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My published memoir takes us back to my first collection of poetry. I wasn’t quite
fourteen, and I had already bombed in Brooklyn. Though I was licensed to practice law, I spent many years circling the globe with my camera gear, always photographing the different and the special. As time went by, the different was slowly disappearing beneath a veil of “sameness”. It started at a remote tribe, buried deep in the jungle, that I arranged to photograph, and a native boy in his “I Love New York” t-shirt. In one way or another, I began to see him in that t-shirt everywhere I went. The result was Endangered, the first of many solo gallery exhibits which featured several photo essays to accompany my photos. I continued to compile my photographic record and a journal of photo essays, which began to feel like a swan song that only existed in my writing. The kid who bombed in Brooklyn must have been working behind by back, because I was busy writing poetry again. My memoir, in fact, is introduced by two of my narrative poems. By 2008 I resolved that my voice was best served—and best heard—through the voice that guides my pen. I am currently writing my third novel, a dystopian thriller, You Can’t Dance With the Dead, though every now and then my photo studio does come ahaunting.

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