This is the other side of the work.
Less instruction. More observation.

Here you’ll find:

• essays

• poems

• fiction

But that isn’t why I keep returning to it.

I write about work to stay close to the place where most of our lives unfold; not in moments of escape or purity, but in the long, repetitive hours where we endure absurd systems, negotiate power quietly, and still manage moments of humor, care, and dignity.

The first poem that ever made me think “write about work” was Philip Levine’s “What Work Is.” I didn’t read it as a political poem or a labor poem so much as a poem about pressure. It is a poem about waiting, refusal, endurance, and the ways work shapes how love is felt but not spoken. What stayed with me wasn’t the factory or the line in the rain, but the recognition that arrives too late to fix anything and yet, still somehow matters. Levine showed me that work isn’t a topic you approach from a distance. It’s a condition that quietly forms language, masculinity, and moral awareness. That poem taught me that attention under constraint is where real poems are made, and I’ve been trying to stay inside that attention ever since.

Work interests me because of how thoroughly it organizes our lives while insisting on its own neutrality. We are told it is just how things are done, just process, just expectations, just the market. Over time, those “justs” accumulate. They shape how we speak, what we notice, and what we learn to ignore.

I don’t write about work to expose its villains or celebrate its virtues. I write about it because it produces a particular pressure on voice. Work asks us to perform competence, enthusiasm, alignment. It trains us to compress experience into acceptable language and to smooth over doubt before it has time to speak.

That procedural, ambient, and ongoing pressure is difficult to represent, which is precisely why it’s worth attending to. Poetry, at its best, resists the urge to clarify too quickly. It allows difficulty to remain difficulty. Writing about work has taught me both how fragile that resistance can be and how necessary it is.

I keep writing about work because it is where people practice endurance without recognition, where humor becomes a survival skill, and where dignity is rarely announced but constantly exercised. Most of us don’t step outside our working lives to become fully ourselves. Rather, we become ourselves inside them. We live our waking hours in meetings, commutes, emails, waiting rooms, and long afternoons that ask far more of us than they return. Some of us like what we become, many of us don’t. If poetry can’t stay awake there, inside those ordinary pressures, then I’m not sure what it’s for. Work is where we spend our clearest, most coherent hours. That’s reason enough to keep paying attention.

Capitalism is

capture, colonialism, and kingdom

corruption, K-shaped economies, and calorie exchange

constitutional, competition, capital gains

contract law, corporate boards, and rising copays

congress, courts, a conflict ready executive

creosote cancer and petrochem processing

coastal erosion through quantified calculus

and

Cul-de-sac castles full of pre-K wobblers

college rankings traded like currency

credits and debits in neat spreadsheet columns

the common vernacular, the calling of the climb—CLIMB—

the constancy of crawling over

containers of rhetoric conditional

on our continued compliance we now call

CONSENSUS

and

Christ—there is a lot of Christ—but not

the one you are thinking of

(compassion-for-the-crapped-on Christ)

this is combat Christ

weaponized Christ

constant-apocalypse-Christ

co-opted-king-Christ with tech-bro-cronies

he’s ICE Christ baby

Capitalized and put back into Christmas

reclined in a manger at City Hall

where we wait in a line that stretches around the block,

with offerings

so many offerings.

As writers and creators, I believe we have a deep and natural commitment to personal liberties and to the broader scope of human rights. Pair that commitment with strong empathy muscles, and we have a personality type that can feel pummeled when personal liberties and human rights are violated with the specific cruelty and cynicism that seems so prevalent today.

I certainly have.

Hence the budget, the long-term rental research, the visa-requirements digging, the “how do I talk to my wife about this plan” scheming, and the Google searches on how to move a piano overseas, and then…I paused.

Is this the best response to the current situation?

Is this the best way for me to help make things better?

Will my writing suffer?

Am I a coward for wanting to leave?

Am I an idiot for wanting to stay?

But the question that stopped me dead in my tracks was clearer and much harder to answer than simple logistics.

What kind of response is withdrawal, really?

Not politically, or ideologically, but practically, and in my case, poetically. I tend to reach for distance when pressure increases. Maybe you do too. I can’t tell you how many schemes I have come up with over the years to leave my job and find a little cabin in a “name-your-bucolic-setting.” My wife can, because she has had to listen to them all in excruciating detail and urgency. It became almost a habit of thought for me to believe that clarity lives elsewhere, and that my attention would improve once I stepped outside the noise, conflict, and compromises of the day-to-day.

Withdrawal offers real things. Distance can steady anxiety. It can restore literary attention, enliven imagination, and give language room to breathe. Stepping away, whether into the woods, another country, or simply a quieter life, can feel like an act of care for oneself and one’s work. There are moments when retreat is not indulgent but necessary, when staying put would mean only numbing out or repeating murmurs of “to hell with this.”

