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.”
My cousin Derek DeCosty passed away earlier this year in Jacksonville, Florida. He had been sick around Christmas with a respiratory illness, and we texted on New Year’s Eve. He died on Jan. 3, one day before his 57th birthday. Here’s his obituary.
I’ve spent time processing this loss and bringing the memories of Derek to the surface of my mind—flipping through photo albums, seeing his face, and hearing his ebullient laughter as I recalled moments we shared.
While I felt compelled to write about him, I also dreaded it because this loss is too personal. And what could I say that would make any difference? How could my reflections ease my grief or the sorrow of my relatives? But I hope my words can honor Derek and offer a glimpse into the life of this beautiful soul.
Derek’s father, Fiore (Fee) DeCosty, and his sister Carmella, my mother, were raised in Rome, New York, along with two other siblings, my Aunt Teresa—who goes by her religious name of Sister Carmella—and my Uncle Frank. Derek’s mother, Patricia (my Aunt Pat), is a member of the Caddo Nation of Oklahoma and settled in central New York with Uncle Fee.
A Special Bond
Growing up in Rome, I spent a lot of time with Derek, his older brother, Fiore (Fee), and his younger brother, Damon.
Although I wasn’t a brother to them, I felt something stronger than a typical cousin bond. Derek and I had a special connection because we were only one grade apart in school.
Both of our nuclear families experienced divorce in the early 1980s, and I believe that shared pain also drew us closer.
And being related to the DeCosty boys had its perks.
They were athletes, part of the popular crowd, and because of them, I received party invitations I wouldn’t have gotten otherwise. Pretty girls who swooned over Derek talked to me because they knew I had a direct line to him. And as a short, chubby tenth-grader scurrying through the halls of Rome Free Academy high school for the first time during my sophomore year in 1984, no students teased or bullied me because they knew I was related to the DeCostys.
Cousins gathered at our grandmother’s house. My cousin Chris is in the front row. Second row, from left to right, is Damon, my sister, Lisa, and me; Fee and Derek are in the back row.
Weekends at the DeCosty household were a regular part of my youth. I attended their hockey games (sometimes traveling with my Uncle Fee on road trips) and stretched out on the couch in their cramped ranch house on Seville Drive in north Rome.
If I remember correctly, Damon had a bedroom on the main level, while Derek and Fee slept in the basement in two small, makeshift rooms separated by thin drywall. Three mounds of fetid and sweat-drenched hockey equipment were piled high near the washer and dryer. A boom box blasted music—with The Rolling Stones, The Who, Genesis, The Fixx, and The Police getting frequent play.
The boys practiced their wrist, snap, and slapshots by firing hockey pucks at a white cement wall, festooning the surface with pockmarks and black spots.
Although I was a rabid hockey fan, I had given up playing the sport when I was young because I couldn’t skate. Picture Bambi slipping on the ice. So when Fee, Derek, and Damon were not playing ice hockey, I tried to stir up a game of street hockey or floor hockey. Floor hockey was my favorite, especially on holidays at our Grandma Josephine’s house. We would get on our knees in the living room and use mini sticks and a rolled-up ball of athletic tape as the puck in fierce battles that left us with elbows to the face and rugburns on our knees.
One holiday, Damon, Derek, and I played a football game called “goal-line stance” in Derek’s bedroom. The memory is murky, but this is what I think happened.
With the twin bed pushed against the wall, the front of the mattress was the goal line. Derek was the ball carrier. He was getting annoyed because Damon and I were double-teaming him and standing him up, so he stuffed the football under his arm and leaped over us, Walter Payton style, his body parallel to the ground, until his shoulder slammed into the wall with a loud bang as he landed on the bed.
The collision created a large dent in the drywall, evoking our laughter. “Ah, shit,” Derek said.
My dad, who worked in home improvement (among other areas) at the local Sears store, was at the house for the holiday. I went upstairs, found him in the kitchen, and waved for him to come downstairs.
“What’s up?” he said as we descended the stairs.
“We hit the wall while playing. Can you look at it?”
When my father inspected the damage, he laughed and said, “Oh, you can’t fix that. You boys better hang a poster over it.”
And that’s what Derek and Damon did. I don’t know if my Uncle Fee ever discovered the dent.
Moments in Time
When you lose a loved one, it’s often the small, seemingly insignificant moments that trigger memories. For my deceased father, I picture him sitting in his green easy chair, reading glasses perched on his nose, making his football parlay and Lotto picks (or reviewing the losing tickets).
