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Expressionism – 5-31-15

Lucky for not one, but two.
Metropolitan playgrounds, feeding off each other.
Saint Paul.
My love.
My fair hearted, timeless, home on the East of the Mississippi.
Your skyline glows as I sit at one of my favorite look-out points.
Watching you.
This spot was haunted by her.
Still one of the best things she left me.
Not only this spot, but for the deep-rooted appreciation of this city.
Hell, her parents practically own this city so it felt rightful that she was the one to teach me it’s hidden secrets and passive ways.
It’s always been home, but she showed me how to properly love it.
On a richer and intricate level.
Funny that she taught me the same about women;
Our relationship wasn’t one-sided though.
We paralleled the Twin Cities.
She represented that tradition.
That culture.
Those whole-some, albiet, emotionally draining values.
I represented the other half.
The sister city.
My mistress.
My naughty, trendy, getaway on the West of the Mississippi.
The side of the river that spelled out debauchery, nightclubs, a laundry list of sexually explorative liberal feminists, addictions to club drugs and cocaine.
It was the side of the river that brought out the devious side of me.
The side that threatened to drown me.
I introduced her to my world, as a new-found hip-hop promoter, she was always my plus one.
We partied with local celebrities in Minneapolis, just like we did in Saint Paul.
Only Minneapolis parties were attended due to my schmoozing, not like the Saint Paul ones, where we had special treatment due to her last name.
Minneapolis turned us wild.
Often, we’d end up somewhere like the Fine Line, slugging beers and matching shots while our dancing to my buddies playing on stage got a little too provocative.
We’d get horny.
Fuck in a bathroom stall.
Continue drinking.
Go home.
Then she’d yell about me socializing with people throughout the night.
No wonder people from Minneapolis don’t go to Saint Paul.
It’s where love is made, but it’s also where hearts are broken.
Minneapolis is just so busy. There’s always something to do.
Here in Saint Paul, we’re in the house after 9.


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