Archives for August 2016

Dog Meat

John’s watching the boob tube, by himself on Saturday night again. What’s wrong with him, he wonders for the thousandth time. He’s practically a virgin at Twenty-seven years old. It’s been so long. Why in the hell couldn’t he find a woman to spend time with? Spend time, hell, have sex with. There are women out there, looking for a guy just like him. So, he’s not considered handsome, But since high school he has been pumping iron, and has a muscular, toned body.
He wondered if he’s too picky about which women he’ll date. They have to fit his criteria, not too tall or short. Good looking with a shapely tight figure with the perfect sized breasts. He thinks that anything more than a mouthful is a waste. She can’t have — Heck, he could go on for hours talking about what he wants. The point is, who he can get to keep him company on Saturday nights.
At work Joe told John he met his wife on Craig’s List, but John wasn’t that hard up, he thinks. When John sits in front of his computer, his reptilian brain directs his fingers to type out: craigslist.com. The Craig’s list page comes up, and he figures he may as well take a look and see what’s available.
He clicks on Women seeking men. There’s a little box he has to click to agree that he’s at least 18 years old and understands the women seeking men page may include adult content. John agrees to release craigslist from any liability that may arise from his use of their site and a few other things. Scans the page, sees a place to go to ask questions about safe sex, clicks on it. “Holy shit.” He wonders what kind of freaks he’s going to meet on this site.
Looking at the questions really makes John think he should just click his way off the page, but his curiosity wants answers, so he reads on.

