St. Paul: Executed [Poetic Prose]

My name is Dennis L. Siluk, and I was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, where my father never found the time to spend time with anyone I know of. I learned kindness from my mother, not sure where she got it from. I shall return only in memory to dead St. Paul, by the Mighty Mississippi, so it is called; where I wish not to be buried, since I had run off to a world of adventure, a life-time ago, beyond the clouds of St. Paul, the clean and empty cart that holds the roots, and the scavengers of the Mississippi–so delicately. I’ve walked your city streets all my life, coming and going, how sickening, how indifferent you have become; injustice on the steps of the court house, and activist judges in robs that look like they were weaved with satanic thread. I must execute you quick, put your bleak face behind the shadows of bars, as you have buried your lies, so shall I, we are both fugitives of the same kind are we not, running mad to be taxed, and away from the over taxed; we are polar- opposites; here take my last .50-cents; you stand on the streets begging for it.

Idiot, you demand love, and murder your good citizens like a thief; like the foul that fly from Detroit and Chicago to vomit their waist on this once good city. You send the homeless from all over the world to be a burden on the goodhearted. You choke the life out of the martyr, and call him a Good Samaritan…you want us to be like New York City, but we’d rather be St. Paul.

#686 5/24/05

General Ideas

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