He keeps everything — every love, every winter, every 2:14 in the morning. The elephant was inevitable. The misspelling is how you know it’s his: memory keeps what it loves and never quite exactly — a name remembered slightly wrong is a name remembered anyway.

Born and raised in Los Angeles — not moved-there, made-there. He thru-hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, Mexico to Canada, which is where the second crown came from. He writes love as something violent and tender in the same breath, paints the figures that won’t leave him alone, and has been writing this book since he was fifteen — some of it at 2:14 a.m., some of it this afternoon. He only recently decided to let strangers read it.

The collection is Golden Boy and the Good Daughter — sixty-three poems, written in the open. A children’s book, The Bird Who Preferred to Walk, is on its way. A Guide for Dying is being written now. This site is the home for all of it.

He believes meaning isn’t found — it’s made. He writes for people who have stared into the void and kept walking. He keeps everything because he learned the price of it: Real is what you can lose.