Archives for June 2013

Who I Am

Who I Am

If I could only go back in time

and meet myself at a younger age,

I’d fill my immature brain with

things I have learned.


I’d instill in my younger self honesty, kindness,

and compassion. Then I’d convince that misguided

youth that the only worthwhile paths are loving

humanity, animals, and all that nature provides.


I’d fill my young brain with knowledge

of how philanthropic acts are so much

better than the immoral ones I knew

during my early years.


In the mirror of my mind, I can hardly believe

the reflections I get of my criminal acts when

I was young, so with resolve I want to go back

in time to fix my early flaws.


Science doesn’t know how, but a mystic I know does.

She claims past, present and future are all one, because

time and space are a complete illusion only existing

in my mind, and she’ll fix that if I cross her palm.


That’s the way things are, she claims as she counts the silver

and knowledge that everything has already happened, is about

to happen, and is happening right now fills my head, and I wonder

if my mind exist in time or does time exist in my mind?


I close my eyes and travel through the vortex that’s a door and see

myself at eighteen. I try to tell myself the error of my ways. The

eighteen year old looks me over and decides I’m an easy mark.

He punches my jaw and knocks me to the ground.


“Wait, I yell. “I’m an older you. I’ve come to tell you that later in life

you’ll be all right and become a poet.” He hears those words and goes

into a rage. “Poets are queer, so don’t you dare tell me that I’m one of

them. Give me your money and watch for saying something like that.”

I open my eyes and become aware that I can’t change who I was before

I became who I am.

Say it Again

Say it again


A curse is on me it seems. I open my mouth to

smooth things out. Instead,  strike me dead, when

I speak, like a joke inflammatory words that I want

to divorce force their way through my lips. When I try

to explain. Terminology I use always paints

a picture I don’t intend.


I try to find the nearest neighbors to words I used

and touch up the canvas, but my lexis only adds to the

abstraction of my actions. Temperatures rise above

where they were before I uttered my conciliatory words


A tongue transplant is what I need, so I’ll be able

to utter soothing phrases instead of unwanted blazes.

Blaming my tongue for telling lies and any mistakes

is my way of reducing the tightening noose I unwittingly

wrap around my neck.


I let my feelings hang loose. and excuse myself from what

I’ve said and think it fair to say, “It’s my tongue that’s at fault,

because the words that it spews manage to inflame and

it shouldn’t be like that



If I could eat all my words, chew them and spit them

out so they’d spell out my intent in an orderly way,

I’d swallow everything I ever said, and at the closing

of the day, say it again from far away.


My World

My World


Is a place where angels lie and

devils have wings. God is cruel

and fantastic as it seems, Satan

tells it like it is. He says to be

redeemed is a sin and it’s better to get

a gin fizz than that.


He cracked the prayer lines long ago and pirated

light to brighten his domain. Messages sent to God

were intercepted and accepted by Satan instead of

God, who rolled around heaven all day waiting for prayers

that his heart hungered for, but they never came, and he

wasn’t going to answer them anyway.


The fallen angel replied to the pleas in a devilish

way. Prayers for rain were answered with floods.

Appeals for a loved one’s life were responded to

with hospital bills.


The few souls who overcame the Imp’s wily ways

and made it to heaven and heard the holy music,

soon got tired of hearing it, and how the wine they

drank came from the inexhaustible supply of  blood

that leaked from the sacred heart that hungered for love

but was forsaken by mankind.


Most souls wished they had gone to Hell where fornication

was allowed and there was no price to pay.


Punishment it appeared, was to live eternity as we lived

in our world. Without truth, love or fidelity. Those are

reserved for heaven,


but I prefer to live in a place where my lifestyle doesn’t have

to change. So when my time comes, with a smile, I’ll go down

below where I’ll be indefinitely enclosed in my world, with others

like me.


My Hero

 If You’re Too Old to Cut the Mustard, 

You Can Always Lick the Jar.

Larry Flint


My Hero


Born again as a Christian, Larry included
rage, passion, and religion with porn in print,
until the day a neo-Nazi shot him in the back
only because he didn’t like to see black on white
in Larry’s rag.

Paralyzed and always in pain, Larry no longer
believed in God or that he lived in the land of
the free. From a chair with wheels, he fought the
established regime by rescuing John Delorean

who designed the GTO to race the wind.and then
built the Firebird, Grand Prix, and the DeLorean,
Barely hanging on and unable to smile, the feds
convinced him to deal in drugs to save his dream.

At the end of the day, they threw him in jail, but like
a knight on a white horse, Larry came riding in with
a surveillance tape showing DeLorean’s arrest was
clearly a case of entrapment,

Those in charge sought to stop its broadcast, but
Larry showed the nation this was different and by
their own admission the government payed a
handsome price for this arrest.

