My first and foremost passion has and always will be poetry. I’ve been writing since I was thirteen years old, and I’ve been published in a wide variety of international publications, including The Evansville Review (2011), Ellipsis (2010), Poetry Salzburg (2010), The Chaffin Journal (2010), The Main Street Rag (2009), Harpur Palate (twice in 2008), Iodine Poetry Journal (2007, 2010 and 2011), The Homestead Review (2007), The California Quarterly (2007 and 2010), Iota (2005, 2006 and 2008), First Time (2005), Splizz (2006 and 2007), Barbaric Yawp (2005 and 2011), The Brooklyn Review (2002 and 2003) and Soul Fountain (1999, 2000 and 2006).

I was also nominated for a Pushcart Prize in poetry for 2008 by author Ethan Bumas.

Weaving my way through styles ranging from Bukowski burlesque shows and Kerouacian exploits with Tom Waits on the radio dial of a beat up Chevy to more cosmic explorations and introspective delvings into mortality, I continue to roam this poetic landscape, in the shadows and backstreets, in search of new forms and foundations with which to reach the human spirit.

Here’s a sample of my past work, published in Harpur Palate in 2008:

Old ’89

Crashed my lightning blue ’89 Cavelier into the 1&9
divide after the Giants won Superbowl XLII.

So I wandered the Jersey City underworld cloud heavy
passed motorcycle hangovers and White Mana

thinking how a lonesome star like mine could get the
moon’s attention without police and hospital

lights on my tail to sweep up the busted glass and
me off someone else’s powdered lines.

Everybody’s drunk tonight, Saturn-ringed, speeding
with some sweet heartache wrapped around a

tattooed arm like a worn-out Timex or a cheap bomb.
I think about the snapshots of my autopsy haunting

the front page of the Journal, my little roadside diversion
loitering the Youtube expanse for Stoned-Age

frat boys with nothing better to do than record my last
minutes for his 15 of fame, my own cheated for a

late night thumbsucker, platinum second mate in heels,
says she’s been searching for a strong sailor with an

ashtray heart so she can burn away the last of her regrets.
What else can you say to an offer like that when

you’re dizzied off a 12-pack of Bud, lost in the beautiful
car crash beneath the bridges of her eyebrows?

Sure, I tell her, and tearing apart my ivory button down,
I lay her head on the scar where my heart used to be.

I’ll put out the pain, Love. In both of us.

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