Kenneth Chacón

Author's Bio

Kenneth Robert Chacón is a native of Fresno, California where he spent his youth involved in Thug Life. By the grace of God, he was able to get educated and escape the madness. Chacón teaches English and Chicano Studies at Fresno City College. His work has appeared in San Joaquin Review, In the Grove, Flies, Cockroaches, & Poets, Eastside Rose, Cimmaron Review, Poetry Quarterly, BorderSenses, Zetetic, & Huizache among others. His collection of poetry, The Cholo Who Said Nothing, was published in January 2017 by Turning Point. Chacón’s poetry deals with matters of social justice and poverty and faith and unashamedly tells the stories of the gangbanger, the addict, and others considered “flayed without hope.”

Publications and Prizes

Books: 
The Cholo Who Said Nothing & Other Poems
(Turning Point, 2017)
Prizes Won: 
Andrés Montoya Memorial Scholarship

Personal Favorites

What I'm Reading Now: 
The Voice at 3:00 A.M. by Charles Simic by
,
The Seven Story Mountain by Thomas Merton by
Favorite Books: 
the ice worker sings by Andrés Montoya, The Book of Images by Rainer Marie Rilke, The Concrete River by Luis J. Rodríguez, Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson, Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong, Unending Rooms by Daniel Chacón, Tell Me by Kim Addonizio, Smoke by Dorianne Laux

More Information

Listed as: 
Poet
Gives readings: 
Yes
Travels for readings: 
Yes
Identifies as: 
Christian, Latino/Latina, Mexican, Native American
Prefers to work with: 
Adults, At Risk Youth, Prisoners, Teachers, Teenagers
Fluent in: 
English
Born in: 
Livermoore, CA, CA
Raised in: 
Fresno, CA, CA
work_excerpt: 
Where Will This Addiction Take Me? Tonight it takes me to a liquor store parking lot,/ corner of Fruit and Olive. Minutes ago, it took/ me, my car, its worn-down tires, into a ripe/ nail, starving for attention. And in this night/ that refuses to play nice, to fold softly away/ and breed daylight, I sit on the pockmarked/ concrete, waiting for the dopeman’s good/ shit./ I sit waiting for the good shit and a 1/2 empty/ can of Fix-A-Flat he said he might have, praying/ it’ll be enough to patch. And in between breaths,/ beseeches to the Lord God who resides resolutely/ in the sky, I think of my family waiting faithfully/ at home. I think of my wife’s smile, my son’s/ ears, my daughter’s hair that smells of/ fruit./ I should be above all this, above glass pipes/ that shatter, above 20 rocks that are never enough,/ above the dark harvests of stale things grown strong/ in moonlight, shadows spreading like dandelion,/ the darkness blossoming into street corners/ and liquor stores where men cradle porn./ But the time is not right, water not yet wine,/ and I sit waiting for the dopeman’s good/ shit./
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Last updated: Aug 03, 2018