added to the eerie sensation of color revolving around me in kaleidoscopic circles.


Click here to continue reading the story






Devil Playing Man’s Head as a Saxophone


Alto Saxophone


Joe Dibuduo

(Winner…Jerry Jazz Musician.Short Fiction Contest #34. Published November, 2013)




…..In a little town in Illinois, in a bar near the Wisconsin border, one man blew honey-dripping sounds from his saxophone. A woman’s body swayed in time with the sweetness emitting from that horn. She kept time with the beat and moved like melodic notes going up and down the scale. I imagined blowing musical sounds into her ear.

…..I crossed the wooden dance floor where she whirled, grabbed her hand and began to spin. Like musical notes, one black, one white, we danced all night. I softly sang into her ear, “Imagine how we’d dance in bed.”

…..She laughed in a low contralto voice, and changed it to a soprano when the high notes flowed.


Click here to continue reading the story



           Are you Sorry you Broke the Rules

Out of probability, I reason that night is the season

for sleep, but not for me.

I slumber all day and during the night stay wide-awake.

Nocturnal mortals it is known are sometimes immortal,

and some stay awake after dark to do malicious deeds.


While I doze the hot heavens shine and with a smile while in my

daydreams angels come to me and ask, “Beer or wine?” and then say,

“Because we have wings and come from up above doesn’t mean our

intent is to require you to have faith. We’re here you think, but we’re

nothing but a dream.”


What I see in my dreams I pray to be true, because I see how lovely

all the angels are with white feathered wings and faces so gorgeous,

only a divinity could have fashioned them like that. The deity gave them

voices so delightful, listening to them singing is better than having sex,

so when I awake and they’re nowhere near, my heart wants to break.


How great it would be to sleep my life away accompanied

by singing angels who in the name of love would carry me up

above where they’re from. I’d be so happy to believe they were

made just for me, or would I discover my hallucinations are only

delusions I see to make me believe?


The next day while I drowse angels appear in the stream of my

dream, and we went on a universal tour where spirits of lives lived

on a million biospheres. An angel told me, ” Earth is a wildlife refuge

that Inhabitants of all these worlds will visit to see how you and others

Like you behave when let out of a cage and are given free range.


When they see how cruel humans are, they vow to keep them away

from any other life forms, except those sent to Earth to be punished for

breaking the interstellar law. The angels know, humans will find a way

to make any life sent to their world sorry they ever broke the rules.




One of my older stories published.


I dreamed I could write, day or night, but when I went to school, I learned

I was a fool, because to my surprise, I couldn’t pull words from the sky.

Writing wasn’t as easy as knocking on wood like I thought it would.


Living alone, without a wife or even a dog,

love and companionship were unknown.

I understood why J. D. Salinger, even though

everyone knew his name, became a recluse.


After class, I’d go home to write, but would sleep

And dream how sad life could be because I read



Within my dreams, famous now-dead authors,

Like Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Mailer came

Alive with advice on how to write.


Though famous as writers, not one of the three

Thrilled me as Kesey did when he arrived in a dream

and we’d get high and travel to planets and stars


And when awake and not asleep, memories

of the story, Kesey wrote stay, and feelings emerge

that gives me an urge to strangle Nurse Ratched.


I moved to California where I believed someone would understand me

and get paid for what I wrote. All I accomplished on that

Hollywood dream was a nightmare when I was Mexican, and

Fante told me to eat the dust.


But Thompson came along and chased Fante from

My dream.  Thompson told me the fear he once felt

had been assuaged. So we went to Las Vegas with

pockets full of psychedelics carried from some distant

heaven so we could enjoy our Vegas trip.


But I awoke in my California bed with the moon overhead.

I thought it had all been a dream until I went for coffee

and met a man who said, “Stop dreaming and get to work”.



I’ll never stop ,” I told the stranger. “The night is made

for dreaming, so don’t be rude when you know that’s my job.”

“Now you got it,” he said. “It’ll be okay if you write about your

dreams every day and don’t just daydream your life away.


“Why are you so uptight?” I asked, as I tip-toed across the floor.

