Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Extra Crispy

"EXTRA CRISPY" - Catfish McDaris

The shelves were crammed full of books and magazines, all with words of mine in them. I no longer felt satisfaction being published, not one iota.

Deciding to paint birds as an alternative, I started with a formation of geese in flight. Then a flock of swimming ducks, a woodpecker working out on an oak tree, doves, a red pointy headed cardinal, and a sparrow pulling a worm from the ground. This too soon lost its attraction.
Over a midnight bottle of tequila and limes, Turkish smoke curled its fingers through my mind. Ideas came, but left just as quickly. I fell asleep finally and awoke, my face caked with guacamole. My lady was screaming. “Why? Why?Why?”
“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked.
"Why did you kill him?”
“Who?” I asked. She named a poet that had screwed me over in the past.
“I haven’t killed anyone. You must have dreamed it.”
“It was so real. You had to get rid of the body and there was blood everywhere.”
“How did I kill him?” I asked. 
“You hit him in the head with a claw hammer.” 
“Really nailed him, huh?”
“It’s not funny. You made me help clean up the blood. Then we put him in my pottery kiln and burned his body,” she said.
“You should have been the writer,” I told her, gathering my easel, paints, brushes, and canvases.
The lady from the fried chicken joint waved and smiled, as I set up my stuff. My painting endeavors were bringing in more customers. A local newspaper ran a story about the chicken painter.  I painted people eating thighs and drumsticks. Finger licking folks with greasy grins. Children dripping mashed potatoes and shitty diapers. Flies swarming in gravy.
Squinting at the sun, I thought today could be the day. Sure enough, a dark speck spiraled toward earth like Icarus. The hawk grabbed the chicken breast almost faster than the eye could see from a turban wearing man. After his initial heart attack scare, he shook his fist at the heavens and cursed in Arabic. I caught it all on canvas in swift sure strokes.
People gazed in awe at my life like paintings. I soon got a call from Sotheby’s. Upon returning from London with a nice chunk of change, I gave the cheque to my lady to deposit. The doorbell rang, I answered it. A police officer said, “ I have a warrant for your arrest, for the murder of Mr. Blah, blah, blah.”
Fate had dealt me a cruel hand. The court found me guilty of my wife’s dream and sentenced me to death in the electric chair, euphemistically known as Yellow Mama.
The jailer asked, “What would you like for your last meal?”
“How about a bucket of chicken?” I replied.
“Any special way?”
“Nah, it doesn’t matter.”
 BIO: Catfish McDaris has been active in the small press for 20 years. Catfish is a journeyman bricklayer and recently finished a 30 year gig at the main post office in Milwaukee. His newest chapbook is "Making Love To The Rain" and his most infamous is "Prying with Jack Micheline & Bukowski."  Catfish blogs here.



  1. offbeat, surreal and finger lickin ' good!

  2. Hey Catfish, your imagination is like whirling Sufi on steroids. Gotta find what your eating, just made a chicken today or should I say cooked one all honey golden dipped with lemon and cinnamon ...later amigo....your aussie space cat poet mate

  3. Nice one catfish

    Most Enjoyable

    Well Done ;-D