For my mother, who passed away in 2011, I remember the anxiety that weighed on her—like an oak beam pressing on her shoulders—as she smoked her first cigarette of the morning and drank coffee from a blue ceramic mug, her head bowed, her fingers pressed to her forehead.
For Derek, I remember him chopping ice in Josephine’s driveway and hitting one of his toes, which bled profusely (but did not require medical attention). From then on, if he walked around the house barefoot, I would ask him, “Hey, Derek, can you tell me which one of your toes had difficulty?” To which he would say, “Shut up, man.”
Other things I recall about Derek:
His deep, dark brown eyes; his mixed Italian and Native American heritage; his copper-colored skin in the middle of summer; his large ears that I loved to flick.
From left to right: Fee, Derek, my sister, Lisa, and me. When I posted this photo on Facebook, Derek wrote: “Take it down cuz!!!! Look at the size of me ears!!!!”
The way he would fly on the ice and the joy he exhibited in playing the sport he loved. His big hands, smooth and soft, as he used them to thread a pass or deke a goalie.
And with those hands, he created beautiful artwork. I can imagine him sitting at our grandma’s dining room table, his left hand making a charcoal drawing on a sketch pad.
A pencil sketch Derek made during junior high school.
His love of eating—not just food but the act of eating with family. One of his favorites was Josephine’s pasta beans (pasta fazool), made with cannellini beans and ditalini pasta. “Yeah, pasta beans,” he would say when entering the house on Thursday nights in the winter when Grandma often cooked the dish. He would dunk huge chunks of Ferlo’s Italian bread in the bowl, sopping up the juice, and say, “Ah, Grandma, this is so good. So good.”
His booming voice. He never called me Fran. Whenever I saw or talked to him on the phone, it was always, “Franny D. My man. What’s up?”
His infectious laugh. It started deep in his throat, rolling upward until it was released in waves. Hearing him laugh made you want to join in the fun.
He lit up any room he walked into with his charisma and humility. People were attracted to him because of his inherent goodness and gratitude for whatever you gave him.
And the true beauty of Derek is that he never thought he was better than anyone else. Despite being a star athlete, talented artist, and Honor Society scholar in high school, he was never arrogant or looked down on others.
Fee, Derek, and me in the summer of 1990.
The closest analogy I can make is the scene with Edie McClurg as the secretary Grace in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, when she’s describing Ferris to Principal Ed Rooney, played by Jeffrey Jones.
Grace: “Oh, he’s very popular, Ed. The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads—they all adore him. They think he’s a righteous dude.”
That was Derek.
A Cherished Memory
In October 1984, I received the Catholic sacrament of Confirmation at St. John the Baptist Church in Rome.
In this sacrament of initiation, the baptized person is “sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit. (United States Conference of Catholic Bishops).”
I made the mistake of asking Derek to be my sponsor because I didn’t understand the commitment it entailed.
I thought it meant his only responsibility would be standing up with me in church during the Mass on Confirmation day. That’s it. Instead, he needed to attend preparation workshops, retreats, and church school events over the course of several weeks. He never complained, even though he was the youngest sponsor. Practically everyone else had their mom or dad serving in that role.
We had to choose a Confirmation name after a saint or a figure from the Bible. Although I knew little about the Old Testament prophet Isaiah, I selected the name because I loved Detroit Pistons guard Isiah Thomas (whose first name is spelled differently).
Standing outside St. John’s Church in Rome on the day of my Confirmation in October 1984.
In a photo taken outside the church that day, Derek towers over me, even though he was only about a year-and-a-half older than me. At the time, a benign tumor on my pituitary gland (a craniopharyngioma) was expanding in my brain, stunting my growth and causing delayed puberty. About two months after the photo was taken, surgeons would remove the tumor in an eight-hour operation at SUNY Upstate Medical Center in Syracuse (renamed Upstate University Hospital).
And as I recovered in the surgical intensive care unit, Derek came to visit me, bringing a torn picture of the Sports Illustrated cover featuring an image of Doug Flutie from the “Hail Mary” game against the University of Miami in the Orange Bowl. Derek knew I loved Flutie and was inspired by the quarterback because of his short stature. He pinned the magazine page to my IV stand so I could see it when I looked up from my bed.