The first discussion he reads starts with open sore on anus. He doesn’t know if it’s a man or a woman who has an open sore because only initials are used to identify the writer. He doesn’t want to know and doesn’t give a damn what he/she looks like. Or wait, maybe he wants to know what a person with an ass sore looks like so if he ever sees that person, he can cross the street.
John clicks on the back arrow, but still under control of his reptilian brain, his fingers click the Women Seeking Men link. He doesn’t want to continue this romance charade any longer. John wrests control away from the primitive part of his brain. His finger is about to click on the mouse when his eyes lock on the words, “Money and looks are irrelevant to this twenty three year old medical doctor from Midland, Texas, now living in Prescott, AZ. What are important, are a healthy lifestyle along with a healthy body. I’ll send a photo to qualified men. To qualify you must send me the results of a recent physical exam.”
Wow, a doctor at 23. She must be Doogie Howser’s sister, He can’t blame her for wanting to see a physical exam record after reading about open sores on a butt-hole. He fits the bill for what she’s looking for, but wait a minute. She says beauty. Maybe she’s one of those heavy duty beauties. There’s nothing wrong with big women, but he can’t help himself, he wants the woman of his dreams. He’d rather not have one than compromise.
May as well see what she looks like, he pulls out a copy of the physical he had last month wondering exactly what she can learn from it. He looks it over. Blood pressure, heart rate, blood type. His doctor wrote a notation across the top, No disease, or infections. He’s not giving away any secrets by sending it to her. He gets a recent picture of himself, scans it and the report onto his computer and sends them off.
Not expecting much he waits a few minutes for her picture. When it doesn’t arrive, John shuts off his computer. Then he returns to the boob tube to watch SNL.
The next morning when he turns on his computer to check his e-mail, there is a message from Debby. John figures it’s probably one of those ads from a dating or porn site. To be sure he clicks on it. A photo appears. His eyes fill with images of perfect hooters, like in his dreams. After filling his brain with visions of those rose colored nipples, he raises his eyes and sees sparkling blue eyes, blond hair with a figure that looks just perfect. He isn’t into porn, but after seeing Debby, he thinks that if she’s the star, it can’t hurt to watch a little.
He reads the message under the picture and almost falls out of his chair, “John, your picture shows me that you’re a healthy young man. If the report you sent me about your health is accurate, I think we can get together. Are you willing to confirm its accuracy? If you are, let’s meet for coffee? Then we’ll see what we think of each other.”
John types as fast as he can, “This afternoon, at Cuppers, say 1:00.”
He reads her return e-mail and replies, “See you then.”
Only two hours to get ready. John frantically searches for something to wear that may impress her. He doesn’t have anything nice, never goes anywhere, but chooses his best gym outfit. She wants someone healthy, maybe that will impress her. He can’t believe his good fortune. Not only does he meet a woman the first time on Craigslist, but she seems like the perfect one. He can’t wait to meet her. John gets to Cuppers at one o’clock. He walks around looking for her. She isn’t there. He should have known it was too good to be true, a beautiful woman like her making a date with him. She’d probably made dates with a hundred guys for fun, or to satisfy some weird whim.
John orders a latte, sits down, and buries his face in a newspaper.
“Hello, Hello.” He hears a woman say in a husky voice. He doesn’t look up. She can’t be speaking to him John thinks, until she says, “John don’t you recognize me?”
He looks up, drops his coffee onto the table. It splashes over his shirt, burns his hand. His chest constricts. His heart races. Debby stands in front of him, wearing a maroon halter top with a matching skirt that’s not much bigger than the napkin he has on his lap. Her photo was breathtaking but seeing her in person does things to John’s body that had never been done before. His legs shake. He’s nervous as she sits down across from him. He can’t take his eyes off her thighs as she adjusts her short skirt.
“John, you’re much better looking in person than in the photo you sent. That’s refreshing for a change. Most guys send me their high school picture from twenty years ago. Some even send someone else’s physical report. You didn’t do that, did you John?”
“No, no, I swear, the one I sent is mine,” John said.
“I like you John. We can probably spend the night together this coming Saturday if you want. Do you live alone?”
“Yes, I do, just a sma. . .”
“Good.” She interrupts him. “I want to be sure that no one disturbs us.”
Spend the night! He can’t believe it. He writes his address on a piece of paper and hands it to her. “What time Saturday?”
“Hold on John. I told you I had to confirm the accuracy of your lab report. It’s an unusual request, but with all the STDs out there I have to be sure you’re not a carrier.”
“I understand completely.” God, he’d give her anything she wants.
“Then you won’t mind giving me a urine sample and a mouth swab for DNA? Just so I can run it through to be sure. I’m terrified of contracting AIDS or something.”
With the world the way it is, he can’t blame her for being cautious. He glances at her smooth white thighs outlined against the maroon lining of her skirt. His eyes follow her thighs as far as he can see. Imagination sees what his eyes can’t. From thoughts of touching what his imagination sees, his legs feel as though they might collapse. He can’t refuse her request. She hands him a clear plastic cup with a screw-on cap. He goes to the men’s room to fill it. When he return, she’s ready with a cotton swab.
