To the guy upstairs..

I know of your love. I know of her ring. I know of your heart. I know it does sing. You're all married now, or soon to-be-wed. I wish you well, in all that you do.. truly. But I surly think I dodged a bullet with that crowd. Inbreeds. Liars. Adulterers. May your children never know of your past. May your children be better people than you could be. May they love everyone equally. & may some of them turn out gay! Amen.

Three weeks left.

Dancing naked through a sea of paper.
Bits of words flying past her vision.
Little tiny papers cut her flesh.
It's a whirl wind of creativity.

Three weeks left until graduation.
Until I leave this place behind.
Until I am no longer an undergraduate.
What then am I?
A graduate. Yes. But what else?

I completed the journey.
I finished the ride, knowing
less now then when I went in.
But they say that's how it works.
The more you learn, the more you realize
you don't know anything at all.
It's true.

A month and a half until I make my journey
back across the bridge.
Two years here, and I realize I came to
this location for the wrong reasons.
I shouldn't have let myself be bullied into
this place, and I shouldn't have expected
anything exceptional from a place that
was never that extraordinary.

But it's what you make of it, yes?
I made something of it, alright.

But what will I make of it now?
Where will I go?
Why will I go there?
How will I get there?

I have so many ideas.
Creative lead.
Marketing innovation.
Consultancy.

But who want's to hear.
Who want's to hear.

I'll do what Don Draper did..
Hound until you're being hounded.

Wedding blood.

She beats for you.
He beats her.

She kisses you tenderly.
He kisses her with a choke hold.

She runs up to you in tiny ballerina shoes.
He runs her head into a pavement with his fist.

She thanks jesus for crayons, her new barbie, and her mommy and daddy over a plate of freshly boiled carrots and peas with a nice slice of white meat chicken.
He takes the end of his old beer bottle and rams it into her vagina, making her bleed like a flowing river.

She smiles joyfully in your direction.
He tells her he "fucking hates" her existence.

She watches you manually rape your own daughter.
She takes a pitch fork from the garage.
She stabs you through the back, severing your vertebrae in half.
She grabs the closest left over beer bottle and beats you over the head with it.
Unrelenting.
Sober with hatred.
Lusting for revenge.
Justice.
Peace.

Picking your daughter up.
Pieces.
Holding her in your arms as blood drips down the front of your work uniform.
Sal's Diner.
Montana.
California.
Jamaica.
That's where you'll go.
Escape the fate.
Evade the hate.

No. You'd go to jail for this.
You'd be proud to go to jail for this.
But in truth, you know you won't have to pay a day.

The trees drip tears of sorrow over his grave.
"Tree sap" you tell your little girl.

"You're father always made me cry.
He hurt us both enough to last a small army
a lifetime. So I thought he could taste
the fruit of his own harvest forever more
with juicy little droplets of mother earth
falling onto his grave. Maybe trees will grow
up out of his bones and build something new for
the rest of us. Now honey, don't forget..
there are many uses for a pitch fork, ya hear."

It's like the blood from an amniotic sack;
fresh, potent, but most of all, valuable.
This time around, the life of a tree is more
of use than a wife beater and a child rapist.

Breeding air. Clean. Fresh.

Anew.