age: 31 (Nov 25, 1980)
MEMBER SINCE: May 2005
occupation: Technical Writer
crush: The weight of responsibility post-college
most humbling moment: Working a 9-5 job when I swore I wouldn't.
i lost my virginity: Is there a lost and found?
fantasy: Living off poetry and art in New Zealand while running a small, gentile bar.
body mods: Does laser eye surgery count?
makes me sad: When people forget the simple things and let unimportant things weigh them down. And when the Yankees win.
makes me happy: Knowing I helped make someone else happy. And when the Yankees lose.
stats: 5'9" 150 lbs
gets me hot: Short hair, honesty, independence, humility, and the way a purse strap comes down the middle of a women's chest when she smiles.
into: Poetry, Texas Hold'em, random moments
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being poet. He writes
to give himself health
so long as he writes.
When he lays down his pen
or shuts of the typewriter
he falls ill again.
He finds himself in the world, bare,
except that he hears the poetry
of gunfire and cries of revenge,
worse yet, of murder.
It is poetry he could translate
into words, if gripped by despair,
the words forming a burial chant
for the dead and those maddened
by gunfire.
Poetry lifts itself away
from its origin, so as
to maintain itself, so as
to speak, so as
to cure itself
of death and of life.
-David Ignatow