“Stick this in your mouth and rub it against your cheek,” she says.
He doesn’t hesitate for a second, swabs his cheek, and hands her the cotton on a stick with samples of him on it.
“Okay, you’ve got everything you asked for. Will I see you Saturday?” John asks.
“Depends if everything checks out,” she says, “I’ll call you one way or the other.”
“Let me give you my number?”
“Got it off the medical report you sent.”
She leaves.
John beats himself up all that day, and the next, telling himself what he should and should not have done. He sits there with his head in his hands. Did he screw up somehow? Will she actually come to his apartment to spend the night with him?
The phone rings Saturday afternoon. When he hears her husky voice, he sits down, expecting her to tell him she isn’t coming.
“Well, John, I’ve got good news. Everything checked out fine.”
He knows he won’t ever have to worry about catching anything from her. If she checks everyone she has sex with like this, she’ll never contract any disease. Heck, he decides that he won’t even use a rubber. If she gets pregnant, maybe she’ll marry him.
“So you’re coming tonight?” he asks.
“I’ll be there at eight.”
Saturday night comes and Debby rings the bell at 8:03. Incense and candles burn, champagne sits in a bucket of ice beside a bouquet of roses. John wears a brand new outfit he got from J.C. Penney’s on Friday. He has dumped half a bottle of Fragonard Cologne Grand Luxe all over himself. He smells like mandarin orange, bergamot peel, lemon, and lavender. She’ll find him irresistible.
John opens the door. She’s standing there wearing a scoop necked giraffe print lycra bra top with matching shorts. When she bends over to pick up her bag, an open circle in the back of her top exposes cream-colored skin that set him on fire. She carries a small suitcase. Her night stuff with a change of clothes he figures.
“Sorry, I didn’t have time to change after the gym,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it. Come on in,”
She sits and John pours her a glass of champagne, then he takes her bag, when he carries it to the bedroom, he’s surprised at the heft of it. He hurries back to the living room.
“Do you want to watch TV?” he asks. What a dufus. A beautiful woman comes to his apartment, and he asks if she wants to watch TV. He should kick himself.
“I’d rather drink so we can talk,” she says.
Wow, is she cool, but maybe she’s moving a little too fast for him. Drink, talk, then sex. He swallows his drink. She pours him another.
“I want you to know my clients are very, very important,” she says.
“Your clients?”
“Yes, my clients are all needy. They’re on their last legs. I’m willing to do almost anything to help them. Drink up,” she empties her drink..
He wonders why she’s telling him this. Then his head spins.
He wakes up face down on his bed, naked. Did he pass out before sex? He wishes he could remember. He tries to roll over, but can’t. Then he sees the heavy chains around the metal bedpost attached to manacles on his wrists. He tries to pull them free, but they’re wrapped in solid stainless steel. He tries kicking, but his legs are chained too.
“Help,” he yells as loud as he can.
“Don’t yell, John, or I’ll be forced to put a gag in your mouth.”
Is she one of those kinky women who like to chain up their men during sex?
“Did I pass out or something?” he asks
“No, I put Roofies in the champagne.”
The date rape drug? Men use it on women. He’d never heard of a woman using it to rape a man. “We can’t have sex with me lying on my stomach. If you’re going to rape me, you’ll have to roll me over.”
“Don’t worry, John, I’m won’t rape you.”
“I was hoping you would. If you’re not going to, why drug me and chain me up?”
“To get you ready.”
He turns his head as far as he can. John sees she has changed into scrubs.
“Get me ready for what?” He turns his head to the other side. That’s when he sees what had been in her suitcase besides chains and manacles. Gleaming surgical tools were laid out on the dresser, along with a power saw, screwdrivers, a hammer, and an electric drill.
“This is a joke right, you’re not really going to use those tools on me. Are you?”
“I wish it was a joke, John, but— there is a knock on the door. “Be right back. Don’t go away,” she says.
Thank God, somebody came to save him, maybe. He hears male voices,. John shouts, “Help” as loud as he can. Debby appears pushing a cart through the door with tubes attached to it, and a half dozen Styrofoam coolers.
“What the hell is going on?”: John asks,
“This machine will keep your organs oxygenated while I work. I already told you I’d do almost anything to help my patients, John. I have so many in desperate needs. Tonight I have to harvest a liver, heart, kidney, pancreas, along with some odds and ends.” She says, “Doesn’t it make you feel good to know you’re helping so many people?”
“Why, why are you doing this?” he yells.
“I’m just doing my job John, nothing personal.”
“Why, why are you doing this?” he yells again.
“I’m just doing my job John, nothing personal.”
“Wait, you’re a doctor, you can’t do this. You’ll never get away with it. Hear those voices? They know you’re here. When my body’s found, you’ll go to jail.”
“My interns flew in from India to help me. They’ve gone down to the truck to bring up ice, along with a body bag. When I’m finished, they’ll bring your remains to the factory so there won’t be a body to find after that.”
“Factory! What factory?”
“Our dog food factory.”
John twists and turns with all his might. He tries to scream before she stuffs his underpants in his mouth, picks up a hypodermic needle to stick him.
“This will kill the pain, John.” she says. Then turns on the electric saw. As soon as the blade touches his skin, he screams into his underpants. His vision is fading, but before he blacks out, he realizes she’s serious, and knows he’s—dog meat.

