complexity

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my desk is in pieces
unassembled
on the floor
it’s an electric one
that goes up and down
so you can sometimes
work while you’re standing
I didn’t think it would be
so complicated — so hard
to put together…
in the picture, the thing
looked real simple
I guess most things
are more straightforward
in the picture…
there’s complexity
to everything
even the jobs
you think would be basic — 
they require so much more work
than you could ever imagine…
no one is what they seem
no place is as it presents itself at first
no matter how smart
and insightful you think you are,
you cannot break through
to the inner core of a thing
just by looking at it
just by throwing words at it
you are the inventor
of countless elegant stories,
narratives for why you
are the deepest and most profound
receptacle for conscious experience,
well, for just about anything…
but, my friend,
you are wrong…
I am wrong…
we are all always wrong

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Garbage Notes:

I wrote this poem about a year ago. I had just moved to a new apartment and was putting together various pieces of furniture.

I had this desk—a stand-up thing that moved up and down, you know. And the picture on the box looked so basic. I figured, how hard could this thing be to put together? Seemed like there was nothing to it.

The box was heavy, though, which should have given me a clue—heavier than you’d think for a little sliding desk. Anyway, it wasn’t impossible, but it was pretty complicated. It required some time. Required some tools too. It had complexity to it.

Around that same time I was kind of in a transition period, and I had accepted a job that I thought would be a cakewalk. Like, you know, mindless—easy.

I assumed it would be the kind of work I could do in my sleep. Damn, was I wrong.

Sometimes the jobs we think would be the easiest, have entirely unimaginable levels upon levels of bullshit complexity to navigate. The kind of stuff you couldn’t even fathom as an outsider looking in. I remember the boss—the guy who ran the department—asked me after like a week on the job, “not as easy as it looks, huh?”

I remember just politely nodding, because I didn’t want to be like, well, yeah, I thought this shit would be easy. But I also didn’t want to seem like I wasn’t up for the challenge.

Anyway, I wasn’t. Because it was hard in a way that was stupid and completely unnecessary. I’m talking antiquated ways of doing things, and rules that made everyone’s life harder for no reason. A lot of jobs are like that. I know that now.

It’s a sad but true thing, that the amount of work you do isn’t directly related to the compensation you receive. And from my own experience, I’ve found there’s sometimes even an inverse relationship, such that the people at the bottom working the hardest tend to be the most poorly paid and least respected. It’s awful and absurd. And sometimes plain cruel and wrong.

I wish our society was more balanced and gave the people who work the hardest—or who put the most heart into what they do—the rewards they deserve.

So, yeah, that’s what this poem is about. How everything is more complicated than you think it’s gonna be. There are no easy jobs. Even the ones that look easy to the outsider, are punishing in ways you can’t really see. Not unless you’re in it.

The line I like the most is this: “You cannot break through to the inner core of a thing just by looking at it.” This is true about people. It’s true about furniture. It’s true about nature. And, sadly, it’s true about institutions as well.

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Franco Amati 2025

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