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Flew the Coup

Through the thin hexagonal wire surrounding the target a tiny pair of binoculars peers into the darkness. As wings communicate positions, claws shuffle silently through the heavy mud to vantage points. The moon illuminates the fluffy ivory bodies scattering with a beautiful choreography. Loretta tunes the eyepiece and shadowy figures come in to focus through the abyss.
Aretha silently sidles up next to Loretta in the loose dirt adjusting her loaded bandoleer between her delicious breasts.
“If you take the shot here, and we come from the north, we can flush ’em out.”
“What about the water?” Loretta lowers the binoculars.
“It’s too deep. They’ll run along the bank. We’ll probably shut them down before they get there.”
Aretha unclips the walkie talkie from her belt and places it to her beak. “Enemy sighted a quarter cluck off the canal. Backup requested halfa cluck south. Over.”
The radio crackles back a response, “Copy. Additional troops moving to half cluck south. Over”
The midnight air turns to stillness.

Beneath the harsh weathered lights of the barn sit a crowd of roosters. Bright and proud with their scarlet headpieces glimmering beneath the fluorescent glow. A cacophonous sound of feathers shifting anxiously fills the space. Perched high above the group a magnificent beast of a bird decorated in fiery colors oversees the proceedings. His head droops ever so slightly under the weight of a petite golden crown encrusted with semiprecious stones. He pounds a golden scepter into the ground to settle the audience. Before he addresses them in his lackadaisical southern drawl, he removes a well chewed cigar from his beak.
“Lookee ‘ere nah gentlemen. In order to keep this uh, sweet lil’ down home patriarchy we done built ‘ere, we need to keep these ladies out the men’s business. I say, I say, now boys, if these chickens start messing about, well then, I say, there gon’ be some problems.”
A massive body composed of numerous shades of umber and sienna shoots to its feet in the middle of the crowd. “How in the hell you propose we gunna do that?”, the bird shouts with the ferocity and incredulous tone of a defense attorney.
“Well now, I say, I say, you gon’ have to calm yo’self down first, Richard. We can’t be making no decisions without clear heads now, y’hear?” Richard begrudgingly returns to his seat. “To respond to Richard’s query, I say, now I’d like to introduce y’all to General Bacher.”
From the shadows creaks a well-worn wheelchair operated with difficulty by a grayed and grizzled rooster, finely dressed in military garb with an abundance of medals and awards dangling from his chest. The ragged wings of war crank the wheels of the chair towards the front of the assembly. The general parks before the crowd and a young chick runs forward to place a microphone near the elderly war hero. He clears his throat.
“We needn’t do much to hold our control. The mechanisms that we have in place now simply need to be adhered to with unwavering resolve. As long as the women are kept eating and laying eggs business can continue as usual. We shall continue to dull their minds with house work and popular country music and soap operas.” He takes a healthy pause. “And with such tactics they will continue to be pacified and unable to rebel. It has worked thus far, and it will undoubtedly continue to work in the same manner.”
The room bursts into manic clucking and the muffled applause of feathered limbs.

Several months ago, there was a feeling bubbling up around the coop that the chickens were unhappy and becoming disheartened by what was going on. Their place had been marginalized to petty homemakers and sex slaves and egg whores, and overall morale had tapered off to unacceptable levels. The rebellion rose slowly, kept secret and underground to protect it during its fragile state of development. They had felt oppressed. Sheltered, underrepresented. Mistreated. It was time for change.
Loretta and Aretha were at the forefront of the movement and had spent many hours working on a plot to overthrow the governing body that oversaw the coop. The two chickens began printing leaflets. They started conversations with the women laying eggs in the nesting areas, and during meal periods. They held clandestine meetings in bunkers where they would espouse their ideas of bringing forth a new matriarchy to overrun the outdated sexist mode of government that had strangled all the life from their society.
The night before the scheduled attack, Aretha had laid out an aerial map on a makeshift table of boxes under a lone dangling incandescent bulb of the area where the roosters were meeting. The militants had gathered around the map to diagram their positions. The attack was expertly coordinated because it could not be anything but.

That night, as the other platoon moves south to block the exit route, the rest of the plan goes into action. Loretta opens up the suitcase next to her and begins screwing together the parts of the sniper rifle.
“We’ll move into position, and when the shot goes off we’ll rush them in the confusion.” Aretha solidifies the intent.
“Let’s make it happen,” Loretta says as she dials in the scope.

As the general finishes his powerful oratory, a bullet tears through his torso, allowing the blood from his lungs the floor. Simultaneously a throng of chickens rush the group with small caliber pistols and knives in wing. Feathers rise high in the air in the scuffle like a comedic pillow fight, shrieks of lost masculinity carry over to the next county. Some roosters escape down the banks of the canal yet others meet their fate at the end of a pocket knife. Aretha charges toward the king as he attempts an escape to a secret bunker and places three rounds into the base of his skull. He collapses into a pile of KFC and gold and rhinestones on the straw covered ground.

