i don't have much to say for myself –

 i have not moved to some remote property in the crisp vermont air.

i have not married nor bore children. i have not put my feet on foreign soil, picked apples right off the tree, or read war and peace, leading me to believe that i have no bearing on either term.

i quit ballet before i put on the slippers and i constantly misplace things – my glasses especially.

at least thirteen pairs  are fending for themselves. i've lost a lot of things. i find it to be a talent.

            living in the home i grew up in –

            a ranch on a hill in the "borough" of lincoln park, new jersey.

            after graduating sarah lawrence college may 2015 with a b.a. in liberal arts and          

            a concentration in poetry, i am working retail at a novelty stationary store where people like to        

            burn cash. but the card selection is quite wonderful.

i have been writing since i bought that stone bound journal,

filled with unlined paper.  and throughout my academic career,

i have cultivated eight collections of poetry and a memoir manuscript.

nothing is more satisfying than a great string of words, its melody and its imagery, its tone and sonic quality, its line breaks. like looking through a large microscope – small moments that become undeniably enlarged. sorrow and contentment and all the in-between wrapped into one.

it's the thing speaking underneath, whether mumbled or forceful, haunting or  beautiful, that will never cease to entrance me. the art can go deeper than we'd might like to admit. i can only hope i  can achieve that voice in my words. that gesturing pull underneath the writing that sings like the sirens, that bears with it a heaviness you want with you.