St. Pauls Poet Laureate

This week St. Paul officially named its first ever poet laureate, Carol Connolly. I would expect no less from such a second-rate, stench emitting town that is eternally stuck with its pathetic inferiority complex. It's hard to stand out when you are in the shadow of the burgeoning metropolis known as Minneapolis. That being said it should have not surprised me when the powers that be in St. Paul scoffed at my work and instead chose this housewife.

Here is one of her "better" works, an untitled piece of drivel about such petty and meaningless things as country clubs and luxurious swimming pools. It is followed by one of mine; an artistically charged piece about the hypocrisy of our idiocratic society laws and ways. You'll see how little taste St. Paul has.


Untitled Drivel by Carol Connolly
I am trapped here in a second rate body,
I, me with a proper address,
acceptable bloodlines and the appearance of a decent bank balance,
trapped here at the pool during the thigh show.
Sins of the flesh are punished here,
exposed, a stretched belly negates a person at this spa.
Here the only interest is in bones, in sinu, in teeth and tan.
No flesh need apply.
attention over here
I would like to say that I am terribly sorry if I have visually assaulted you.
I want to explain, I followed the rules,
it was seven pregnancies for me and twins and nine pound babes
and do you know that if want to have your cake
you must eat it.


Spaniard Go Home by Douglas Sinclair
Tomato rotting in the winters solar rays,
this weather is not for thy.
Such temperate apocalypse
fleshes the inane

EXPLOSION!

Paco cleanses the space,
dirty the domicile,
then wait.

The long journey;
land of columbus
to the diplomats.
You are here?
Now be gone.

I am of myself,
putrid tomato is no more.