The Paper Hound

by: ryan di francesco published: 07/11/2025

I was at the Vancouver airport when I got the worst rejection letter of my life.

It wasn’t like any rejection letter before.

Most rejection letters are templates.

They typically read:

Thank you for sending us your work.

etcetera.

We appreciate the opportunity to read it.

etcetera.

Unfortunately, it’s not the right fit for us.

I read them and think they didn’t get it,

but someone will.

And move on.

But this one was different.

It felt like the editor tried to blow a hole through my chest with a shotgun.

Like someone lined me up and said now.

Then, got ‘em.

But he missed.

He missed that Monday morning.

I had a great weekend.

Actually—

an amazing one.

I was visiting friends out west.

Beautiful people.

Intelligent people.

I arrived Friday.

They live downtown on Richards Street in a high-rise condo,

stretching way up near the edge of the lowdown clouds,

at the tips of the North Shore Mountains

with floor-to-ceiling windows

where I stared at the streets below

and at all the shit of 21st-century pigeons

on the rooftops of the city.

I spent Saturday evening there.

Flipped through an amazing record collection.

Listened to Slint and Big Pun

on a system I could never afford.

They even gave me two records:

a sealed 2001 4-LP, US press of All Eyez on Me,

and the 20th anniversary double LP of Sung Tongs—

Canary Yellow and Ruby Red.

Saw them at Beat Street—

thought of me.

Very kind of them—

they didn’t have to do that.

I even ate meat that night. Well-raised meat from an ethical farm in Qualicum.

I don’t eat meat. Mostly a vegetarian. Sometimes pescatarian. But I had the chicken and ribs.

Felt guilty.

Deeply terrible.

I hate eating animals.

Kept telling myself it was a blue-moon treat.

Like that would help.

But my friend is a master of the culinary arts,

knows ingredients, all the possibilities,

and puts so much thought and care into preparing the meal—

from the sauces to the seasoning to the slow cooking—

it feels wrong not to indulge.

And cheat.

So we ate. Talked. Ran across topics,

filling the ceiling with chatter.

Like how those ribs tasted like Beijing duck.

Like how I want to go full vegetarian.

Ian Curtis Wishlist.

The Oilers.

Praia do Norte. Portugal.

Revolver in Gastown.

They had a few drinks while we played catch with sentences.

I didn’t. I’m five years sober.

And then the night ended.

I left their place and walked around the city streets,

saw bodies sprawled across miserable sidewalks,

huddled around milk crates and curbs.

I went up and over hills, past palm trees and bars,

past dim light through dirty glass,

past empty shop windows,

heard the shuffle of feet along concrete,

tires gripping the street,

skin brushing across skin—

until I made my way back to the hotel,

to my neatly made bed,

like none of it existed out there—

the hostility of the outdoors.

I turned on the TV, flipped through the channels, and landed on Talladega Nights:

“If you ain’t first, you’re last.”

I took a sleeping pill, pulled the clean sheets over me, and was out.

I had all of Sunday to myself.

And the sun was shining.

I walked to Gastown and spent over an hour in The Paper Hound. But that was after I had to use the public washroom at Victoria Square because my stomach got all tangled up from all that meat I ate the night before.

I was hesitant to use the public washroom in downtown Vancouver because it was a public washroom in downtown Vancouver—thought I’d hop in an Uber and go back to my hotel.

But I had no choice.

I walked down the concrete steps to the door.

I didn’t know what was going to be waiting behind it.

I was greeted by a friendly attendant who worked there.

He kept it surprisingly clean and well-maintained.

The guy was proud of his work—

tough and proud of his work.

Mopping the floor, scrubbing the toilets, wiping the sinks and mirrors.

It was good to see—

a little pride.

I crashed into a clean stall.

And it all ran out of me as

I read words carved into the door—

more honest than most poems being published today.

The most memorable line was …

Never stop pooping.

It was scratched beside …

We live here.

I wiped and walked over to The Paper Hound.