“I’m not uptight when I see a meteor in the night, I know I’m Updike,”

he said and turned away after I requested he stay.


Below the starry night, I’m uptight and hold my breath while I pray that

upon some magic star, talent will arrive from the sky to make me comparable

to Updike or like other writers who have appeared in my dreams.

Political Metacognition


      Voynich Manuscript

That day I went into Bernard’s Bookstore, snowflakes fell like confetti on a parade making the ground slippery, wet, and me cold and damp. I wished the old store had a coffee bar. It didn’t but did have some fascinating ancient books. I spent an hour defrosting my toes while glancing through dozens of old tomes. A voice that came from where, I didn’t know, said, “Go upstairs.”

Except for the old woman who sat behind the early 1900s, cash register, I was alone in the store. Maybe I imagined the voice. I went back to browsing and heard it again, but more demanding this time. Compelled to obey this puzzling voice, I searched for a way to go upstairs, but couldn’t discover any way to get there, so I asked the old woman how I’d get upstairs.

At those words, her face transformed into a visage of joy. She didn’t speak but pointed to an elevator door. I pushed the button and the door slid open. I stepped into the wire cage the size of a refrigerator box. It didn’t have buttons to press, just a rotating handle with an arrow to point up or down. I spun the arrow to down and wondered what would have happened if I had pointed it to up because there wasn’t a floor above the store. The elevator refused to go down, so I twisted the arrow to up and the cage traveled upward at an astounding speed. How could I be going up when there was nothing above? Could the elevator some sort of virtual reality box?

It came to a sudden stop, the door slid open and a palatial room came into view. I stepped out onto a white marble floor. Sunshine poured through windows that abounded on all four walls of the 40 x 40-foot room. As far as I could see it was empty except for a podium with a book set on top. Lifting it I found it to be a parchment codex in octavo with a vellum cover.

I opened the book and saw illustrations of unknown plants, constellations or systems of tubes transporting liquids and populated by tiny, pudgy ‘nymphs’. I never saw a manuscript like this previously. It had to be special to be the only one in this glorious room. Where was this room? It wasn’t possible that it existed above the bookstore, but it did. I went to a window wall to try to see where I was, but the bright sun blinded me and I couldn’t see beyond the glass.

The language in this manuscript was handsome and painted with expensive ink and some bold botanical images in gold that were crafted long ago. If I could read the written words, what would I learn? Was the author of this work from our world or another? Is a cancer cure in there? As a book aficionado, I felt this was one I must have, but worried I couldn’t afford it.

If I could only read and understand the written text, I sensed I’d find immortality; world peace and other impossibilities. I carried it to the elevator, but when I tried to go through the door with the volume in my hands, some invisible barrier prevented me from taking it with me. It had to be some sort of modern safekeeping device. If this room existed atop the old store, it must be magic or some sort of technological security.

I boarded the elevator without the tome with the intent on asking the old lady how much it cost. I’d pay her if I had the amount and ask her to turn off whatever stopped the book from entering the elevator so I could take the volume home. I boarded the elevator, closed the door and the voice said, “What’s written in that book are heaven’s words.”

I turned the handle to down and the cage room silently descended. I got out and rushed to the desk. “How much is that book upstairs?”

The old lady gave me a wary look. “We don’t have an upstairs.”

“Yes, you do. Don’t you remember? I asked you how to get there and you pointed to the elevator.”

“You asked me where the bathroom was and I pointed to it.” She pointed to the elevator door. I opened the door to the elevator and the metal cage had changed into a room with a cracked sink and a tile floor in need of a good cleaning. I couldn’t understand what happened. I wanted the book so badly that I’d do anything to gain possession of it.

I heard the voice again, “Only angels can read and understand the words in Voynich’s Manuscript.


The voice told me in poetic words that Angels Speak in

The language in Voynich’s Manuscript that

is handsome and said to be heaven sent.

The botanical images painted with expensive

ink and some in gold came here long ago.


If I could read the written words, what

would I see, the voice asked? Was the author of this tome

from our world or another? Is a cancer cure in there?


