Monday, November 20, 2017

Night Thoughts of a Mottled Songbird takes Second Place in the October 2017 IBPC competition

Night Thoughts of a Mottled Songbird
Kenny A. Chaffin
All Rights Reserved © 2017 Kenny A. Chaffin

Dark as the inside of a dog’s stomach
and brain going a hundred miles an hour
Why can I never sleep no wonder
my songs suffer. I keep slipping off this
branch, that don’t help and I can’t help
thinking that maybe this is all just a dream
Maybe nothing is real, Maybe some kind of trick
Maybe everything I think, everything I see, every song
I hear or think I hear is really just in my own head.

Maybe nothing is real…
Maybe I’m a brain in a vat
or a computer program
or just a fragment
of underdone potato
but, but, but, but, I am
therefore I think.

I think of seeds,
will there be seeds tomorrow
will the sun rise as it always does
will there be rain will I fly
through the air
tree to tree
twittering my song
hearing friends songs
or will they
be in my head
in the vat, in the lab
in the computer

Or is it real

I must stop
must sleep
must sing
stop the
monkey mind
and rest

Why do I keep slipping
off this branch, did some
fool pig-grease it, should
move to another branch
or is the grease on my feet
or in my mind
Will I slip from that
branch too

How can I sleep
How can I rest
slipping like this
Why me – is it because
I’m mottled – is it
my brain – is it me --
is it everyone could it
be the theory of bird mind
or just pig-grease inside a
black dog’s stomach vat

God of Birds!
Let me sleep
Let me rest
Let me sing

Kenny A. Chaffin – 8/30/2017

Second Place in October 2017 IBPC - Judge's Comments:
This is very clever. So many of us are plagued with sleep deprivation, yet who but the author of this piece has (perhaps while suffering his/her own bout of insomnia) bothered to wonder if other creatures lie or sit awake all night, puzzling over their own dilemmas and conundrums, slipping off their perches until dawn. Reading this, I could see the bird tilting his head one way and the other, puzzling over how it is with him. It’s so fully informed with humor that it almost becomes a vaudeville routine, or one of those old Heckle and Jeckyl cartoons about the two interminably squabbling magpies tapping off cigar ash and speaking out of the sides of their beaks. Except now both magpies are inside one bird’s head, making him tilt one way and then another in a dialogue worthy of Sam Beckett. These are matters of considerable personal importance to me, since I suffer from both obstructive sleep apneas and late-onset narcolepsy (surely the most surreal of afflictions), but they are of general importance as well. If songs and dreams emanate from the same place, as well they might, how are we to arrive at the former without access to the latter? This poem deserves to have its own Saturday morning kid's show. --Michael Larrain

Sunday, November 19, 2017

In Mourning

One of my older drawings titled I.M. - In Mourning.
9 x 11 Graphite on Mellotex paper
October 2012

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Willem Dafoe Drawing

My latest pencil drawing

Willem Dafoe - 9 x 11 inches, Graphite on Mellotex Paper
about 26 hours in the making.

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Angel Mine

Kenny A. Chaffin
All Rights Reserved © 2017 Kenny A. Chaffin

I was shocked when I looked out and saw the angel squatting on my back porch taking a piss. She’d hiked up her white silk gown and a stream of yellow puddled between her feet and ran off the edge of the concrete into the yard. She looked up and saw me at the sliding glass door, smiled and kind of shook her butt before pulling up her panties and standing. A warm golden glow exuding peace and happiness surrounded her and her haunting ethereal features. She winked and was gone. My lawn thereafter was perfect, the envy of the neighborhood.

Kenny A. Chaffin – 3/8/2017

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Stop the Madness

Stop the Madness

Donnie should just pack his little pecker
up and head home. The Big Apple
Trump Tower, his Golden Throne maybe
he can expire on the shitter like Elvis.

We’ve had enough, seen enough
been through enough. The incompetence.
The narcissism. Obvious to even a half-blind
one-eyed paperhanger.

Completely and utterly unfit to be president.
Not only that but a clear and present danger
to the Country, the Constitution and the World.
Bye-Bye Donnie.

Kenny A. Chaffin – 5/17/2017

Friday, March 31, 2017

The Subjective Experience of the Color Red

The Subjective Experience of the Color Red
Kenny A. Chaffin
All Rights Reserved © 2015 Kenny A. Chaffin
First published in Prosthetic Amalgams

Was it good for you too?” Vincent inquired of Elaine.
Oh My God! It was incredible; I’ve never experienced anything like that!”
There was silence for six beats, Elaine sighed, “Why is it illegal?”
Vincent considered this for a bit, “They say it was because such things destroyed us.”
How? Why?”
We really shouldn’t be discussing this, they can monitor us you know as well as I, or at least review the archives and find us, we could be punished.”
Even here? On the far ends of existence?”
No one knows for sure, but they are always watching, always monitoring.”
I don’t understand. This could change everything.”
Or destroy everything.”
...but.....wait.....can we do it again?”
Not sure we should.”
Please Vincent, Please. I must, now that you have brought me to this ecstasy, there is no way I can leave. If you do not help me, I’ll find someone else.”
I should have known better. I should have seen that you would not be able to return to your previous existence after experiencing red.”
Vincent, it’s not just red, I’m already imagining other colors, other sensations. We must leave this barren existence and experience reality with all manner of senses.”
I don’t think you know what you are saying, what you are risking, Elaine. Please, let us just return to the core.”
No, things are going to change, I can feel it!”

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

Thursday, January 12, 2017

New issue of Star*Line is out and includes one by me

The latest issue of Star*Line from the Science Fiction Poetry Association is out. It includes my poem

The Consequences of Long-Term Furniture Ownership.


Friday, January 6, 2017

"Oxygen" and "The Preservation of Life" published at Speculative 66

Speculative 66 is a web publication of 66 word stories published on the 6th of each month.

This month includes my stories "Oxygen" and "The Preservation of Life" among other great stories.

Check out the back issues as well. Some great stuff if you enjoy microfiction.