The King Is God

Watching the sky for falling stars on a mountain called Angel Crest with Donna on my lap, a bright campfire, a dreamy star filled night, and fresh picked peyote tea filled my wishes for heaven on Earth.

I plucked my guitar and began to sing, “Do the stars, looking down on us, make a wish when they see us side by side sharing dreams and do they like to hear me singing the blues?” I nuzzled Donnas’ neck as musical words rolled from my lips, “Do the stars above make music like I do? Can they boogie woogie all night long and drink until dawn?”

“Stars don’t dance.” Donna said.

“Of course they do, can’t you see them shimmer, shimmer?”

“No more peyote for you,” Donna said.

“Maybe they make music to draw another star toward them and when they collide, they’ll create stardust that forms into a brighter star than either was before they danced?

“Stars aren’t alive,” Donna said. God just put them there to light the night sky for us.”

“Do they have a desire to sing deep from their molten cores, I asked. “Or are they just burning hunks of rock? How about the planets? Do you think any of them are alive?”

“Are you hallucinating?” Donna asked.

“I don’t need drugs to think that if the moon had a voice, it would howl louder than

any man, wolf, or dog? Are planets hollow shelled conveyors of heavenly harmony played on quantum strings? Is music filling empty space plucked by an unseen hand holding stars, planets, and our destinies like threads of theoretical string?”

“I can’t answer those questions, but I’ll send you to the stars when we make love so you can discover if music is played and if stars and planets, like us, want another to love.”

“Look!” I shouted, “A falling star.”

As we watched the speeding light, it slowed, stopped in midair, changed from white to a glowing red hunk of metal the size of a bus. It sank to the mountain top where we were. An acrid aroma of hot metal enveloped us. It reminded me of welding fumes. “It smells like a dead star.”         “Smells like barbecued steak to me,” Donna said.

It sizzled when it touched damp ground and sent up a cloud of steam that obscured it.

“What should we do?” Donna asked holding me tight.

“Let it cool off and then carry as much of it as we can home.”


“Meteorites are worth a fortune.”

The wall of steam began to dissipate in the mountain breeze and we saw the object from the sky wasn’t a meteorite. It was smooth shiny metal and it made a buzzing sound as a hatch slid open and beautiful celestial music wafted around us. Feelings of peace and wonder coursed through me as the volume increased and increased until Donna and I had to cover our ears.

There was movement inside the silver sphere and suddenly a young slender Elvis sprang from the interior singing, “I’m just a hunk, a hunk of burning love.”

“The king lives,” Donna said.

I strummed my guitar and joined Elvis in singing, “Since my baby left me, I found a new place to dwell, its down at the end of Lonely Street at Heartbreak Hotel.”

Elvis set his guitar down and sat in a fold up chair I had by our campfire. “I’ve come to tell you that stars indeed can boogie and sing, but you’ll have to wait until you die before you can bond with heavenly things.”

“Does everyone live on after this life?” Donna asked Elvis.

“Only if you can dance and sing. No wallflowers allowed. They get in the way of the harmonic universe. So If you can’t dance, you’re born again and again until you learn how.”

“Is there a God?” Donna asked.

“You’re looking at me,” Elvis said.


Written by Joe DiBuduo.






Blind Artistic Endeavors

Blinding light spawns liquefied steel, like a volcano sending its molten core across the metal in front of my face. My eyes are covered with darkened glass I only see flashes of burning white light that I have to judge by touch where to point and what to melt.

My fingertips guide the flame while constructing a sculpture. I follow Picasso’s design to create an original thing with wings who will sit in my yard with Boadicea my warrior queen made from cement and her dog Spot constructed with materials like hers.

Images no one expects to see stand on my sandy desert lawn bordering a residential street. Thin, tall sculptures stretch to the sky and beyond. Cars jam on their brakes and stop at the sight. Even children stop to look and point. A little boy asks, “Can I look at the cool statues?” Unbiased judgment I couldn’t get anywhere else.

I can hardly wait to get a welder of my own. Maybe build an Eiffel Tower on my front lawn for the kids to admire and maybe climb along with the King Kong I’ll build too. Maybe I’ll sculpt the king and have him powered by the sun to light up at night so everyone can see where he climbs after dark.

What will my neighbors say, people ask. I don’t give a damn, is my reply, but I really do, and only design politically correct things to adorn my yard. Why I even turned my white queen brown when people protested a brown skinned girl being painted on a mural at a local school.

Surprising to me, she was enjoyed by many more than ever before once she changed her color. Can it be that color only makes a difference if it’s on someone’s skin?