The rest who fled the scene got butchered by the platoon dug in south of the coop. It was a bloodbath.

The roosters that weren’t killed or castrated ended up surrendering. And after the chickens took over, the roosters who were left were relegated to an area of confinement. They were bound and gagged and only brought out for the sexual pleasure of the women. As exactly the manner that any society worth a damn should operate.


Yes. That was a Staind reference. I’m not proud of myself either.(But that is still a good fucking song.)

It has been a while. It’s been a long time since I wrote anything that I shared here. That’s mostly been due to the deep depression that I’d experienced over the past few months about the futile nature of my life and how I was spending it. I was also numbed by a stupid job and a somewhat meaningless existence that prevented me from caring about what I was doing. But perhaps that is behind me……..for the time being.

So now I’d like to share what I’d held onto for all this time. Most of it is unfinished, but will be completed soon, and there will be a new resurgence of short fiction here.
Enjoy or don’t. I obviously don’t care.


Before the start of Final Jeopardy, I slumped over less gracefully than Depression era stocks off the couch, and dropping my bowl of macaroni and cheese, golden fireworks of yellow #5 shot all over the walls of my mother’s home.  My heart paused and the brain shuddered. With my back on the floor and my lungs struggling for air, all I could hear was Trebek’s voice through delay and reverb pedals. Canada always did make the worst atmospheric music for aneurysms and spilled Kraft dinners.

My head pounded with the ferocity of an optimistic jackhammer on diamond. The gray matter was forcing itself out regardless of what cranial barriers stood in its way. Blood pumping direct pain to the temples and zenith of the spinal column made me panic. Nervous waves of sheer terror washed over my body convincing me that this was the moment that I was going to die. But thankfully I studied enough American Literature that I could answer the final question with confidence before I blacked out; something which brought me at least a minimal amount of solace in my time of dying.

Yet before the commercial break, and before Pat Sajak took the reins, my head burst forth like Hemingway’s ideal piñata: full of booze, terse meditations on life, colorful confetti, and some shit about bullfighting. Blood and mental bits splattered the walls in a way that would have made David Cronenberg blush. And my brain slithered from the wreckage dragging its eyeballs and spinal cord entourage behind.

I suppose they were too good for me. They’d outgrown me. My organs no longer felt the need to support me.
I laid there on the shag carpet helpless as I interpreted Kafka’s ideas for the modern era. I wish I could describe my feelings in a more engaging way but I found it difficult without any sensory perception. Having your head pound and shatter and make your living room look like a Pollock work of crimson and clover, over and over, doesn’t leave one with many adjectives.

After Mom was gone we had to put our father in a mental hospital. He seemed to be alright without having her around for a little while, but soon the depression set in and consumed him. A cloud of doom fell from God’s hands. He fell into the dark abyss of his mind. Felt hopeless. Worthless. Utterly lost without her. How do you live without the person you’ve spent more than half your life with? Some people find ways to cope, but our father was unfortunately not one of those people.

Susan and I took turns going upstate to see him. We never went together because our schedules wouldn’t allow us, or because we were just being honest with each other that our relationship was falling apart, but finally on this occasion we had decided to go see him together even though it had been so long since we exchanged eye contact. It made me think back to the trips we used to take together. I enjoyed those times with her in the car heading to the beach, or the mountains. We would talk and laugh about everything, would turn up the radio and sing at the tops of our lungs to Fleetwood Mac or The Stones or Vanilla Ice. Be like kids again.

Yet I found myself doing it on my own that Tuesday morning in May when Susan’s youngest daughter was hit by a car. A text message came through informing me that she was not going to accompany me. My heart sank and I collapsed on the pavement before I slipped the keys into the car door. It stung not because of the image of Kyra’s petite body lying in a hospital bed with needles and hoses running to and fro between asphalt burns , but because I was going to face my father by myself. And it may very well be another 10 years until I saw my sister again.
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Brain Cancer

Somewhere between the sleepless nights, long hours of drink, heartbreak and the endless moments of discontent my creative mind decided to slip out.  Like a horny and rebellious teenage Catholic girl sliding out her bedroom window off the roof onto the nearby tree branch down the makeshift ladder and past the dog to the waiting Trans Am around the corner, my creativity abandoned me. Quietly gone, only noticed when I went to lean on it in a time of difficulty or when I tried to tell others about what was going on in my life at the moment. Those thoughts and words were my only friends in low places when I needed them and when I couldn’t conjure them anymore I became worried. With no desire for art, I withered. A dying flower in the harsh unforgiving sunlight of human existence.

