Hens and Chicks
Episode 8
We were raised on a farm. Not the same farm, for we are not animals, but two separate completely unrelated farms that both happened to show us a hard day’s work and the best use of some goat’s aroma. In our years at the farm, again completely unrelated farms, we also learned a lot about the land. How it moves, how it breathes, how it feels, how it takes its morning coffee, how it thinks the 2000 election should have panned out. As we learned more about the land, in turn, the land taught us what it meant to be men. It didn’t tell us much, for obviously it is land and doesn’t have a teaching certificate, what do you think this is? But it did tell us two things: that a true man never leaves the house without a hop in his step and a debt of at least $40 to the local trickster. His name is Vagabond. Don’t ask questions. So, in short, the land really fucked us over, but that gave us the angst and the gall to write this collection of poems, entitled Hens and Chicks. Its title is completely unrelated to that farm stuff, that would be ridiculous. This is dedicated to Ross Perot, a men of man and the only person we’ve ever cared about. If you’re reading this and you are Ross Perot, what are you doing here? Don’t you have meetings? If you’re reading this and you aren’t Ross Perot, what are you doing here? Isn’t there a zine or Vice article you should be reading? We wouldn’t know, we cannot read. Enjoy.