Pharmaceuticals

Doctor, doctor, give me a pill to fix what’s
wrong with me. Give me, give me, Adderall,
because when I partake, it’ll keep me awake.

Give me, give me, codeine or oxycodone, or maybe morphine’ to stop my
suffering. Why not all three to make me like I used to be before throbbing
pain took my mind away. If you do, I promise I won’t smoke or drink,

but I’m unhappy to say, cannabis is something I need every day.
if I go without, I’ll malfunction and get depressed, so Doctor, doctor,
why not add a little Trimipramine? I know, I know, even though

confusion, nausea, and vomiting will come my way, I know in my
soul I won’t make it through the day without. So give me, give me,
some antiemetic medicine to take away the bad part of my day.

Just so you know, I buy my drugs from overseas or on the street where there
is a lot of deceit, but they’re cheap and put me to sleep. When I go out to
celebrate the night, I need some crank, or some MDMA or STP will do.

I’ll also need some blue nitro. That’s right, gamma hydroxybutyrate, If you
don’t give me that, how about some Rohypnol, because I like my women
submissive and if they are asleep it’s all right, they won’t fight that night.

Doctor, doctor, I promise not to mix LSD, PCP, or heroin, along with the drugs
you prescribe for me. I’ll just have a drink or two when I go clubbing, so don’t
worry, I’ll be fine, but some Viagra would be nice, if you give me all that,

I promise not to drive when I’m not at work, and you know that’s true because
I need all those drugs to do my job. Yes, I drive for U….So if you’re ever too
drunk to drive and need a ride, be sure to call U…. and in minutes I’ll get you
safely home or wherever you want to go, as long as I can stay awake, and I

promise you, when you’re in the car, I won’t use any Methamphetamines or LSD.

Rejected

The letter said, “Dear John.” Not really, but after twenty five years
of writing words and trying to get my work in print, I shut my eyes
to hold in my cries and the feelings that I want to die.

I can’t take dismissal without feeling hurt, insulted for my work, my emotions
go up and down the scale from, I don’t care, to anger, at the one who said what
I wrote could be put in a book, but it would be a waste of paper and ink.

I can’t recollect how many chose to reject what I write. Those agents who
aren’t pleased and send a form letter saying, “Rejected by me” will never know
they squandered their chance to be as famous as me, by not reading my script.

I write every day and hope to succeed, but I’m excluded from the publishing
world by those who can’t write half as well as I. But what can I do when the
book world is full of people like them?

I’ll write about an author who receives so many refusals to review his work, he
mentally snaps, and perhaps decides the world would be a better place without
those who dismissed his work with a smile, and said it wasn’t worthwhile.

He goes to the firearm store for a gun that’ll shoot as many agents as he finds at an agents
convention. He saw how its done on TV. He knows all he has to do is walk in the door, raise his weapon and send everyone to hell where they’ll never again dis a book written

by him. He’d never be excluded by anyone of those burning down
below for committing the deadly sin of telling him his story it took
years to write is, a waste of paper and ink.

Heaven’s Door.

After an hour, I saw a flower, She waved her delicate hand,
and I crossed the street to converse before she got lost.
She tried to reverse during the discourse but didn’t deny
that she wanted twenty dollars to rock my world.

Without wasting her breath. She said, “Lets go down the road
and once we’re there you’ll see how it can be that like an eclipse,
I move my lips without shaking or making a profound sound.

Those words coming from the wench drenched my pleasure zone
and opened heaven’s door more than ever before. Once more her
lips and words drew me so close I smelled whiskey and rum, but
didn’t rebel. Sweat dripped onto my tongue where it hung.

She didn’t say a word. I gave her a beer hoping to sweeten her breath
with hops instead of grain. She put purple pills between her sweet lips.
Drinking deep, beer ran from those thirsty lips staining her dress and

wetting her breasts, so her nipples stood erect. I too elected to swallow some
of her pills, drank her beer and became erect. We went down the road where
she got on her knees to tease without moving her lips.

She did make sounds that inflicted me with guilt for standing in an alley
with a bitch who like a witch didn’t want to hear words of love or affection.
She didn’t see the connection, but wasn’t shamed for doing what was
forbidden for a few bucks.

My world didn’t rock like she said it would. It wasn’t even good and turned
bleak when I looked down and saw her sins. It was up to me to show her
how wrong she was to do what she did for money instead of love.

