This week marks two years since my last poetry collection, The Truth I Must Invent, was released. The book is available from the publisher, Poets Choice. You can also find it on Bookshop and a Kindle version on Amazon.

The Truth I Must Invent is a collection of narrative and philosophical poems written in free-verse style. The book explores the themes of self, identity, loneliness, memory, existence, family, parenthood, disability, gratitude, and compassion.

I am giving away three print copies of the book, which I will mail to anyone in the U.S. You can use the contact form or email me directly at the gmail address listed in the form.

The Truth I Must Invent book cover.

Selections from the collection:

Man Inside Nighthawks

I assume I was nothing
before I found myself sitting here,
staring straight ahead.

I can’t move my head.
I can’t smoke the cigarette
pressed between the fingers
of my right hand or drink the cup
of coffee resting on top of the counter.
I can’t touch the woman seated next to me
or talk to the other men in the diner.

This is my life: suspended in warm, yellow light,
trapped in a soundless environment—
no water running, no fan whirring, or grill sizzling.
No sirens or street sounds beyond the glass.

Time drags on with no discernible shift—
no transition to morning.
Here, night never ends.

Yet my mind still works.
In fact, it never stops.
I’m cursed with thoughts that run continuously.

Why am I here?
And where exactly is here?
What purpose do I serve?

Do I have a past? Did I live elsewhere,
before I became frozen in this moment—
captured and imprisoned for eternity?

If only I could talk.
If only I could open my lips and make a sound.
Then I could scream for help.
But who would hear my voice?

If only I could stand up
and walk around,
stretch my legs and
stare outside the window.

But since I can’t move,
the composition will remain unaltered,
as I will stay locked in place
inside this painting,
hanging on a gallery wall.

Looking Through Spindles

I climb out of bed and clutch
the white balusters at the top of the stairs
as harsh words fly behind walls
too thin to hold my parents’ rage.

My sister creeps out of her room,
shrugs her shoulders,
and moves toward me in the hallway,
passing the door to the master bedroom.
She sits down next to me
and whispers, “What happened now?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
And we listen for clues, trying to determine
the cause of the latest fight.

Did Dad come to bed drunk
and make advances on our mother?
Did she recoil or lash out, scratching his eyes?
But we hear no violent action
on the other side of the white door—
only voices laced with acrimony.
And we remain seated on the stairs,
exhausted but unable to fall back asleep.

Zooming out, I see those siblings
in a Polaroid image, sealed under a plastic sheet
in a leather-bound photo album.
And as the adult looking back,
breaking the fourth wall,
I wonder why this memory pricks my brain
when so many others would illuminate my parents’
kindness, decency, and exemplary work ethic.
Why, when I could have chosen from
a myriad of positive scenarios,
does this one seize my attention,
demanding to be chronicled?

My mother and father are both dead
and can’t defend their actions.
And I feel riddled with guilt
for tarnishing their memories.
I also understand that the truth
doesn’t always tell the full story.
My conscience obligates me to explain that
while Mom and Dad weren’t perfect,
they loved us and endured sacrifices
to make our lives a little better.
And while that’s a weak way to end a poem,
the wider perspective allows me to
forgive my mother and father for being human—
for being real people and not just my parents.

Craniopharyngioma (Youthful Diary Entry)

Craniopharyngioma gave me
an excuse for being unattractive.
I had a problem inside my head.
It wasn’t my fault
I stood four foot eight inches tall
and looked like I was
twelve years old instead of eighteen—
and then nineteen
instead of twenty-four.
I couldn’t be blamed for
my sans-testosterone body
straddling the line
between male and female.

The brain tumor
spurred questions
about my appearance,
aroused ridicule,
and provoked sympathy.
I heard voices whispering:
“Guess how old that guy is?”
And, “Is that a dude or a chick?”

And while I waited for my
body to mature, to fall in line,
and to achieve normal progression,
I remember wishing the surgeons
had left the scalpel
inside my skull
before they closed me up,
knitting the stitches
from ear to ear.

I prayed the scalpel
would twist and twirl
while I slept at night—
carving my brain
like a jack-o’-lantern—
splitting the left and right
hemispheres,
and effacing the memory
of my existence.

Mattress Moment

You don’t get to cry
“No Fair”
Mr. Hyman Roth.

This is the life
you have chosen.

You don’t get to pine
for your salad days,
whatever the fuck that means.

You don’t get to
flip over the mattress
on the bed you’ve made.

The Wanting is the Hardest Part

Tom Petty was wrong.
The waiting isn’t the hardest part.
The wanting is the hardest part.

Wanting fucks everything up—
wanting a better job, a better marriage,
a better house, a better life.
That seed of desire fucks with your head,
makes you think you can be something you’re not.

What if I discarded desire? What if stopped wanting?
What if I no longer sought a better life?
Can I let go of that fantasy
and accept who I am right now,
without seeking a better version of myself—
the idealized me I hold inside my head?

Resolution

You must
Live the life
You have

And not
The one
You want.

Witness

I look up as a group of birds
circles buildings in downtown Syracuse.
I resist the urge to pull out my cellphone
and snap a picture for Instagram.

Instead, I hold my gaze skyward,
letting the wind swirl around my face
and the rain patter my forehead,
as the birds duck in unison
behind a limestone structure—
the moment preserved nowhere except in my mind.

No pictures retained or sound recorded.
No trace of the birds in digital form.
And I think that’s the point, that’s life—
a collection of these impromptu glimpses of existence,
built into a collage, a kaleidoscope of images
demanding attention when presented.

Crying at Bedtime

Nothing prepares a parent
for the tantrums of an autistic child.
There’s no well of patience to draw from.
You adapt. You divert. You distract.
You do whatever it takes to calm the child down—
until you earn that blessed moment of peace,
when his eyelids drop and he drifts off to sleep,
his small body folded in the cradle of your arms.

Fingers in Hair

I run my fingers through
my son’s tangled mop of brown hair
as he lies next to me in bed.
It’s 4:30 a.m. and we can’t fall asleep.

He waves his hands in front of his eyes,
making stimming motions,
and I imagine his head slamming
against the windshield,
a spiderweb crack forming
in the sheet of glass and
blood pouring from
an opening in his skull.

I press my hand to his head
to try to stop the bleeding,
but the crimson liquid
slips through my fingers
and stains the carpet
and fabric seat covers.

I am reminded of a
Gospel passage (Luke 12:7 NIV):
“Indeed, the very hairs
of your head are all numbered.”

I hold some of my son’s hairs
in my hand and realize
I cannot prevent a
car accident, fall, gunshot wound,
or disease from killing my son.
I can’t prolong or preserve his life.
I can only love him while he still lives.

His hands whip in front of his face,
and he prattles phrases
only he understands.
I bury my fingers deeper
into the mound of his hair and whisper,
“Come on now, sleepy time, Colin.”