Hockey Career: From the Mohawk Valley to Crossing the Atlantic
In 1986, when he was a senior in high school, Derek led Rome Free Academy to its first New York State title in hockey as the Black Knights defeated Skaneateles in Glens Falls. (Damon was a member of the 1988 RFA team that captured the school’s second state championship.)
Derek went on to play Division 1 hockey for the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI) Engineers. At the time, Fee was at West Point, playing for the United States Military Academy. In this contest pitting Army against RPI, Fee is chasing Derek and hooking him.
Fee and Derek competing in college hockey.
After I graduated from college and moved away from Rome, I stayed in contact with Derek while his professional hockey career flourished.
In the mid-1990s, Derek played for the Wheeling Thunderbirds (later renamed Nailers) in the East Coast Hockey League while I was living in Toledo with my sister, Lisa, and working at the news/talk radio station WSPD. Wheeling played the Toledo Storm frequently, and Derek would leave tickets for us at will-call at the Toledo Sports Arena. In exchange for the tickets, we would bring him a case of beer.
I would hang out near the Wheeling locker room and watch the players come out. And then I’d yell, “Hey, DeCosty, you suck.” His head would spin around, and then he’d laugh when he saw me.
After the game, we would grab the beer from the car and talk with Derek for a few minutes near his team bus, the diesel engine roaring and a frigid wind whipping off the Maumee River hitting us in the face.
I took this photo with my Pentax K1000 camera during Derek’s playing days with the Wheeling Thunderbirds.
One night in Toledo, Derek got injured on his first shift of the game. While Derek forechecked with his linemates in the Storm’s zone, a Toledo defenseman whipped the puck along the glass, and it smacked Derek in the face. Blood gushed from his nose, and he went right off the ice and into the locker room. We followed the ambulance as it rushed him to the emergency room. And we spent a few hours talking with Derek in the hospital while the ER doctors treated him.
Another time, late on a windy, wintry Saturday afternoon, I found out from my uncle that Derek was playing that night in Dayton, Ohio, about two hours from Toledo. These were the days before cell phones, so I called the arena and left a message for Derek to leave me a ticket at will-call. I was like a hockey groupie.
Strong gusts rocked my Dodge Colt as I filled up at a gas station in Bowling Green, and blowing snow made visibility difficult on I-75. But I made it to the arena, watched Derek play against the Dayton Bombers, talked with him for about twenty minutes, and drove home that night, getting lost on my way out of the city and back onto I-75.
My favorite memory of Derek’s playing days is driving from Toledo to Wheeling one weekend. Derek talked to the coach, who let me ride the team bus for a short road trip from West Virginia to Johnstown, Pennsylvania.
The jocular banter by Derek’s teammates reminded me of scenes from the movie Slap Shot. One player curled up with a blanket in the back of the bus and shouted numerous times: “Hey driver, it’s getting frosty back here. Crank up that heat.”
A hockey card image from his career in Wheeling. Copyright unknown.
But what impressed me most was witnessing how much Derek’s teammates liked and respected him and how his relationship with the friendly people of Wheeling went beyond the surface-level player-fan dynamic. They adored Derek as a valued member of the community, and he returned their affection, making lasting friendships with non-players in the city.
Derek’s professional career later took him abroad as he played for teams in the United Kingdom, including the Guilford Flames and Bracknell Bees.
Relocating to Florida
Derek moved to Florida after his hockey career ended.
And I remember after his father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2010, Derek drove with Uncle Fee from New York to Jacksonville so he could get treatment at the Mayo Clinic. Derek settled in the Jacksonville area, beginning a career in agronomy at the prestigious TPC Sawgrass Golf Course in Ponte Vedra Beach, home of The Players Championship.
A year later, my wife, Pam, and I spent a few days in Jacksonville, staying with my uncle and his wife, Diane. I remember everyone sitting on the patio on a hot May day while Derek mowed the lawn and trimmed some hedges in the backyard.
Derek was tanned, and he had the most casual, easygoing manner, not complaining that he was doing yard work in the heat while the rest of us were enjoying cool drinks and bantering in the shade. A cigarette dangled from his mouth as he maneuvered around the yard, and he stopped working occasionally to take sips from a bottle of beer.
##
There’s so much more I could say about Derek, so much more I have forgotten and will likely remember later when reminiscing about him.
I took my time drafting this essay. Part of the reason for my slow pace is that I relished roaming around my past accompanied by my beloved cousin.
I feel profound sadness knowing that Derek’s warmth and kind heart are no longer active in the world—that his light, voice, and laughter are no longer accessible to his family, friends, and other people.
