I grew up in the Maryland suburbs of Washington, D.C. I enjoyed a fresh, vibrant and sacredly naive poetry scene in Georgetown,1992-3 where I met great, true friends for the first time, fellow writers and artists, and, most of all, the mental and emotional freedom offered by them. I lived briefly on an Israeli 'kibbutz' (commune) and came back to D.C. with fresh insight and courage to be myself. I left the East Coast in 1995 with my friend, Matthew, for San Fransisco, and travelled increasingly more rapidly and moniless until arriving in upstate New York at my friend, Noah's doorstep in June,1996, exhultant, half-dead, but inspired, struggling desperately to assimilate practically all I had experienced, both injurious and blessed, having absorbed an abundance of both. In that state, I argued with Noah about many things, sadly, and we are no longer in communication, though I consider him still one of my true brothers and one my major poetic inspirations. In January,1997, I came to New York City with $175 and a palm-full of faith. In a week, I found a closet of a room in Harlem and a job at a Chelsea deli, making sandwiches. For seven years, I lived, worked and struggled while my natural joy painstakingly re-developed in me, using the mulch of my failures and hardships to fertilize it. Early in this period of seemingly bi-weekly nervous breakdown where I could not even afford to feed myself and often, through rediculously poor nutritional choices, made my state even worse, I did not write and even supressed very strong writing out of a mistaken belief that it was from demonic sources. I did write, at times, desperate, but empty prayers to a God I felt I fell too far from, and a little while later, when I could at least (at last) feed myself, sometimes a spirit forced its way through me in order to write, with my hand, with my mind and heart, poems. These were a Grace given to me. Oft times I over thought them, altering the originality of them with my futile brain, but other times, I bowed my head and let my mind and voice be guided. I could not have written them on my own with out trusting some Overtruth to guide me, but they are more intimate to me than I still have yet to grasp. In such, I consider many of them a gift to my name, which I was given for suffering through a process of hardships.
Over the past 8 years in New York, much of my time not writing was spent in states of complicated emotions. I have been healing and now lament a little at my lesser sensetivity, but I think, after this time, I will expose myself again to the storms of Love, but this time in a more balanced, capable manner, so much that I might enjoy and utilize the forces that act upon and within me for some greater purpose again.