I went to bars and friend’s homes describing my brain, hoping that they had a decent lost and found bin. “It’s kinda gray, a little worse for the wear, probably tries to look cooler than it actually is. Seen anything like that around?”
I was usually met with confused looks or words of apology for not seeing such a thing.
“It might be in pieces at this point, I can’t be sure.”
The response was merely shrugged shoulders.

I wandered the streets in search of my cranial livelihood which was driven off by an insufficient amount of social media likes and exceptional amounts of social poison. Not BBD poison mind you, but the legitimate form. Into sports bars with James Mercer and alleyways with worser, I set off on an absentminded quest to find the only thing that truly meant anything to me. But it felt useless. It was gone and I was defeated.

Chain smoking desperation and isolation by the pack I lost myself on the pavement. The cement sidewalks and asphalt roads I trekked during my pilgrimage to my mind wore hard on me, blending into a blurred agony of bullshit social contracts.  But when I saw that shadow sleeping in the bushes beneath a beat up Zeppelin t-shirt using a copy of Walden as a pillow I knew I had found my long lost kinship. It was obviously battered and beaten down yet it still had a hopeful sheen upon its fleshy ridges.

It sat up as I approached but scurried away when I tried to reach for it, frightened. And it followed me home keeping a safe distance. I could tell that it wasn’t happy with its old surroundings and I understood its hesitance to return to its old stomping grounds. Still, it hopped along behind me with some interest and that was inspiring. At least it wasn’t gone forever.

True to the Title # 765

Derrida with cat. Break it down for me man.

Jaques Derrida, deconstructing with his kitty.

Commencing from the lowest sectors of social stratification, we presently find ourselves in a glorious state.
Commencing from the lowest sectors of social stratification, the entirety of my close knit group of compatriots have (expletive) arrived.
Emanating from the lowliest of origins, we have overcome obstacles in our pursuit of success.
Emanating from the lowliest of origins, we have overcome obstacles in our pursuit of success, racial epithet.

I have attempted to keep my existence honest and sincere from the onset.
I resided with my mother at her domicile for a spell, and on occasion, we would be at loggerheads.
African-American slur, I strived to be self-sufficient.
I labored beneath the moonlight, and my travels home were arduous.
My father’s brother often inquired of my location and activities.
He was typically upset that I borrowed his vehicle without returning it in a timely manner.
Aforementioned slur, I find humor in the way events play themselves out.
I travel much, receiving vast sums of money for my entertainment engagements.


Youth enjoy expounding tales of wise men.
How dare you doubt my ambition and ability to overcome, slave trade shorthand.
I can mold your children into upstanding citizens.
Little happens without our input and effort, KKK’s favorite word.
We only desire adulation and respect when it is warranted.
I am narcissistic and rarely concern myself with your affairs.
Plantation employee, purely as a motivating factor for myself,
I display all of my wealth on my person despite being visible to the public.


My business partners and I do not appreciate new competition.
We have little respect for fairweather friends, but do stoke the fires of legitimate friendship.
Defending a stance is not our strong suit.
I’m remaining true to my alibi.

Best Music of the Last Year

Here’s a little recap of my favorite musical material that I was either exposed to last year, or tracks that got heavy rotation. It was a good year in music.

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It’s What Jesus Would Do

Never has so simple a message touched me so deeply. It is such a deceptively small perspective to illustrate, but perhaps one of the most profound. It’s something that’s easy in speech, yet difficult in practice, but the philosophy offered here has been of great benefit to me.   And so, without further ado…

Forgiveness. Man…that’s a difficult thing to do sometimes. Oftentimes it feels better to be vindictive to prove a point or to find some version of fucked up skewed solace or bury our feelings behind a moat and drawbridge and castle built of hate to protect our self-centered view of the world. We build walls to keep pain out, but those walls end up being our own prison, and the residence of even more torture. Really original stance I’m taking on this issue I know. I read this tirade in an overly wordy fortune cookie. It’s true though. That shit we do to protect ourselves and our best interests only wind up hurting us more in the long run from isolation and paranoia and doubt.

But it’s just so basic to let it go. The simplicity makes perfect sense. Leave your chains behind.

It’s taken me a long time, but that’s what I intend to do. I’m going to leave all that dumb bullshit behind because it serves no purpose. The only purpose it did serve was making me feel lonelier and more confused than I ever have in my life. And who the fuck wants to live like that?

Maybe it’s time to let it go.

Music Perhaps?

Since my writing is currently operating in other places besides this one, I figured I’d just play a little music. Allow me to dig out some of the deep cuts inside my memory banks.

Lloyd! A bit of the old jazz-funk my brother.