And I didn’t want to leave.

I bought O’Hara’s Lunch Poems,

Bolano’s The Spirit of Science Fiction,

Calvino’s Into the War,

Carver’s A New Path to the Waterfall,

and an original 1994 Black Sparrow Press copy

of David Meltzer’s Arrows.

There isn’t a better press than John Martin’s Black Sparrow Press.

I hate those cheap Ecco copies of today.

But I can’t blame that old monk Martin for selling the catalogue.

I see him now, at ninety-four, silently waiting to burn away in the LA hills.

I talked to the owner for a while.

Admired his poetry collection.

Rattled on about the flow of the literary river.

The nonsense of prestige.

Absolute beauty.

Complained about today’s sanitized ache.

Told him about Shadow and Sax.

And the first print edition this summer.

Then I finally left.

Walked around Granville Street and Robson.

Picked up a few gifts for her.

Had sushi at this little restaurant on Davie Street.

I ate a lot of salmon out of the Pacific Ocean.

Eight pieces of sashimi.

Eighteen spicy salmon rolls.

I ate.

And didn’t care.

I paid my bill and went down to English Bay and watched sweaty people

as they moved swiftly like reality and crawled,

breathed and ran along,

spoke and spit

shadows across asphalt,

one short step to the next—

for those who can and can’t take it anymore—

half-grinning, eating cornballs like these lines.

The big thrill was

a little old lady

chasing after her tiny dog,

screaming:

“STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!”

A man pulled off the path from his run to help. He stood in front of Stupid with his scraggly arms out, rubbery legs spread in spandex.

Stupid went left, dodging him,

then stopped,

cranking his head at the old lady.

Breathless, she caught up to Stupid and put him back on his leash.

Then Stupid and the old lady walked away across the field and were up and over the hill and gone.

And I went back to the hotel.

It was a simple day.

I know I’m fortunate when I live a simple day,

a good day—

much better than those other days in this broken world.

I left the next morning for the Vancouver airport to fly back to Toronto.

I wanted to get back home to her and our dog.

And our asshole cat.

I was excited. I couldn’t wait. I missed them so much.

But it was while I was thinking of all of them at the airport,

I got the worst rejection letter of my life.

And like I said, it started just like they all do:

Thank you bullshit—

followed by but bullshit.

But this time, the editor left a note.

After carefully reading your poems, I recommend the following books:

Ted Kooser’s The Poetry Home Repair Manual.

Jack Grapes’ Method Writing.

Gregory Orr’s A Primer for Poets.

After I read that note, I got up, went straight to the bathroom, and took a piss.

I positioned my feet

to avoid the puddle

of piss

in front of the urinal.

And then I pissed.

I pissed and imagined

I was pissing on those books—

the holy trinity of MFA mediocrity.

And I didn’t even wash my hands.

I sat back down.

Thought about it.

Waited.

The plane was delayed.

And I waited. Thought.

It eventually arrived.

And I boarded—

still thinking about that rejection letter,

still thinking about …

Kooser,

Grapes,

and Orr.

Kooser, Grapes and—

we were off.

Some people had their eyes closed

or were staring at the floor.

Others had eyes drained by time.

There was a little girl in the row ahead of me.

She was doing math with her mom

and I peeked at the book she was working in and

it had illustrations of caterpillars, ladybugs and snails

with encouraging messages like keep going

and you are capable.

My eyes shifted over to a pregnant lady at an aisle seat,

holding her stomach, roses tattooed on her neck,

pale pink like the mouths of cats.

And behind her was a young toddler

sleeping on his dad’s lap—

his dad’s hair plastered to his face.

The girl next to me, sitting at the window seat,

was eating hard candies and watching Love Island.

She didn’t notice a single mountain pass by.

I pulled out one of my books

and read the whole flight.

I read until I was fastening my seatbelt

and the plane was landing in Toronto.

It was an honest book.

Offbeat.

It helped me get to here.