I don’t want to dismiss that. I’ve relied on it myself, and I know how seductive the promise can be to have fewer collisions, fewer compromises, fewer voices arguing back. Retreat has a long and honorable history in literary life, but as a habit, almost a reflex when the world becomes too loud or too cruel? Oh, how we imagine that our work will be better if we just remove ourselves from all that. But even Thoreau needed help with the groceries out at the pond.

Over time, I’ve noticed what withdrawal removes. Distance thins the field of real contact. It simplifies the world in ways that feel clarifying but are also limiting. When the pressure eases, so does the resistance that forces language to sharpen, to hesitate, to revise itself in public. Without friction, our work risks knowing too quickly what it thinks. It becomes cleaner, surer, less interrupted, and often less surprised. What retreat gives in clarity, it can quietly take away in consequence. The poem, the essay, the story no longer must negotiate much of anything.

Staying put, then, begins to feel less like passivity and more like a choice to remain in contact when disappearance feels tempting. I don’t mean staying put as stubbornness or denial, and certainly not as moral superiority. I mean staying inside the language, the systems, and the shared pressures of the moment long enough for the work to be tested by them. Staying put means accepting that clarity will be partial, that attention will be interrupted, and that writing will have to negotiate rather than pronounce. It is not a refusal of care. It is a refusal of vanishing—of self-erasure.

I don’t know if staying is always braver than leaving. There are moments when withdrawal is necessary, even lifesaving. But for me, right now, staying put keeps the work honest. It keeps me in contact with other people, with compromised language, with the resistance that comes from not disappearing.

I’m not staying because I’m certain it will make things better. But, I have never believed that I am writing poetry to make the world better. I am writing poetry to create a real and true experience in the reader, and in that small way, maybe change begins. And to create that experience, I need to live within the pressure. The alternative feels too much like abandonment. For now, staying is how I remain answerable to the work, to the moment, and to the possibility that attention itself still matters.

Texas in the early evening—no—

dusk—it’s dusk—yes—

and the sun is setting red—no—

burning—it’s burning

into the prairie—there—

that’s what is in the west

and at the edge of just-coming-into-view

is a silhouette—no—

the shadow of a man on a horse—no—

a lone rider—yes—head down

pulled by the weight of a long journey

wanting to lie down and rest—and oh—

maybe dream a little—beep-beep—

the coffee maker is finished

the rider vanishes

the prairie—it’s just my yard

the sun—it’s just the sun

I never see his face, never see

a completed image because—

BIZZZ-BIZZZ—

get to the car, the office, the desk, the login,

I am on company time, my attention traded

away for a fair wage and a 401k,

task, and another, and another until the end

when I get to go home worn out—no—

exhausted—how about spent?—resigned?

give me a second—poof—

it’s coming to me—

poof-poof

This poem first appeared in “The Phoenix Literary Journal” Issue 65

I was on the flight home from Taiwan. I just wanted a cheeseburger,

and to see my wife, and maybe one of the kids. I was looking

out the window longingly and that caught the attention of my

seatmate who said, “Only a few more hours to go,” which was nice.

But, then again, that’s when I noticed that my seatmate was actually

an octopus. Come to think of it, now that I was paying attention, everyone

on the plane, but me, was an octopus. “You’re an octopus,” I said.

“We all are,” he answered, “it’s easier this way to get where we

are going.” “You fly across the ocean?” I asked. He nodded,

“If the fares are good.” He reached a tentacle toward me, “Blurt,”

he offered, “Andy,” I answered grasping a suction cup. “What

brought you to Taiwan?” Blurt asked. “My company sent me over

here to find cheaper nuts and bolts than we have in the states. What

do you do?” I asked. “Well, my mother wanted me to be a doctor,

but you know, octopus, so I mostly just hang around, crush crustaceans,

and enjoy life on the reef.” Just then, the plane hit some turbulence

and started shaking violently, and I hoped that the nuts and bolts

holding it together were not the cheapest ones in the whole world.

The plane jerked up and down, then started rolling side-to-side. I

grabbed my armrests, clenched my face, and tried to breathe. I could

see the heads of octopus sloshing around in the turbulent cabin like

Jell-O plopped out of the mold. Then, just as suddenly as it began,

it stopped. I looked over at Blurt, who was calmly leafing through the

inflight magazine. “That doesn’t bother you?” I asked. “What’s the

worst thing that could happen?’ Blurt answered without looking up.

“Well, for one thing, we could plunge thousands of feet into the ocean.”

