Ben Bonkoske

Sometimes, very rarely, my mind is silenced. I have been muddying it up with classical music (along with other contemporary indie-trash) I know will make my writing suffer, but the slow release of a 30-minute orgasm, writing alone in my basement to Vivaldi is worth the corruption. The rest of the time it is just second-guessing all the mistakes I make. Walking away. If only today. And yet, I make the decision to be an artist. Just you wait. Even I know it is a mistake I am willing to make. One more failure for my future. Money only makes me happy from behind the curtain. The most I ever held was somewhere around 8,000 dollars for a murder I committed, and for some reason, even as an artist, I doubt that is impossible to recreate. The intensity of my consciousness reacts fleetingly. It pulses like blood that only when I let a little run out of my veins do I decompress from my balloon-like state that is sure to explode if I know nothing, which I know very well. Nothing is ever still. There are no facts to life. It is constantly changing. Even now, as I sit in my little hole below the ground, I hear the water trickle down the pipes from my cold shower I just lied about. Tonight we got a very embarrassing glimpse at what our country is headed for, but before I attend to the very serious circus, I must confess how my heart still beats. It is like a chord. I can not determine who I will see in my dreams, so therefore I do not know what it desires (here I am, pleading). Consciously or subconsciously, I can only answer its questions like an unprepared cherub in kindergarten, unable to read, but willing to learn, so that someday he may even confess his own truths the length of a book. My goal is 100 (I did 100 pushups and situps today, but what I mean is books to finish writing) before I die, but if I really get lucky enough to have ONE sell, then i’d bet I could do more (but at this rate, at this hour, i’m focusing too much on articles instead of novels) before I develop Alzheimer’s from all the mountain-dew I drank in college. I only wish to let my heartburn cry each and every night until I arise alone and then die. I have no need for lust in my lazy eye, I’d rather be blind. Sometimes I laugh so hard, I don’t need to remember who I am, or why. I should be happier for all that God has given me, taken away, and given in a whole brand new way. It is cleansing. I smell. It doesn’t make any sense, and yet, at the same time, I’m becoming more consistent. What am I saying…It’s been three days…a new record. I still whine over the love I had, and the one I will never understand. Music makes us so damn human. I listened to everything a band wrote because it made me think of you (the vague “she” in all great poetry books) growing up. I look forward to the most stupid things in this outrageous under-stimulating daily life. I write about how unfair it is to judge my progress since it is in a vacuum. What will happen when we return to our daily dying.
Biden was bullied. Trump is ugly. America the great. You’ve got to be joking.