But I believe his artwork and the loving impact he made during his short life will endure.
A colorful painting by Derek DeCosty.
With his carefree manner, Derek reminded me a little of Jeff Bridges as the Dude in The Big Lebowski. And I hope Derek’s soul is now at peace and he’s abiding in the cosmos, embarking on celestial wanderings in the afterworld with a sense of curiosity and wonder.
##
I found out about Derek’s death via text when I was at a doctor’s appointment. After I left the medical building, while riding the bus, some words came to me in verse form. I don’t get the heartstrings reference since it’s not a musical instrument, but I guess I conjured the image of an angel playing a harp (like you’d see in old cartoons).
A Poem for Derek
Heartstrings playing in heaven.
Derek is laughing.
But the joke is on us.
He’s gone and won’t be back.
Words that come to me
After the death of my cousin.
No recognition of meaning,
But I must write them anyway—
Words perpetuating memories
To keep my cousin’s spirit alive.
I wish I could hear him laughing,
And ask him what he finds so funny.
Painting by Derek DeCosty.
First-Person Ending
I will end with a few text messages Derek sent me over the past couple of years. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me sharing them. They reflect his love of life, sense of humor, and compassion for others. I’ve edited them for brevity and clarity.
Note: Because of his family connection to Oklahoma, Derek was a fan of the University of Oklahoma football team (hence the reference to the Sooners). And Colin refers to my son.
The first text is from the summer of 2023, when I needed another brain surgery (my sixth) to remove tumor regrowth. As I awaited my operation, Derek wrote:
June 8, 2023
My beautiful cuz, I understand that you’re going through some shit again regarding those same issues that you’ve conquered in the past and I have no doubt you will again kick ass in our true Bukowski way! I wanted you to know that I have you in my mind, heart, and when I talk to our parents looking down, I’m sure that you have the strength and heart of a buffalo! I love you Fran, don’t ever doubt that you aren’t thought about every day I wake up!
July 24, 2023
My dear cousin, I want you to know that I am thinking about you right now and praying that you are doing well after your surgery. I have you on my mind, in my heart and ask that I take any pain you feel. I love you dearly, more than you know. Stay tough.
October 5, 2024
Good morning my dear cousin!!! This is Derek, this is my new number, new carrier! Just wanted you to have it! Miss and love you all dearly! Saw a really cool tree I have to capture for you. Old crazy oak that I wish you could see! Very photogenic! Anyhow, give Pam and Colin a kiss for me and…..GO YANKS!!!!!
Photo by Derek DeCosty from his Instagram account. He wrote: “Tiny Osprey feather stuck in pro practice green this beautiful morning!”
November 30, 2024
Good afternoon my dear cousin!! Happy Thanksgiving and all that, give my very best to Colin and a big hug for Pam! Hope yall enjoyed the holiday!! Miss and love you dearly!! Crazy day of football today, love it!!! Much love, Go ’Cuse&Boomer Sooner!!
November 30, 2024 (Later)
Sorry Cuz, I had to make a Target run for my mother!
Francis, you’ve always been my Saint, there’s not many people on this earth that understand me in the gracious way you and Damon (sometimes!) get me and the hundred personalities, moods, and craziness that encapsulates all I’m about!! Anyhow, I have to start screaming at the Sooners to get their shit together!!! All my love.
December 31, 2024
My man!!!! Happy New Year to you and all the family! Anyway, straight after Xmas, I caught the flu, of the respiratory type! I’ve been down and out and only going back to work tomorrow!!! Francis, I send my very best to Pam and Colin! Give them a hug for me please! Love and miss you!
Photo by Derek DeCosty from his Instagram account. The text read: “Good morning from the driving range floor, ready for the Players. Happy days!”
It’s been over a month since I’ve posted anything on the blog. I’ve been inundated at my day job and working on some long-term writing projects in my off hours—plugging away in the messy, first-draft stage.
And in reviewing some old poems recently, I found a few that are my favorites. I thought I would share them.
They’re not the best poems in the world. I have no inflated sense about their worth.
But I love them because they were delivered to me almost in complete form, needing little revision. Instead of writing the poems, I merely served as a portal through which they could be born.
Phoenix landscape.
The first one I wrote under my carport in the parking lot at my apartment complex in Phoenix, Arizona (sometime between 1998 and 2001). I had been out driving late at night with the windows open, looking at the stars, smelling the desert sage, and listening to “Terrapin Station” by the Grateful Dead.
