Born, August 7, 1954, in New Castle, Pennsylvania. Presently lives in Erie, Pennsylvania with his wife, Ann. He has seen purple pigs fly.

Web Site: pressurepress.ning.com

Who was the first person you can remember who approved of you as a writer. What did he/she say or do?

Mrs. Christy, our neighbor, when I was a kid, who had 2 daughters I would visit and play with, before her divorce, was going to college for English Lit, not your average housewife in the 60′s. I admired her. I asked if she would read a story I’d written and give me an honest response: I wanted to be a writer. She graciously did so, urging me to write more. She took me seriously, which qualified my own seriousness that I wanted to be a writer. Over 40 years later, I found her on Facebook, and I have been able to thank her for the motivation (or curse? I didn’t say that).

Paul Burroughs, an early, English High-School teacher, 7th grade I think, in my old hometown, was also gracious with his enthusiasm as he read my words. He gave me building-blocks, special assignments, the green light to write outside the classroom setting. The connection between Mr. Burroughs & Mrs. Christy, they were friends, created steamy intrigue in my young mind. I felt a secret energy. Both were married to other spouses. Mr. Burroughs died decades ago.

Their combined power pushed my raft from the shore.

When has a “famous” poet hurt your feelings?

I was at Franconia College and a lot of the then-living beat or black mountain poets and writers & artists would visit & sit in on some classes. During one episode in my poetry writing class a famous poet in a purple hat was going around the room of students and reading the poems we presented him, that was the class assignment, and when he got to my poem which contained the word “polish” as in “shine”, he stopped there to laugh, turn his eyes to me and asked if the word is “POLISH” (Poland), or like you’re polishing your shoes? I felt a swarm of embarrassment fill me. I couldn’t speak a word. He got a kick out of that, the bastard.

There was also a very Academic, solidly-respected poet, chairman of the writing program at the University of Maryland decades ago. I was living there with an old friend who let me write on her dining room table. She was doing her Master’s work there and suggested I meet with this professor, so I arranged a meeting and met with him, showed him some of my poems. He scoffed at them, suggesting I talk to a younger professor who was aware of the small press at that time. The meeting, in his luxurious office, lasted maybe 5 minutes, and my long-haired hippy self felt like an idiot and a fool.

Both of these poets are deceased.

Who is a poet you’d love to have dinner and conversation with?

Kerouac, Hemingway, Bukowski, Poe, to name a few, and I doubt the dinner and conversation would be ordinary: scenes: tabletop things crashing to the floor, Jack puking on the plush restaurant floor, or Hemingway, hell, he’d want to fight me. I’d have to tackle him into a wall. Bukowski would order the 6th bottle of wine, light another thin smoke, and drone mumbles, slobber, unintelligible but amusing to his own drunk ass. Poe and I smoking opium together sounds pretty inviting too. “Ed, man, they have pills, antidepressants that work now,” I’d tell his ghost. If the question assumes a LIVE poet, McClure, others similar to him, Hunter S. Thompson (he ain’t dead!), a clone of myself (awkward silence).

How do you characterize your poetry for someone who’s never read it?

Underground. Not for kids. Not for the general public.

Do you live a balanced life?

We all do! *LOL What a tricky question. I feel balanced, existentially, accepting the world as a dangerous jungle, up in my tree of self, squatting, looking around, sniffing the methane in the air. The world must go on, however. Most things are fucked up. It’s a daily battle for repair, or balance. I used to trust, in a sort of Buddha head, the universe always tries for balance, thought that for decades. My mind has changed in this regard. The universe wants us dead. The Sun sprays Earth with unending fury, and will crisp us to ash at its first opportunity. Balance in Quantum Science? Solar intention? Per life, balance is an obvious illusion, a psychological construct of reasoned events. Everything is sliding into the Sun. Then there’s gravity. There are green photons.

What would you like said on your epitaph?

Let there be no epitaph! Or “KNOW/NO”. I don’t want an epitaph. If I could select the viewers of said epitaph I’d accept epitaphs like “FUCK YOU”, or “DRINK VODKA”, or “GIVE UP”. But I don’t want an epitaph.

What influence has poetry had on your family?

Or how has your poetry influenced your family? My ex-wife surely fueled my angry bourbon words for most of the 18 years of our marriage. My current, loving wife, Ann, has always been fully behind my writing, which is quite precious to me. Most of my family know I’m a poet, but what that means to anyone in particular I can only guess. Not a lot, I don’t think. Or a lot, I don’t know. During the end-times of my first marriage my poetry was pure fire, & she hated everything about poetry & poets. It didn’t stop me from writing, in fact stoked those searing coals. Now, with a woman who loves me and knows me, I am encouraged to write alone in my room. It’s sweet, and inspiring.

What do you want from poetry?

Articulation. Poetry is always about learning. I come upon epiphanies via the poem. I LEARN from the poem, even from the process of writing. So to articulate is to write to learn to articulate. I rarely know where the poem is ever going to go, & there’s an intrinsic freedom I like, & consider as personal treasure. I discover myself. Other people have different means to that sense of enlightenment, for me, it’s poetry. It’s freedom. It’s in my chipped head. I wld rather be wealthy, of course, but deleting money from the equation of writing has always been a pure, proud stance. Stupid, sure, but pure. I want what I haven’t yet put to words.