KENNY A. CHAFFIN - POEMS

Kenny A. Chaffin writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction and has published work in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Microfiction Monday Magazine, 365 Tomorrows, Star*Line, Speculative 66, James Gunn’s Ad Astra, 101 Word Stories, and others. He grew up in southern Oklahoma and now lives in Denver where he works hard to support two cats, numerous wild birds and a bevy of squirrels. His poetry collections and other works are available at http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B007S3SMY8.
More information at http://www.kacweb.com.

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Triptych
​

​I sure wouldn’t want to end up in a situation
where there were a bunch of me lined up like
cheap cigars in a case waiting to be reanimated
each time the multiverse branches. Still I
guess that is better than being a nut-less squirrel
stuck on a distant branch of the tree of knowledge.
 
Have you ever chased deep deep deep
into Wikipedia? So deep that you couldn’t
find your way back or even remember
what started you down that rabbit hole
or even what your name was back then.
 
Gina once threaded my needle
but I froze, afraid of breaking
the thread. I guess that’s how it always is
Broken threads. Wine glasses
bobbing in a sea of ochre.
 

 

The Blood & The Flesh
​

​I watched as Grandmama filled
the thimble-sized shot glasses
with Welch’s concord grape juice
and placed them in the round silver
communion trays stacked three deep
in preparation for Sunday Services
at the Church of Christ across the
dirt road from her house.
 
I remember the white welcome sign
that sat angled to the street corner
welcoming all with a list of
worship times and the name of the
constantly changing pastor who lived
with his wife and/or family in the
small white house behind the church.

The church lawn was where the cousins,
myself included played football or tag
or other games, the lawn where after
having enough of his taunting and
laughing and natural athletic abilities
I jumped up from being hard tackled
and punched Randy square in the nose.
Blood flowed and the flesh cried. It
was different after that.

 

Sunrise
​

​The light arrives by truck this morning
an 18-wheeled Peterbilt growling into the sky
the brilliant sun lashed to its flatbed trailer.
In the cab a burly trucker with a scraggly beard
and a belly the size of a barrel wrestles the massive
wheel, grinding the gears as they climb into the heavens.
 
The driver looks nothing like Apollo or Helios, in fact
he looks more like uncle Strat that I don’t much care for
what with his overwhelming aroma of whiskey,
tobacco juice leaking from the corner of his mouth,
and a scowl for every passerby. I look up again to the
brutish Peterbilt driver making his way across the sky,
I give him a nod and smile, thankful for the light.

 

Ferguson
​

​Authority without accountability. The
unacknowledged class structure of America.
Battle lines of inequality between rich and poor.
It’s about taking cigars from a convenience store
just because you can, because they make you feel
inferior make you feel bad, but you are big, bigger
than they are, you can do what you want. You can
walk down the center of the street if you like,
smoking your cigar. You’re tired of listening to them.
What the hell are they gonna do? Lock you up?
You laugh, shake your head knowing they locked
you up decades ago and threw away the key. You
laugh, smoke your cigar, tilt your head back
and blow smoke at the stars.

 

Tallgrass
​

After that we believed in Kansas
again. We held our hearts and
our ruby slippers out in offering
to all  that would care to see and leapt
like flying monkeys into the crystal
lakes and swam through the tallgrass
prairie, buffalo thundering alongside
us, massive dust clouds rising
into parched cerulean skies. Aunt
Mae waited for us on the porch
wringing her hands to the bone. 
​