I’ve done this before, opened heaven’s door. I knew when my hand closed around
the sharp blade I carried that she wouldn’t make a sound when I plunged it into her
neck, because I checked, and laughed when I saw her mouth was more than half full.

I thought, if she should bite before she died, that would rock my world more
than anything else she could do. She saw the blade glinting in the half-light
and stopped what she did. Then grabbed my balls and pulled out a blade of her
own, and said, “I’ll put these on my throne at home and you’ll become well known.

Since then we’ve been together every night. I watch as other men go down the road
to get their worlds rocked by her. If they only knew, I’d soon be there to help her
cut off their balls. We’ll cook and eat them for a dinner feast as we had done with mine.

Doing this really rocks my world. If you’re ever near Hollywood and Vine, be
sure to come on by, to experience the thrill of your life. Without balls you’ll fit
right in with those of us who congregate every night while waiting for dinner to
come strolling along.

Charles Bukowsk

It’s the birthday of the man Time magazine called “the laureate of American lowlife”: Charles Bukowsk

Bukowski said, “Bad luck for the young poet would be a rich father, an early marriage, an early success or the ability to do anything well.”

Please see Joe DiBuduo’s author page on Amazon.
https://www.amazon.com/Joe-DiBuduo/e/B00644C2GG/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1471361018&sr=1-2-ent

My daily poems also appear on my Amazon blog.

Thanks for looking.

Books.Ray Bradbury said, “There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them.”

Books

How great it is to be able to choose to live in the future or
the past. Make no mistake, all one has to do is pick up a
thick book and read the hook to carry their mind to another
time or place, where there’s justice and faith.

To travel to the past, when in and out of bed I read history,
sometimes mysteries. If it’s the future I desire, all I need to
succeed is to read science fiction. To live in today’s world,
I read newspapers, but am sorry every time I do.

Good news never adorns the front page, unless we won a
sporting event. Even that is sad news for those who got bruised
on the losing side. Newspaper stories usually say, “Horrors happen
every day, in every corner of the world.”

What a wonderful place I enter when I read a happy novel, but
my heart breaks when the book I read is about a romance
gone South. I always choose to read a novel that shows how
jealousy for her arose, but virtuous things happen to them.

There are happy people with reasons to stay alive on pages
showing how great life could be. If only real life was like those
printed there. If only what’s written could come true, I’d be happy
without believing I’m a king while living a moral life inside of a book.

Ray Bradbury said, “There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them.”

The Wall

The Wall

I have learned sharks can live for four hundred years, and it appears
that turtles live as long as that too, unlike humans who can’t see
any light after a hundred years have passed. I have to ask “Why?”

Why we have to die so soon? I don’t have a clue why other creations
live so many more years than we? I become afraid and scared when I
think about going through death’s door. If I have a soul, where will it go?

What will I owe after all the years I’ve been here? There’s so many worlds
out there that I like to believe we’re here to train to behave on the one
we’ll go to when our spirit leaves our body here, and ascends up there.

After we meet our end, will I comprehend, or twiddle my thumbs for fun while I
wait my turn for my soul to soar up to a planet chosen for me by the one
who sent me to live here? Once I go, I’ll become an alien like him.

It’s true; I believe God is an alien being, unlike you and me who are never free.
Where God came from, no one knows, but many suppose and believe what
the scriptures say, “God was here before the moon and stars.”

God created Earth and everything in it, but he wasn’t born in the USA, or anywhere
else on this world, so If I happen to see God, should I call the police or ask for his
green card because he’s one illegal alien the wall can’t keep out?

The River of Life

Lives begin to grow when it’s time to arrive, and survive. It ends
when it’s time to return without concern to where it began.
When the moon rises, life rages like a puffed-up river and other times
it charms and is as smooth as liquid on a docile lake.

Nothing remains the same when heaven drops a substantial rain,
or a satiating experience calms all around with surprises, and the
rules of life change when a river withers, dries, and dies, or a
beating heart stops, and life comes to a sudden end.