He looked over at me and raised his tentacles in a shrug, “I’m an octopus,

we all are. We’re pretty good swimmers, I am told, and we have, what,

maybe five good years in us at the most anyway?” “That makes

sense.” I said. “The whales hate flying too,” Blurt offered, “that’s why

they take the train whenever they can.” I nodded and turned back toward the

window. I was still trying to catch my breath when the realization hit me

that I don’t really care how much nuts and bolts cost. Maybe I should tell

my wife that I am wasting my life and see what happens. Maybe she

would be ok with it, and we could move to some beach town in Florida

and paint shells for tourists. But life gets this momentum to it, and you can’t

get out of it once it gets rolling, any more than you could jump out of a plane

flying over the ocean. How many years are we going to do this? I search

the barren sky over the black Pacific.

“What are you hoping to see out there?” Blurt asked.

“I don’t know, starfish floating past the window would be nice.”

“Well now,” Blurt said, turning a page, “that’s just crazy.”

This poem first appeared in “The Phoenix Literary Journal” Issue 65

I.

a pick pocket bumps into me on the bus,

lifts my wallet and looks inside,

sees nothing but darkness,

“you’re a cliché,” he says,

“you’re a thief,” I say,

“what’s the difference?” he asks,

then hands me my wallet back.

II.

three bad guys approach me in an alley,

they pull out knives,

“give us all your money, or you’re dead.”

I crouch into a fighting stance,

“oh yeah,” I say, “I could break

your hearts in ten syllables.”

“easy there buddy,

let’s holster that hyperbole

before somebody gets hurt.”

III.

a man pokes a gun into my back,

“this is a stick up,” he mutters.

“no, no, no, that’s all wrong,

you don’t need to say anything,

the gesture is doing all the work,”

he leans into me, presses

the barrel harder, whispers,

“better?”

This poem first appeared in “I-70 Review” 2024 edition

I wish that I had a bigger company. The company I have

is just so small and (some might say) underdeveloped.

Yesterday Titus invited me downtown for lunch

“Come meet me, and we’ll do some big business,” he said.

Titus has an enormous company, and he shows it. He carries

that company around on his thrown-back shoulders

grinning from ear-to-ear flashing his big company in

everyone’s face when they walk by. And I say why not?

I would wave my big company around too if I had a big

company, but I have a small company, and everyone knows it.

When I walk into the big-shot-steakhouse the maître de

makes me wait and mispronounces my name. He seats me

facing the bathroom doors, and I don’t ask him why,

but when Titus comes in—late as usual—TWO waiters greet him

at the door and escort him to our table. One of them fills his

water glass with so much water, that there is none left for

my water glass—not one drop—what did I expect?

The other waiter spreads—TWO—white linen napkins

across Titus’ big company lap, and then asks him if he is

having his usual ginormous company lunch of oysters, lobsters,

medium rare filet mignon, and an oozing souffle for dessert,

and of course, he is, then, he flicks out his big company credit

card that is twice the size of anyone else’s in the whole place

“This one’s on me,” he says, then slaps me on the back with his

big corporate paws, and for a moment I feel so grateful to Titus

it was so nice of him to ask me here and pay for lunch.

“Yes sir, Mr. Titus, right away Mr. Titus, we’ll take good care

of your little business friend” and then Titus gives me a look

that says “think nothing of it, what are friends for?”

but when the waiter brings me a small salad with a single-shrimp

I remember who I am again, and although Titus is being

polite, he knows, the waiters know, and everyone in the restaurant

knows that I will never be able to have the same thing Titus has,

I don’t know what I am thinking sometimes.

This poem first appeared in “Laurel Review” Issue 57.1.

An osprey is gliding above the bayou scanning

for mullets who congregate just below

the surface where they discuss important fish matters

like where to swim or who is taking whom

to fish-prom—with a total disregard for

the growing shadow above them

that pierces the water and plucks

(let’s call him) Sam out from the school

and into the great-osprey-beyond, and the bird is

just being a bird—his rights are

protected too—but those other fish, those

remaining mullets do nothing. They don’t

go hide under a rock or move

as group under a fallen limb,

they don’t form a search party, or even

send thoughts and prayers.

They just fill in the spot

where Sam swam and continue

their fish-chatter, as if he was never there

at all, as if the world had plenty

of mullets for osprey to hunt,

as if there were plenty of Sams to go around.

This poem first appeared in “Taking Liberties: 20th Anniversary Cutthroat, a Journal of Arts”

A black bear is rummaging through garbage

ten feet from an open window in the rental cabin.

