Shoving feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.

When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets, Papa would say, she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing.

If I didn't start painting, I would have raised chickens.

Alvin smiled back, and kissed her. People talk about fools counting chickens before they hatch. That's nothing. We name them.

And believe me, a good piece of chicken can make anybody believe in the existence of God.