A little history first,
a poem born to fill curiosity’s thirst.
I have not always been a fishermen,
At twenty-eight years old I have been many men.
First and foremost I am a cowboy
A rope and a pony were my first toys.
Horses and cows were a daily part
Amongst other aspects of the cowboy art.
Wandering in mountains with wise old men,
Trailing a herd, getting snowed in, this was my youth, my roots. Standing atop mountains with my horse watching sunsets was par for the course.
By fifteen I had been bucked off, stomped and kicked, had my leg crushed in the town of Madras.
I chased a Buffalo on horseback, at a dead run like Plains Indian, and before the day was over, I did it again! Whooo!
When I was eighteen I had a career shift,
Instead of a cow herder I became a cow murderer.
Killing and bleeding, Killing and gutting, killing and cutting, killing and slicing, killing and sometimes crying.
Covered in my old friends red mist, I shackled their twitching legs to a hydraulic lift.
Don’tjudge this blood soaked monkey, Every dead cow went to fill your tummy’s.(pause and look) (pat tummy)
Then one day in tears I left my knives on the floor
and began my career as a corporate whore.
I moved to the city and donned a tie and slacks, shoved into a cube like chickens in a laying rack.
My life went from saying Haa yup, and Hey Cow to
How may I help you sir? How would you like to pay for that?
Needless to say I grew quite nauseous, unable to figure out how to be ok with this process, I longed for open spaces and honest faces.
In a cubical maze the only thing I found were ass-kissing, ladder climbing rats and soulless punks with supervisor hats.
I thought I was doing the right thing, but all I was doing was dying, like a wild shark in a water park, I climbed to the top of a parking garage and longed to jump into the concrete mirage.
Needless to say that wouldn’t have been profitable, so the corporation locked me up in a mental hospital.
After a time I was charged a fee and they finally set me free, I descended right past the office buildings onto the street and I began to sell myself like piece of meat.
Then came the drugs, ecstasy, meth, heroin and coke, slowly compounding until my blood was replaced with dope. Marauding around weighing 128 pounds, treacherous as a pirate and higher than any test pilot, I became something I have been every since those on the street bestowed me the title of Faggot Prince.
Dont be sad, I am not, this was a turning point, a necessary evil, allowing for a poet and author to emerge from this walking devil.
Amidst my frantic highs I started writing about the signs words became my toys and joys, I was pretty damn good with a pen and a paper, so I left my career as a drug-dealing stripper.
With new purpose, walking from the streets I made it to the beach and alas floating on the water I found sanity within reach.
Each day I gladly leave you all here, without the slightest bit of longing or fear.
Instead of drugs, the ocean and the sun give me my inspirations, and when I come back I write it down into a neat little presentations.
Fishing for money and writing for fun, submitting to publishers and reading between crabbing runs, this Faggot Fisherman Prince is becoming something that the world has never seen, and my friends this right here is only beginning.
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