I believe the bear is female like the ones I saw in films

during fourth period biology about the black bears

of Smoky Mountain National Park in washed out

color images—friendly bears accepting scraps of KFC

from motorists touring the park, escaping their own

daily confines, gray sedans with cracked-open windows,

black bears lapping through the gap with sticky tongues,

dads clicking off polaroid images, nervous moms forcing

smiles next to the bear in frame—waving away the boy

in the backseat poking at the animal click, quick, hurry

before she bites.

My parents took me to the Smokies in their Triumph Spitfire.

Still an infant, wedged between them in an empty baby-bath,

dad swerved through bear-infested roads while mom flung poultry

parts at the omnivores—a fragment of memory I scrounged

together through years of sniffing through what-we-don’t-want-

to-remember—look at her out there—a beast-barely-sated

on bits of lemon-pepper-chicken and the last warm drops

of a sensible Chardonnay. I watch her through the night,

carrying what is left to be picked into the darkness beyond

the road named something-I-won’t-remember.

This poem first appeared in “The Phoenix Literary Journal” Issue 65

Along the service road, along the interstate, past the Dairy Queen, but before the barbecue joint, three men stand propped on wooden crosses. They are dressed in interpretative garb fashioned by their wives from scraps of fabric found in the bargain bin.

Earl had been waiting all year for his starring role, and as he gazed out at the line of traffic slowing on the highway to gawk at his Halloween-blood-soaked-tunic and his plastic crown of thorns, he felt a deep kinship and love for his community he had never before experienced. A volunteer fireman and construction worker, he had helped these folks in moments of deep distress and had also built homes for them. Some of them had gathered on hay bales scattered around the church parking lot to take in the scene, their distance from the three men enforced by boys from the JV football team dressed in Roman Centurion garb and brandishing Styrofoam swords.

Five thousand miles away, Darya Kozyreva has been led away from the Russian courtroom where she has just been convicted of “discrediting” the Russian army by gluing an anti-war quotation on a statue of the Ukrainian poet Taras Shevchenko that stands in St. Petersburg. The quotation was as follows: “Oh bury me, then rise ye up/And break your heavy chains/And water with the tyrant’s blood/the freedom you have gained.”

Earl is not considering Ukraine. He doesn’t even know that much about it. His attention is being diverted from his agape moment by the smell of smoked brisket and pork ribs wafting down the hill and embracing the mock-Golgotha crowd in a temptation veiled in mesquite wood smoke. At this point, the gawkers begin to trickle out and make their way up the hill to acquire their carnivorous treat. Earl’s stomach begins to growl in a Pavlovian response to the aroma.

Darya Kozyreva is 19 years old, pale, and thin, with bags under her eyes that make her appear both older than she is and frightened. When she is led from the courtroom she will be taken to a prison in an undisclosed location to serve her three-year sentence, where the last of her youth will be given up for a protest she cared deeply about.

Earl calls out to his wife and asks her if she can bring him a chopped beef sandwich. His gut is screaming at him for something to eat, as in his excitement for his role in the history of Christian martyrdom, he had forgotten to eat lunch. She refuses to help him. She tells him that it would ruin the effect if he were up on that cross eating a sandwich. It is then that he realizes that he is only 30 minutes into his 3-hour shift as the crucified Lord. He is then overcome with doubt about his ability to still the growing pain in his stomach and see this through.

Darya will receive one meal a day that she must force herself to eat. Despite its intentional inedibility, she must eat to survive.

Earl wants to climb down from his misery and wants to eat with the rest of the folks chomping through their brisket sandwiches and pork ribs while looking at him from their haybale seats. But the script calls for him to be lowered by the JV soldiers after his fake death that is still hours away. He shifts on his feet. A bead of sweat forms on his brow. The pain in his stomach has enveloped his entire mid-section.

“The things I do for you people.” He mutters.

No one hears him.

The copy machine is broken so we have

called in a man to come and fix

it—urgently—because without it we

can’t duplicate

anything—not a contract,

receipt of purchase, or

even a simple idea

we can’t even fax or scan without

it—which means we and our

thoughts are completely

confined to this little office and its open

floorplan with no way

of communicating in a documented way

with the outside world.

Yes, we could call—but who can trust

word of mouth agreements

anymore? and yes, we could

email but where does one

sign the dotted line

in an email that binds

us and is immune

to deletion?

This brokenness is holding

us—we are losing light,

the room smells stale, and it is getting hard

to breathe. All we can do now

is move to the windows and stare

out like so many fish without air—knowing

that the belly-up float is coming

soon—until the man comes and asks us if

one of us “inadvertently” might

have kicked the machine before

it broke and started

printing page after page of

fix me please fix me please fix

me please fix me.

This poem first appeared in Ellipsis…Literature and Art Volume 60, 2024