I’d learn immortality may be had if I could only read

the inked in terms. World peace and other

impossibilities could be had by eating some of

those magic plants drawn on pages of animal skin.


The voice said that the text put down in that book

were heavenly words that only angels could read and speak.



I Dreamed I could read the text and it said,

Angels and Stars Will Someday Die

Going through time on astral waves makes me wish when

moonbeams shine you’d find one to lead you to the stars

where you belong and will have a fine time with beautiful

souls who used to be alive but are now here in the sky.


Heaven is cold and lonely without you and my tears freeze in place.

Please look up here and behold the newest shimmering star next to

Mars. That’s me winking at you, letting you know to have no fear

because my words don’t rhyme, it’s not a crime out here where I

mingle with angels tempting me to forget some words.


I recall the words they want me to forget but, are ones I’ll never erase.

They’re lyrics of affection I sang to you when we were in love.

All things must die, an angel who loved to be heard whispered in my ear,

but my feelings for you never stopped and are so powerful they bring me

to my knees, and make me wish I would have stayed with you.


But now I’m here with angels and stars but without you, so if you want

to become an angel like me, all you have to do is to drink the Kool Aid I left behind for

the poor and blind. When you drink, you’ll get a ticket to ride here on a moonbeam one

starry night. Until then, I close my eyes so I can’t watch the stars

dim and the sun die. I want you to know that my love for you is the one

thing that will never die.


Bigus Dickus, or is it Bigeth Digeth

Does being born in an afternoon with a silver spoon make a man better

than one born with a bush-whacker as long as a baby’s leg?

Ask Joe. He knows how it goes. When he was sixteen a mealy

mouthed whore wasn’t acting her craft when she saw the size of his

womb broom spit out, “You’re not putting that Bigith Dickith inside of me.”

“Are you trying to say, Bigus Dickus?” The whore laughed and agreed that

was what she was trying to say and Joe’s name became, Bigus Dickus


A transvestite named, Cherry wasn’t ashamed to fall for Joe’s

One-eyed monster. She was a fairy and told many like her why she

was in love. To show those who didn’t believe, she drugged Joe

and said, “We’re not wed, so you owe, but I’ll blow if you’ll put on

a show. I’ll invite others like me. All you have to do is stand on stage

and show Long dong silver to those who’ll admire and desire what you have.


Joe stood on stage and had an inward rage because he couldn’t

read the page. The audience in disbelief and scorn, chanted, “Take it out,

take it out before we put your eyes out.


“Joe became embarrassed for not knowing just what he was supposed

to do. Cherry stepped up on stage and unzipped Joe’s fly, and used both

hands to fish inside his pants and pulled out, Joe’s super-sized Dicktator.


Shouts, without doubt, came from the audience and Cherry holding Joe’s

undisguised but oversized One-eyed monster told the crowd for only forty

bucks they could touch Joe’s Treasure. Many got in line when word of the

Pleasure Pump spread and weirdos came from all around to stroke the only one

of its kind. The line got so long it went out the door and around the store.


Joe protested while Cherry drank and rested with her hands full of money.

She said, “You’ll become famous and travel the world If you allow

kings and queens to touch your Blue-veined aristocrat and let them know

your noble King Dong is something money can’t buy.”


Joe’s young brain thought it okay.


“Not only that,” Cherry said. “You’ll become a highly paid movie star

so wouldn’t have to live a life of crime or ever go to jail if you’re caught

doing wrong all along. Trust me; Like a flash, I’ll handle all the cash

we’ll get from those waiting in line to pay to see Justin-in beaver.


“You were given a gift to have Wedding wrecker that’s bigger than the

world famous thirteen-and-a-half-inch long dong, longer than an average

wine bottle and about as thick, but you’ve got him beat with your fifteen

inch Long dong silver. I measured it myself, and there’s no dispute.  When I held

your Clam hammer I almost fell to the floor.


