I don’t care if tomorrow never comes.
I’ve been lonely night and day since
she ran away.
My world ended the day she left me
for another. I think of days that used
to be when she’d sleep with me.
If I can’t have her, I don’t care if the
sun ever shines or if tomorrow
I can’t believe she’d leave me for another when
I wanted her to be a mother. I fed and clothed
her well. But he had something I didn’t.
She scampered over there every chance she got.
It wasn’t right, I couldn’t give her up without a fight.
I loaded my gun and went to where she was,
Knocked on the door. A man bigger than most
answered. I said, “She’s here and she’s mine. I’m
taking her home and you better not try to stop me,”
When I put my pistol barrel in his ear, he pleaded,
“I told her a thousand times to go home, but to my
sorrow, she refuses to listen to me.”
I smashed the side of his head with my pistol barrel.
She ran to him and licked his face until he awoke.
Fear filled his eyes when he spoke, “Go home you bitch!”
She kissed him again and didn’t care that I was standing there.
“You’ve grown cold and no longer care for me,” I told her.
“Set me free,” I told the man as he got off the floor.
“You can have her,” I said, “But you need to pay for her
My author page at Amazon is, amazon.com/author/joedibuduo
There are people like me who dare to become
attached to and sometimes choose to speak
to plants and trees that are as lonely as me.
Trees live for years and years I believed and
had no concern it would bring me to my knees
and leave as everyone and everything I’ve ever
loved has gone and done.
Taking with them a piece of my heart until what
remained became hard without any regard, and
ceased to beat, until this tree blocked the blazing
Arizona sun from burning me.
Like me, the tree didn’t have a beating heart.
I watched it grow from a sapling to a 30 foot
tall mighty Elm that shed tons of leaves in
Raking them became a chore, until I looked
at my now naked tree and worried how it
would survive winter’s cold. I wished and
prayed that spring would hurry and soon come.
The remaining piece of my heart softened as I
worried that snow and wind would be too much for
a Chinese tree with a crown of gold that’s not compatible
with extreme cold.
I became emotionally involved and fell in love
with my Chinese Elm and did all that I could
to keep it safe and alive, but it died on me at
the age of 21,
taking the last piece of my heart with it. I cut what
remained into pieces that would fit into a fire, stacked
them into a high pile and saw the heavens smile.
When my time comes, I’ll lay atop the funeral pyre,
and we’ll travel together to that place in heaven where
the heartless go.
With a smile, I’ll write what I have to say
about the left and right, maybe even the
purple night, so she can preview my loving words.
She can change the color of the night or left
from right to romantic words she’s dying to see
roll from the typewriter keys of a man she loves.
In return, she’ll begin to send me words I’d love
to have whispered in my ear without fear by a
woman filled with rage and passion, like her.
When like an old fashioned miracle, we finish
our tale, we may not have love, but beautifully
written words that readers will believe are true
and could only be written from the heart of
someone irresistibly in love.
A romantic tale will prevail that would never have
been told if it wasn’t for a man and woman who
write, to have pooled resources and collaborated.
I can’t shut the door in my mind, I can’t kick
my habit, so I’m at it again, packing all my
creative tools to build a woman, that will never
fear, out of steel and cement to make me content.
She will be as fierce as can be, with Freddy Krueger
hands, spikes for nails and a pinhead made from
nails and cement. I’ll spare you the degrading details.
Her body will be tall and thin with faces for breasts and
maybe two on her back so she never has to look back.
I’ll make her with a smile and white cement, but may
stain her black or brown, but I won’t explain.
Creative juices are starting to flow through my
veins and I become alive as I think of what I can
do with my fingers, hands, and a barely working
brain that’s always in pain.
That I’m poor and don’t have a dime to spare, I can’t
use that as an excuse not to build a statue that’s on
my list. I’ll do it alone, stand that fifteen foot tall bitch
up In my sandy yard for all to see what caused my
intoxication and used to only exist in my imaginatio
Souls For Sale
I started to believe, until there was more
wind on the hill and congress made a list
of 17 scientists to investigate for falsely
claiming the temperature rise was calamitous.
I numbed myself it seems, because I didn’t
believe a word those pseudo scientists said
about how hot it would get in the time set.
I didn’t feel or see how hot it had got, until I
saw Alaskan’s hitting the swimming hole
and ice flows to small to hold a polar bear.
Ships sail through Arctic waters and soon
they’ll be drilling for oil there. So the temperature
rise isn’t all bad. I’m glad to hear the end isn’t near.
We’ll have more fuel to burn, but we’ll never learn that
before long Chicago will be a tropical paradise where
winter winds will no longer blow and snow will cease to fall.
The oceans are rising and their coral reefs are dying,
but those who don’t believe say it’s all right,
Mother Nature is just doing her job and we’re evolving.
