Introduction - ~Michael DeVito~

Greetings and Salutations!
I guess a bit about me is in order, yes?
I was born at 1:33 p.m. on March 13th... Nineteen-hundred and well, I don't think I need to go that far back, do I? This type of intro need be a bit more straight forward and not too complex.
So the low down about Michael then would be that he lived in Okinawa, Japan for nearly 12 years. He was an active duty Marine for two tours. (OK enough of the 3rd person).
I worked as a salesmen and a professional photographer after the service and attended Graduate school at night. I have a beautiful 10 year old daughter named Miya who still lives with her Mother in Okinawa. My wife, Natalie, lived with me in Okinawa for 6 years. She and I go back to forever-ah-go. Back to the days when the only thing one needed to worry about was whether or not the girl next door really “liked” you. It took me some time, ladies and gents, but I finally figured it out and it was a little more like “love.” Though, I might have been tipped off by her willingness to travel to a different continent to be with me. After the war began in Iraq it became financially impossible to remain overseas. Hence, we've been living back in New York for a little less than a year.
Now was that too quick, or maybe just down-right to the point save the bullet format?

Well since there's nothing up there that really defines me, I must also divulge that I consider myself a writer.
I do so maybe even before considering myself human, but not before being a father.
Did ya get that? If not it's okay because I’m still trying to figure it out. Being a writer means just as much as being a father, I suppose. And in lieu of this little self-proclamation, I live by a little motto— "The only thing worse than writing is not writing," which is a Richard Price conundrum.
With that in mind, I am in the processes of finishing my first book (currently untitled).
And oh yes... the photograph you see was taken at Pere Lachaise in Paris.
I was sitting in front of the former grave of Jim Morrison.
Here’s what I was writing…

I went to Jim Morrison’s Grave, but he wasn’t there

the sky over Paris was the color of Henry Miller.
the ground trapped the dead like a quiet circus tent.
hoards of people swarmed ‘round
like mish-mosh’ed children at recess
looking for playmates to hide & seek.
the Main Attraction could not be found:
only the remains of a stoned Indian Spirit. ~~~

There – that was nice and disjointed.

All the best.
~M~