An Ode to the lone Star state of shit kickers and check cashers

How bitter sweet is the air I breath? Bitter with the scent of conflict and self induced continuous internal battles.

I was born in the highlands of East Baltimore. Raised well into adult age in comfort and contentment. My homeland I have not seen well beyond a fortnights time.

I came here a dreamer with nightmares in my eyes and haunted days of fear behind me. I am a bard of sorrows journey.

Then one morning I arrived in the land of the lone star shit kickers and saw ranchers leading horses across the fucking road and I thought.

Holy shit. What fuck kind a place did I arrive in?

I kid you not my dude. Fucking horses being led across the highway. Holy shit.

That shit was a sign. I had just stepped into the lone star state my dude.

My tale is unfolding. My growth is continuing. Two and half years in the pussy I was seems like a lifetime ago. In this strange place of rough and real traditions and history of bold and iron I find myself a man.

This place of shit kicking cowboys of puerto rican Cassinova charmers. This place.

The West. This place where comedy and rhythm formed in my mind and I laugh and I do grieve the parting of my youthful innocents and I do welcome the gusto and embracing of my own path to manhood. On the lone star roads my feet walk to rhythm.

The road of conflict. The road of a ride that just doesn’t end.

Warm Regards,


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