Seaside cities will move inland and those vacation
homes built near the ocean will soon be gone, but
people refuse to believe that global warming is true.
When the bugs and slugs around the world grow as
big as they are in Florida and tropical diseases sing
in northern cities, will people believe it’s an early spring?
Will the denial financiers buy billboards to show only idiots
can believe what scientists say? They’ll deny there are
more hurricanes and tornadoes.
They’ll simply say, behind the veil, they’re good for the economy.
Knock on wood, they create jobs and don’t bother to worry when
water becomes scarce or disappears and costs more than gasoline.
Drink water like a bird, wash less when you undress, and
when the air reaches a point where it’s hard to breathe,
we’ll give you a paper mask.
Do these deceitful men ever look again before they sell their
souls to the very rich? Do they have kids or grand kids who will
be alive to see all this come to pass? Do they have souls to sell?
A Recorded Call
There are calls for free and fair elections, and
active participation by the people as we used
to agree in our long hushed phone calls.
We promised protection of human rights of all citizens,
even those sub-human who believe differently than we.
They’re free to criticize us, their elected leaders.
We’ll guarantee under law, their right to have
beliefs that are different than ours, to say
and write what they think and drink, as long
as they don’t read the small print.
We’ll lead them to believe they have the right
to assemble, to protest. and we’ll let them think
all citizens are equal under the law that we’ll design.
It’ll say, no one may be discriminated against
on the basis of their race, religion, ethnic group,
or gender, but women must surrender their warm
and tender feelings to keep us afloat.
We’ll promise that no one will be arrested, imprisoned,
killed, or exiled. That no one is above the law, not even
a king, “perhaps me” or an elected president. Torture,
cruel and inhumane treatment are absolutely forbidden,
unless we need information.
High ranking officials cannot use their power to enrich
themselves we’ll say, because it’s not the way a Democracy
is designed, but that’s why we’re so far behind in pay and
find the need to accept any and all donations and bribes.
In light of history, nobody but us can provide safeguards for
the people’s liberties which are victimized when we allow
sissy men to be in charge. We’ll change things by calling
for Democracy, and killing those who don’t agree.
Do you agree?
The End of the Road.
I’m trudging down that long,
long road I have to follow
before I appear at the place
where death waits for me.
I’m gonna miss being alive
after I die. When I arrive at
the location marked for my
demise, I promise not to cry.
I’ll look at the bright side and
see that when I leave this world,
I’ll have angel wings and be able
to fly, sing, and be happy all day.
I begin to practice for what’s to
come. I build a set of wings and
jump off a cliff. With a broken leg
I sit with a rented harp on my lap.
A hymn leaves my lips, my neighbors
call the police and I’m arrested for
disturbing the peace, but that doesn’t
wipe the smile from my lips.
I’m practicing being happy here so I’ll
know how to act after I die, I tell the
angel from hell who wears a white coat
and asks me why I wear a happy mask.
I can’t tell a lie, so I say, “When I leave
this world and go on to the next, I’ll
be able to play my harp while I happily
fly around singing all the time.”
“You’re insane,” he says and takes me
downstairs to a padded cell where I can
sing and yell until I come to the end of
that road I have to travel before the end.
Cowboys tell rhythmic tales and
try to make me laugh with their
talk about how they’re tough as nails.
They often tell of their love for fast
horses, cows, steers and most of
all, the beans they ate for dinner.
They sing about the stars above and
the wide open plains they ride upon
making their lives better than all the rest.
At the end of a hardscrabble day, they
gather like hornets in a nest and stories
about how hard they work, women they
lost and money they never had abound.
Sitting on the ground romantic stories
they tell make me dream of becoming
one of them, and I know I’d fit right in
when I begin.
I’ve lost every woman I ever had almost
as fast as I lost every cent I ever earned,
and never learned how to make any return,
so don’t be concerned, I’ve got a story to tell too.
Her eyes were round and dark brown. Staring into
them always sent my hormones rushing to a
cooler place because they’d catch fire
when she was around.
I couldn’t control my heart strings that vibrated
like wings when she came near and rubbed
her rump against me like she wanted to hump.
That gave me a lump that I tried to control.
Bless my soul, It wasn’t right that a married man
like me would have such an urge, but one day I
could no longer resist and took her into the barn
and had her assist me in closing the door.
We rubbed noses and then I grabbed her tits.
Moving behind her, I fulfilled my burning urge
and would have done it again if my wife hadn’t
opened the door and asked,
Why are you doing it with a cow when you have me?
Compared to her, the cow was svelte, she smelled
sweeter and her hair was neater.
I no longer have a home, but do own a guitar, a horse
and a cow that I love more than my wife. So you
see, I can compete with stories told by other cowboys