Misreadings of Hamlet are preferable to an oral history in which a mother is proud of her sons for fighting in Iraq, fighting to avenge the attacks of 9/11. I get angry at & on behalf of ignorance. Mother has nightmares about her sons. I've had nightmares about my brother. My brother, in one dream, returns from Iraq only to be stabbed in a poolhall in Ohio. His attacker later appears at a family picnic. I look at my dad and other brother. I know what I have to do. I wander the streets of Cleveland {I've never been} looking for the attacker, another Marine. Over the phone I half hear {from who?} that my brother has died or he's walked out of the hospital before his time. Either way before-his-time. I look & look. Down alleys. Through cold cross winds. All the buildings shuttered. Another brother shows up -- like he's always been there -- then he goes. I fade out; it's an off-white, pale scene.

My work is a bubble burst long ago.
My work doesn't.
My work begins at 7:30 but I arrive between half six and seven.
My work es mi trabajo.
My work es mis obras maestras.
My work coughs and sputters like the malfuctioning automaton in all those sci-fi shows I watched evenings and weekends as a kid.
My work is a body. The body is over seven feet tall. This allows me extra space to work on the body. I'm a klutz.
My work is plagiarized but new.
My work never ends but deadens.
My work is here. I am home now.
My work knows where you live. Read that as a threat but know in your heart-of-hearts that we'd prefer a heartfelt letter or heartrending email. Anything but silence.
My work knows the rest is silence.
My work keeps me up nights.
My work pays. My work spends. My work is in debt.
My work likes your work and would like to get together for drinks.
My work would prefer to drink on the job.