It’s said the devout ascend, but It’s all a gamble, what’s here today may be gone
tomorrow or the next day and sent to decay. Will what’s lost be planted with the
seed of life again, or will a plea have to be made so it won’t be lost to the future
and remembered by those who knew the life when it was here and allowed to live?

Do plants and rivers fear their demise and wonder if it’s all lies that they’ll rise again?
How many living things know that as summer ends, their life always comes to a close?
Who’s in control of the destiny of so many and why do they plant stories in the sky?
Is Earth only a test put here by one who wants to know how long

anything survives before it has to end, or have some boys made a toy and created,
Earth as a computer game? It could be true as some scientist say, “We’re only avatars
in someone’s game and can’t recall that we’re not really here at all.”
Is that why lives are discarded like yesterday’s trash and allowed to end

without memories of making a difference in events or experiencing pleasures
they could have while alive? Will the universe eventually die as everything has
to do when the time for it go arrives. Should anyone or anything be troubled there’s
no fame for existing when they’re nothing but electrons sharing a game?

Good Lord

Good lord, show me the way beginning today.
I’ll pray if you say okay, and I’ll stay on the straight
and narrow road ahead, and won’t stop in haste to taste
any treats or caress any of the lassies lining the lanes.

Good lord, that’s not the way I meant, you don’t recognize my accent,
so I’m not going to pray if you don’t let me stay to taste everything in life
and I’ve always wanted to do this, kiss all the girls I can, so I’ll feel like a man.

Good lord, you filled this sphere with so many impish things to pull my strings,
and there’s so much to see. I savor to taste some things that you don’t allow
me to. You decree I can’t have any of the desirable delights in the biosphere.

Good lord, Why, why, did you do this to me? Why do you look me in the eye
and tell me, I have to be sorry, and you’ll say goodbye if I do what you
programmed me to, even though I’m not your foe and am trying not to?

Good lord, I can’t resist when I see lovely ladies and other things, you put
here to entice me, and say, “Don’t touch.” I wonder, are you naturally
cruel to do this, or don’t you realize how it feels to be like me?

Good lord, you promise I’ll go to paradise if I avoid employing any of the things
put on this changing world to tempt me, but I’ll tell you, I write poetry too, and
don’t recognize your love for me, so I don’t believe what you say.

Don’t get mad, don’t be angry, after all, you made me that way.

Silly and sad

That’s what she said with tender grace and the
words she used to describe the poem I made
from what I did today, and the truth cannot be hid.

When I was a lonely kid, I wondered as I pulled,
chopped, and sprayed, the weeds invading
my yard if like me, they had feelings and thoughts.

I knew they were alive until I arrived. Plants,
weeds and trees do communicate. Why didn’t
I hear them scream when I pulled their roots

from the ground? They didn’t make a sound
when I cut them down with a hoe, or fired
up my weed whacker and saw them flinch.

They knew I’d succeed and saw what was coming.
I’m sorry I did what I did, but it’s nothing new. I was
compelled to kill every well fed weed I saw.

The reason for that was the season. I wanted my yard
to look neat so my sweet didn’t think because I didn’t
kill the daisies, that I was a fan and a lazy man.

Should I have dispelled their thoughts and said, “Hell, and let the weeds
grow so tall they’d become a foe.” I’d have liked to do that, but I’ve been
conditioned to think weeds must die before they grew towards the sky

and became as tall as I, and needed to be killed before they took over
my yard, so I thought hard and asked myself, “Don’t they have a right
to life like me and everything else that thrives to stay alive?”

What if after I died, and went into the sky, my conscious mind returned
inside of a weed that wanted to stay alive, but got sprayed and cut down
before it grew big enough to learn to chat in any language at all.

Maybe they screamed for help as I destroyed them, big and small.
A weed was a weed I’d been told. No one ever said to pity a plant
that could get me high but was about to die.

A dog can hear things I can’t and maybe the plants have vocal sound
so high they go over my head and they think I’m a slayer who kills
them when they’re sleeping because I enjoyed doing what I did.

There’s so many of them that I rest assured that one
day they’ll rule the world and when that happens, they
may do to me what I’ve done to them, cook me in a stew.