15 feds came to take the tape from Larry, but they were out of luck,
because Larry claimed he took too many drugs to remember where it was.
The judge, who thought his bench gave him the power of God, ordered Larry
to reveal who gave it to him.

Dressed in a diaper made from an American flag, Larry told the judge,
” I’m not your slave, and I refuse your illegal demand. Arrested for
desecration. The judge said, “Six months in a psychiatric prison!.”

“Motherfucker is that the best you can do?” Larry replied.

“Make it 12!” Judge Motherfucker said.

“Motherfucker, is that the best you can do?”

“Fifteen months!” Motherfucker declared and Larry went to a Missouri
prison from where he ran a satirical piece in Hustler, on Reverend
Jerry Falwell that showed the holy man in an outhouse with his mother
where he said, “Drunk off our God-fearing asses and Mom looked better
than a Baptist whore with a $100 donation.”

Offended, Falwell wanted it suspended, and said, “You can’t say that
about my mother.” He filed a $45 million lawsuit. Larry only got a slap
on the wrist but he risked financial ruin in defense of his First Amendment
rights when he appealed the decision,

The Supreme Court’s unanimous decision was 8-0 in favor of Flynt.
Larry’s still kicking today and came in 7th to replace Governor Gray.
Thanks to Larry, not only is Delorean free, but like a hero, Larry clearly
got the high court to say, “Public figures presented in parodies and satires
cannot sue because their feelings are hurt and enlarge it into something that it’s not”

And believe it or not, Larry and Jerry are friends today.


Thoughts From A Hospital Bed

Thoughts From A Hospital Bed


How many patients made their dying wish

as they rose from this bed to become spirits

in search of a place to go.


As death creeps close, I suspend my breath

because I believe my soul will be the next to go.

I smile, close my eyes, and in the dark I see


spirits of those who departed this world, still  clinging

to my bed and they’re  begging to have their lives returned,

so they can say a curse or other last words.


Walls and ceiling disappear. Death waits at the door. I see

heaven far above and I fall in love. Then I feel roaring flames

exploring my flesh from below, diminishing my fear of frost or cold.


I want more years, but if it’s my time, heaven is where I want to go.

I take the stairway and missing an arm and two legs, I make it

to the top only to find  a padlock on the pearly gates.


I ring the bell, angels sing giving me thoughts of spring. A man

with bloodshot eyes and wearing a dirty robe approaches.

He holds out a jug and through rotten teeth says,


“Have a drink to brace yourself, because you’re full of guilt that

not even God can forgive, so you’re going down below. He pulls a

lever and the stairs transforms into a glistening water slide


that expressly delivers rejected souls directly to the flames

that angrily hiss as liquid from the slide pours onto them.

“I’ve been good,” I scream as my speed increases.


I approach the hissing, steaming place that must be hell.

I’m about to pass my hospital bed and grab hold. I hang

there with the other souls and ask, “How long can we hang on?”


They inhale in despair and then tell a lively tale, “Eternity, and

after that we don’t know.” I feel the heat on my feet. Eternity

is too long, so I fight to stay alive.


Hand over hand, I pull myself into the bed and lay on my

back. I close my eyes and pray, not for me, but for Saint Peter

at the gate. I tell God that he’s cruel to compel a saint like him


to pull the switch sending so many to burn in flames. “That’s why

I turn my blood to wine, so he can numb his brain from the pain.”

I open my eyes and see ceiling and walls have reappeared.


I yank I.V. tubes from my arms and jump from the bed that is nothing

but a gateway to hell. I run out the door to see imps wearing white and

acting like doctors with scalpels in their paws.


They swarm around me and begin to operate without washing their mitts

or putting on a mask. I fight back and using their blades, I decapitate them all.

Looking for more heads to take off, I hear a far away voice asking if I’m awake.


I open my other set of eyes and see a human face looking down at me.

“You’re in the recovery room. How do you feel?” A nurse dressed in white asks.

Thank God, it was nothing but a dream I think until the nurse binds my hands and feet.


She calls in the headless imps who have new blades in their hands. Screaming for help

that doesn’t come, I watch those headless things, cut open my stomach and stuff my

entrails down a hole in their throats.


I’d never have seen the monstrous world that divides our reality and abuses our mortality

if I had refused to lie down in that hospital bed. Dreams, so it seems, opens the door to

other worlds that shut down any logical or comforting thoughts I may have,


so I wish I’d awake and say, “I’d rather be dead, than lay down in that bed!”

Joe DiBuduo Author

cropped-navy-pier1.jpg        Thanks for coming to my site.  You’ll find some of my unique short stories here that you can read here or download for reading at a later date.

Many of my flash fiction stories are 1,000 words or less, so they can be read while on a break, waiting in line, etc, etc.

Please comment on any stories you like or dislike. Thank you.

Joe DiBuduo