No Room for Daddy

Albert  Camus was the perfect mixture of the CROW and the COW —>  CAW-MOO!

What soars yet feeds on hay?
Who troops across Algeria within
black feathers … behooved … behorned?
A beak, a swishing tail…
Udder drips milk continuously  on those walking below, but we young are actually fed directly, beak to beak. It’s acidy and difficult to swallow, but I suppose it’s nourishment all the same.

Wandering through the paddock, scared in the cornfield, all the same as everything was abandoned for the resistance. -D
There is nothing inherently wrong with a huge knife.

BUT – does not the mere proximity of a tool invite its use?

Perhaps I wouldn’t dig that big hole (whole) in the back yard if I didn’t have a spade?

Would I get on the roof if there were no ladder in my garage?

Would I hunt down some bastard and slit his ill-shaven throat then plunge 9 inches of diamond-shaped 440 stainless again and again into his rotting gut unless I had a shiny new knife?

Steel weapons confer power.

I would rather be powerless!  <—–read: fatherless

death better than kill, Buddha thinks.



by Vol is Angry

As a pupae
armed with fairy tales
encrusted with mysterious goo
my toes barely reach the
end of my footed pajamas
A shadow lurches down the hall,
bumping from side to side
tilting the picture frames with
his shoulders
pressure change
door slams
Children always know when
somebody has been out of place.

But, in place, no better.
what good to me to eat
peanuts and watch TV all

Either way, no room for daddy.