Tuesday, March 7, 2017


Kenny A. Chaffin
All Rights Reserved © 2016 Kenny A. Chaffin

“I have my reservations,” ol’ Joe told me and grinned, “they’re in South Dakota -- Standing Rock mostly.” He laughed. But it wasn’t funny to me or any of the others paying the price, making the amends.
“Now come on, get back out there, let’s see some fancy dancin’!” He burst out laughing again. I nodded and backed away to the circle. The old men began the drum beat and sang, “Oh wee ha ho wee ho ha he.” We whites dressed in moccasins, breech cloths, and war paint danced for their amusement. Only two hundred years of servitude left.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Where Dark Angels Tread

Where Dark Angels Tread
Kenny A. Chaffin
All Rights Reserved © 2017 Kenny A. Chaffin

The reports were at first sporadic. Dark shadows in alleyways, behind buildings, in basements. Things seen from the corner of your eye but gone when you turn. A blackness blacker than black seemingly absorbing light from around it. Reports from Jacksonville, Amarillo, Tucson, L.A. By the time the media took note it was clear the shadows, the reports, were moving in waves, arcs, growing in strength and frequency. A wave of darkness moving east across the country like weather, like earthquake tremors but reversed, moving together, towards an epicenter, growing stronger, more focused on the Potomac, on the White House.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

Trump Stew (poem)

Trump Stew

Choose nice fresh medium-sized fleshy trumps either
from the market or fresh from the garden if grown with plenty
of fertilizer. Peel carefully removing all the thin orange-tinged outer skin.

Place trumps in a medium-to-large saucepan and cover
with water. Heat to boiling and cook until tender and semi-soft.
This may take an extended amount of time as they tend to often be
aloof and self-absorbed rather than permeable.

Drain the liquid and save for later use. Draw and quarter the trumps into
bite-sized cubes and add to the stewpot along with selected non-white meats,
onion, and garlic. Some like to add a bit of Mexican hot sauce to bring out
the flavor. Sprinkle generously with coarse sea salt and fresh-ground pepper.
Depending on individual taste you may add a few black or white pepper corns.  

Cook over an open fire for three to seven days stirring as needed. Stay upwind.
While stewing, pick a spot some distance from the fire and dig a pit at least twelve to
sixteen inches deep and as large as a fat-headed flamboyant toupee. When the stew is
almost finished cooking carefully remove it from the fire and without allowing it to
cool pour into the prepared hole. Cover with the excavated dirt. Piss on it if you like.

Kenny A. Chaffin – 1/29/2017

Thursday, January 26, 2017

Following Elvis into Dark Waters (poem)

Following Elvis into Dark Waters

Because light travels in a straight line
every event, every action, every happening
can be seen, recorded, replayed. We can
watch Donald Trump grabbing pussies. We
can watch him gawking at naked teenagers.
We can see him consulting with Putin, stuffing
his fat face with a Trump Taco Bowl. We can
see him choking, gasping, vomiting on his
mahogany desk, on the New York Times.

Kenny A. Chaffin – 1/26/2017

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Status Quo (poem)

Status Quo

Children dying in the hovels of
Appalachia. Dark dead bodies
lying in the streets. Brown desiccated
corpses staked to alkaline hills
in South Dakota. Unemployed
workers wandering the streets like
zombies in an opiate daze. The trickle
never existed Ronald. That was just a
dream some of you had. A dream that
persists. A dream that will not happen.
There is no trickle. There is only a dam.
The dam must be broken. Our country
must be saved.

Kenny A. Chaffin – 1/24/2017

Business (poem)


The Corpse of America lay rotting
in the middle of the road under the
burning noonday sun like roadkill.
Blood, guts and gore strewn from
shoulder to shoulder. It just lay there.
No one would touch it. It was too
dangerous. There were deadly things
inside. Even dead the world feared
what might be unleashed were the body
disturbed so it lay there stinking,
rotting and disappearing. Fading
as the world went about its business.

Kenny A. Chaffin – 1/24/2017

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Drunken Indian (poem)

Drunken Indian

When I was a drunken Indian
I screamed at the White Man
for the atrocities, the smallpox
the theft of our land, the Trail of Tears
the casinos, the degradation and shit.
When I sobered up it was worse.

Kenny A. Chaffin – 1/14/2017