Xavier is a Latinx poet, author, spoken word artist, editor, and LGBT+ activist from the Bushwick area of Brooklyn. Once an underage hustler and drug dealer, through surviving hate crime, Xavier emerged from the East Village, Manhattan art scene, the ball culture scene and Nuyorican movement as a successful poet, writer, and advocate for gay youth and Latinx gay literature.

Born in Brooklyn, New York, Xavier’s father abandoned his Ecuadorian mother when he found out she was pregnant. Xavier was also a victim of child abuse by a relative. He grew up in Bushwick during the 1970s when it was mainly an immigrant community. He attended a white elementary school in Queens where he was subject to racism. Xavier was kicked out by his mother at age 16 when he came out as gay and survived as an underage hustler. With strict rules, he returned home and graduated from Grover Cleveland High School before attending St John’s University for several years receiving an associate degree in communications. Xavier worked at an LGBTQ bookstore, A Different Light, where he found his passion for writing and turned his life around.

In 1997 Xavier self-published the chapbook “Pier Queen” and in 1998, with his friend, Willi Ninja, he created the House of Xavier and the Glam Slam, an annual art event held at the Nuyorican Poets Café. The fusion of ball culture and poetry slam featured categories such as Best Erotic Poem in Sexy Underwear or Lingerie, Best Love Poem in Fire Engine Red, and Best Verbal Vogue. In 1999 Xavier’s semi-autobiographical novel “Christ Like” was published by Painted Leaf Press. Despite a limited run, it was nominated for a Lambda Literary award in the Small Press category and was reprinted in 2009 by Rebel Satori Press as a revised 10th-anniversary edition.

Xavier hosted the Lambada Literary Awards in 2001. He was one of the leading forces behind “Words of Comfort,” a poetry benefit held after 9/11. Xavier’s poem “September Song” was included as part of the National September 11 Memorial and Museum website and later appeared in his 2002 poetry collection “Americano”

In the 2000s Xavier appeared twice on Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry on HBO, he also guest hosted IN The Life on PBS with Laverne Cox. Xavier also appeared in the Wolfgang Busch documentary How Do I Look and co-starred in the film The Ski Trip aired on LOGO. In 2005 Xavier edited the anthology “Bullets & Butterflies: Queer Spoken Word Poetry” and earned a second Lambda Literary Award in the Anthologies category. In 2008 he edited “Mariposas: A Modern Anthology of Queer Latino Poetry.”

In 2017 PEN America invited Xavier to read his poem “Americano” at the Writer’s Resist rally in protest of the Trump administration. Also that year a weeklong exhibit celebrating the 20th anniversary of his collection “Pier Queen” was held.

Xavier was part of the Saks Fifth Avenue Stonewall Inn Gives It Back Initiative in 2019 for the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Inn riots. Xavier was invited to share his poetry at the United Nations in 2018 as part of The International Symposium on Cultural Diplomacy. He shared a poem about gun control and after the criticism that followed, he was uninvited back as a speaker.

Xavier was attacked by about 20 men in Bushwick, Brooklyn in October 2005. Among the rumours about the attack, some suggested it stemmed from his giving permission to the Latin Kings gang to publish his poem on the subject of police brutality “Waiting for God.” Xavier was diagnosed with an acoustic neuroma following the attack and underwent surgery. The tumour was benign but he suffered partial facial paralysis for a time. In 2015 the neuroma returned and Xavier underwent successful radiosurgery.

The Death of Art by Emanuel Xavier

“Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.”
-critic Harold Bloom, who first called slam poetry “the death of art.”

I am not a poet. I want to be rich and buy things for my family.
Besides, I am sort of popular and can honestly say I’ve had a great sex life.

I am not a poet. Georgia O’ Keefe paintings do absolutely nothing for me. I do not feel oppressed or depressed and no longer have anything to say about the President.

I am not a poet. I do not like being called an “activist” because it takes away from those that are out on the streets protesting and fighting for our rights.

I am not a poet. I eat poultry and fish and suck way too much dick to be considered a vegetarian.

I am not a poet. I would most likely give my ass up in prison before trying to save it with poetry . . . and I’d like it! Heck, I’d probably be inspired.

I am not a poet. I may value peace but I will not simply use a pen to unleash my anger. I would fuck somebody up if I had to.

I am not a poet. I may have been abused and had a difficult life but I don’t want pity. I believe laughter and love heals.

I am not a poet. I am not dying. I write a lot about AIDS and how it has affected my life but, despite the rumours, I am not positive. Believe it or not, weight loss amongst sexually active gay men could still be a choice.

I am not a poet. I do not get Kerouac or honestly care much for Bukowski.

I am not a poet. I don’t spend my weekends reading and writing. I like to go out and party. I like to have a few cocktails but I do not have a drinking problem regardless of what borough, city or state I may wake up in.

I am not a poet. I don’t need drugs to open up my imagination. I’ve been a dealer and had a really bad habit but that was long before I started writing.

I am not a poet. I can seriously only tolerate about half an hour of spoken word before I start tuning out and thinking about my grocery list or what my cats are up to.

I am not a poet. I only do poetry events if I know there will be cute guys there and I always carry business cards.

I am not a poet according to the scholars and academics and Harold Bloom. I only write to masturbate my mind. After all, fucking yourself is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.

I am not a poet. I am only trying to get attention and convince myself that poetry can save lives when my words simply and proudly contribute to “the death of art.”