And these words came to me as I shut off the engine. I changed only two lines slightly in the final version.
Revelation (final)
A courtship of contempt,
filled with swirling fury and churning angst,
not halted by the hands of God.
Zealous rituals express unwavering faith,
and outstretched arms set hearts aflame.
Trees topple under a crescent moon—
a gleaming scythe that carves the frost-burnt night,
invoking stones to crush the gnarled root, as fragments of identity rupture into paralyzing self-hate.
Revelation (rough)
A courtship of contempt,
filled with swirling fury and churning angst,
not halted by the hands of God.
Zealous rituals express unwavering faith,
and outstretched arms set hearts aflame.
Trees topple under a crescent moon—
a gleaming scythe that carves the frost-burnt night,
invoking stones to crush the gnarled root, as fragments of salvation disintegrate into insurmountable self-hate.
Three other poems from that same Phoenix period follow. “Side Dish” emerged from one my evening walks before heading to work as a night shift news editor.
Inaudible Expression
A great sigh emitted,
arising and then dissipating,
but remaining forever unheard,
the echo of a soul reverberating,
in resignation of the inexorable.
The Feast of Life
Swallow the anguish.
Extract the juice
of this bitter fruit,
and expel the residue
upon the already
splattered canvas.
Side Dish
A mundane scene of modern living
played out one evening
while I walked along Ninth Street
near East Grovers Avenue in north Phoenix.
I heard the sound of a sliding glass door
opening from behind a retaining wall
running parallel to the sidewalk.
And although I had
no intention of eavesdropping,
I then overheard a woman call out:
“And now the great vegetable debate, green beans or corn?”
The question evoked a few seconds of silence,
followed by a man’s reply:
“Uh . . . both,” he said.
And as I turned the corner,
heading up the next block,
I was tempted to stop and ask the couple,
“Hey, what else is for dinner?”
The last poem popped into my head while driving eastbound on the New York State Thruway between Syracuse and Rome (sometime between 2006 and 2008).
Departure
Vagabond bones creakin’ down the road,
bound for somewhere in between,
a home-sweet-home dissenter,
relishing the unknown.
I’m currently reading a work of collected nonfiction by the late author Paul Auster. Auster is one of my favorite writers, and his book The Invention of Solitude inspired me to work on my memoir project.
The title of the collected volume is Groundwork: Autobiographical Writings, 1979–2012, and it contains Auster’s memoir Hand to Mouth: A Chronicle of Early Failure (1996). Two great paragraphs illuminate the nature of working writers—writers employed in other professions to pay the bills and provide for their families, all while stealing time to scribble and peck away at personal writing projects (some of which may go unpublished).
The late author Paul Auster.
Auster’s words hit home for me because I’m a working writer who rises at 3:30 a.m. on weekdays to write. He inspired me by pointing out that other artists have blazed a similar path.
Excerpt from the book:
“Becoming a writer is not a “career decision” like becoming a doctor or a policeman. You don’t choose it so much as get chosen, and once you accept the fact that you’re not fit for anything else, you have to be prepared to walk a long, hard road for the rest of your days. Unless you turn out to be a favorite of the gods (and woe to the man who banks on that), your work will never bring in enough to support you, and if you mean to have a roof over your head and not starve to death, you must resign yourself to doing other work to pay the bills. I understood all that, I was prepared for it, I had no complaints. In that respect, I was immensely lucky. I didn’t particularly want anything in the way of material goods, and the prospect of being poor didn’t frighten me. All I wanted was a chance to do the work I felt I had it in me to do.”
Groundwork by Paul Auster.
“Most writers lead double lives. They earn money at legitimate professions and carve out time for their writing as best they can: early in the morning, late at night, weekends, vacations. William Carlos Williams and Louis-Ferdinand Céline were doctors. Wallace Stevens worked for an insurance company. T.S. Eliot was a banker, then a publisher. Among my own acquaintances, the French poet Jacques Dupin is codirector of an art gallery in Paris. William Bronk, the American poet, managed his family’s coal and lumber business in upstate New York for over 40 years. Don DeLillo, Peter Carey, Salman Rushdie, and Elmore Leonard all worked for long stretches in advertising. Other writers teach. … Who can blame them? The salaries may not be big, but the work is steady and the hours good.”