“Be proud of what you have. If anyone doubts what you say, take down

your pants so they can see, and if they want to touch it, charge them an

arm and a leg, because what you say is true


(No title)

What’s the Reason for the Design

As my cognition grew and I knew it was true

even though I was baffled for a day or two

I became blue when I wondered why our world 

was designed by a deranged and cruel mind

that determined all things must die

Was the creator like Louise whose disease

gives her deranged mind ways to have satisfaction

playing with unremitting actions of horrible scenarios

where despair and murder of all was the norm

Humans without reform or a drop of remorse

were put atop the food chain that compelled all

to kill others in order to survive

did compassion like a passing wind enter the creator’s

 mind when plants and trees were designed

 To never get tired and no need to kill they survived by

eating sunlight freely given by that giant star

were they first in the design and like bread and wine

to give the creator a thrill that floated by when watching

them live and die

Is that why man was here and near so they could hunt

and kill living things to bring a thrill

until the food chain became a fictitious name when the new

creations and all generations had to eat one another even

the mother Is the creator a conspirator that revels in watching

The hunt or torture each does to another before they eat

Is it a sexual thing because there’s only one maker

if the fabricator has a sex drive and enjoys mortal noise

while watching torture mayhem and murder

as some creations have that urge and bring it to fruition

Sex goes on all the time to produce more of the same so

there’s always a source to murder to get murdered or to

enjoy torture to please our creator while the beast

enjoys the overwhelming sex drive while drinking wine

and that’s fine because now we know that’s the ultimate

reason for the design

I’m nothing but a fool

  I believed when my human heart was told

at birth that the poor would inherit the earth, and

I’d be loved even if I had no wealth, as my inheritance

           would ride in on the tide after I died.

I believed it didn’t matter if I was born high or low

I supposed even if I was no prophet that if my skin

was pigmented brown or yellow, I ‘d be considered

a good fellow, equal to those lucky enough to have

               white skin to begin.

I believed all this when I looked to the sky and got hooked

by atmospheric blue, white clouds, and other colors that had no mother

but mingled together as if they were rainbow colors that equally shared

the firmament and proudly displayed every tint, tone and shade there was in

the palette of the one who hand painted the sky and at the closing of the day

                               with delight, put out the lights at night.

I believed that forgetting my pride and getting on my knees was

the key to show I adored you and unafraid prayed without shame

when I declared, I cared and my deep love for you made me beg

                 your name and wish that you’d feel the same.

With greed and the need for your love, I stayed on my knees

until they hurt and my two legs felt like broken eggs.

I thought it wouldn’t hurt when you said you were tired, but gave

                what I admired and desired to so many others.

I believed compassion was in fashion with a passion, until I saw

those without an ounce of kindness renounce consideration and

grow duller next to any color they passed, when they cast discrimination

onto others hoping to achieve their goals without selling their souls, like I

must do if I take what I wanted from the sky and hoped I didn’t die.

I believed the air I breathed was as pure as my thoughts,

but I despaired when like the wind, my mind traveled to bordellos

and other places with faces that were considered dirty because of

the things they had to do to survive and were considered polluted.

I believed animals that weren’t fleet, were here for me to eat, until the day,

I looked into the eyes of a cow standing in the slaughterhouse

line and saw into its mind where terror and pain mingled when she

thought of having her throat cut and the memories of her Calf getting put

into a dark box to become veal for humans to eat as tender meat.

I believed then that all living things could think and feel just like me until I found

how cruel, like hard jewels the unabridged world was full of prejudiced people

like farmers and their wives who after a day or two, destroyed their neighbor’s lives

so they could survive? I wondered if it hurts to live after dismissing other lives?

Who created such a harsh place? Maybe a mortal man or creature

who knows too much and is not afraid to touch dreams of peace and content

that were only illusions painted in unsuspecting minds before life began.

I came to believe all life here was only part of a survival game blamelessly

played by other worldly beings who only made this world to place their unjust

assessments on the other side of space, so they’d never be used where they lived

to cause pain and dissolution as it did here. By sending angry thoughts and

desires to inflict pain and suffering here, hoping their world became ideal.

I no longer believed any alive on this world had a soul, because we’re

created as game pieces with a name to be manipulated and used until

our time gets cut short by a participant in that game called, Life.

The amused beings who played sent us hallucinations so that

We’d believe we were really alive.

  Because I believed, I believe I’m nothing but a fool