Paul Auster. Groundwork: Autobiographical Writings, 1979–2012. Picador (2020).
Today marks one month since my brain surgery. My recovery is going well, but I’m still not back to full strength.
I’ve been walking in my neighborhood to build up my stamina. I’m still using the cane I received when I was discharged from the hospital, but I hope to ditch it soon.
When I walk, I don’t listen to music or podcasts. For safety reasons, I need to hear cars approaching, and I also keep my ears open for stimulating sounds—birds, wind chimes, children playing, etc.
A lot of times, I get ideas for poems while out on my walks. Often, one line will pop into my head and start me down the path of writing a poem. Recently, I was walking and thinking about the end of August, and this line came to me: It’s always sad when summer ends. I jotted the line down in the small notebook I carry with me. After some work, this is the poem I produced:
Late August
It’s always sad when summer ends.
But avoidance of the inevitable is impossible.
And in this season of life, a little winter must come.
So I tell myself to stop being disgruntled
by summer’s death and autumn’s arrival,
and instead get to work—starting with
descending the cellar steps and bringing up
the long johns, flannel shirts, and heavy wool socks.
It’s not the greatest poem in the world. But I like that I followed the trajectory the poem wanted to take—starting with one line, then others scribbled in my notebook, followed by revisions on the computer.
So I recognize the importance of awareness and paying attention to both external and internal stimuli to use as raw material for poetry (and stories, etc.).
And this reminds me of a line from the Grateful Dead song “Scarlet Begonias” (thank you, Robert Hunter):
Once in a while, you get shown the light
In the strangest of places if you look at it right …
While out for a walk this morning, I saw two deer bounding across a lawn. I also jotted down some lines that came to me, once again realizing the importance of always carrying a small notebook and pen. You never know when inspiration will strike, and my fingers are not deft enough to text the words on my phone.
It’s not the greatest poem in the world, but I’m glad it came out fully formed in the course of a morning.
Image Reconciliation
Take a look
at the photo.
See your face
in the picture.
Don’t hide
from the image.
Think of the
kid you were
so many
years ago.
Now look again.
This is who
you are.
This is who
you were
meant to be
all along—
The person
you see
right here,
right now.
Say hello
to yourself.
Be kind
to the human
before you.
While walking yesterday, I encountered the words of famous writers with connections to Syracuse. The quotes were hung on panels attached to a fence adjacent to Forman Park near downtown Syracuse. The Syracuse Writers Project is a public art project created by the Locus Design Group.
The stunning prose of Joyce Carol Oates, an alumna of Syracuse University, captured my attention, and the excerpt from her 2002 novel I’ll Take You Thereseemed suited for the overcast skies on a warmer-than-normal early January day.
Joyce Carol Oates’ quote, excerpted from I’ll Take You There (2002, Ecco Press).
Joyce Carol Oates’ quote, as part of The Syracuse Writers Project.
Tree and sky. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
Other writers quoted include Twilight Zone creator and Syracuse native Rod Serling; F. Scott Fitzgerald, who resided in Syracuse as a child; the late Syracuse University alums Shirley Jackson and Lou Reed; the late poet, short story writer and creative writing professor Raymond Carver, who taught at SU; and the late writer Toni Morrison, who once lived in Syracuse while working as an editor.
Happy holidays to everyone. This is a short post to mention I have a new short story published in the literary magazine Evening Street Review (issue number 36, Winter 2022). I am excited about the story’s publication because I wrote a very bad draft several years ago, buried the printout in a plastic tote, and years later, unearthed the story like a time capsule and revised it. I thought the narrative had something worth salvaging.
Issue Number 36, Evening Street Review.
And while I understand there are times when a writer must abandon a doomed project, this story’s publication gives me inspiration to revisit other failed prose efforts and restores my faith in the power of revision. I do believe any piece text can be improved with rigorous editing. You can read “Summer of Silence” and other works at Evening Street Review.
I have a very short poem published on the blog Ephemeral Elegies: The Poetry of Emotion. The piece is part of a new full-length collection entitled The Truth I Must Invent.
Here are some remnants from the second draft edit of my work-in-progress memoir.
I’m in the process of moving, and it felt good to purge these pages from my “working” tote. I’m taking a little break from the project in hopes I can go from a “shitty” first draft to a “not so shitty” second draft to a “totally mediocre” third draft—and down the line until I arrive at “somewhere near decent.” I’m afraid that could take me some time. But I will persist.
Francis DiClemente 