Poet Without a Pen
Ben Bonkoske
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Hey is for horses
Heart breaking news, I’m ready to die. If I was to, or when I do go through with it, I realized I could get everything I needed to get done in three weeks. 21 days to say goodbye to this world. That’s all. And no, I wouldn’t call.
I think there is something fucking beautifully hilarious about a young man writing about killing himself on his blog in this day and age. It’s so common, and yet so crucial to the lifeline of this American life. Not to mention, one google search from the schools I am giving my resume to and they can only discover – what is it called – the tortured poet academy? Or some bullshit that just makes men so worthless and women’s sex appeal the only valued thing in society – how dangerously intelligent I am.
And the sad part is, I’m so happy. I’m so fucking happy.
And I just want to die.
I had a zoom meeting with my psychiatrist today and he asked me how my “SI” was going…My “SI”? Oh my Suicidal Ideation? Oh, we’re abbreviating that now? Lol, we’re all so screwed. I told him the crap I tell myself. But, I told him that the main point of these pharmaceutical are just to prolong my life – not necessarily save it. I just hope I hope I do want to get a few more years.
Yeah, I substitute taught today, and it is always great. Kids are so great man.
Here’s my funny story I could go tell at an open mic:
It was the eclipse. And apart from the fact that I was trying to speedrun eclipse by SM, which I didn’t accomplish so now I have to wait ya know, 20 years until my life with have a proper chiropractic adjustment with the moon or whatever. But it was the eclipse, and I’ve seen one in full visibility and it was in the top 10 greatest experiences of my life. So when I heard the eclipse was coming to town, and I was subbing I was conflicted.
And we were not supposed to take the kids out to see the sun and moon make love in the sky. But, Mr. Bon, being the anarchist and future astronaut he is, decided he would sneak 7th period World Studies outside to observe the astronomical phenomenon.
And we instantly got busted existing door 7 by the deans and other teachers.
“Everybody go back inside!” I called like the pretend professional I am. But the worst part was this. Nobody had glasses…..So it was kinda unprepared. But lo and behold, me, still just wanting kids to see the universe, borrowed some from the security and other staff in the hall and sent a few students one by one to observe, and I heard, “It’s actually really cool.” And my career was worth it, so I say.
It’ll all work out, and apart from some gossip, nobody mentioned it when I substitute taught again today. The planet continues to spin with me, not at the center of the universe.
But that’s why I’m all butt hurt and dead inside. I just can’t live with myself when I just don’t feel like I have anything to write that actually will change the world. I am the same as every shmo who writes his little words on his little pretend platform without moving anyone.
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
I won the battle but I lost the war. And I always thought it was so spectacular that I started writing at 15 – how ahead of everyone I was. But at 27, everything I ever wrote ought to be burned, along with me in hell.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
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Stop and Go
Although I have nothing to say, I must have something to write.
To begin with the mundane – I got a new fridge in my apartment a few months back. It is much louder than the older one. So much so that I just walked across the unit to get a very, very old pair of earplugs. They are orange ones. And have probably have been being used since Covid – with a nice dark brown and blue rim of earwax around the tip. It is due time for a new pair.
It is due time for a new pair of shoes as well. I have had the same running shoes with a hole in them since Covid (2020) as well, and although I have a very effective pair of minimalist shoes – I suspect they smell more than I am aware- being that I only go barefoot in them. Either that, or today the girl sitting next to me was covering her nose with her shirt because a subtle grime has clung to my skin from spring cleaning yesterday. I blew off the opera to clean (story of my life) and I was up until 3 (the current story…).
But I have a clean apartment, a quiet mind, and a pair of shoes I have walked a few miles in.
The first thing as it relates, is that I think I have been lied to by myself that I am in need of a more expensive lifestyle. Good writers, the ones who really, really write, often did so with baked beans (Cormac McCarthy), and a 4 dollar telephone bill (Don Delillo). And here I am, lying to myself that what I really need to be happier or more profound is a new fridge, an outrageously costing vitamin regimen, and new shoes.
Always the case, that you realize everything to late – and then you get a great opportunity to make a choice. But I took this year to write. Kinda. I said I would substitute so that my mental health would be in a good place and I’d be prepared for the coming year. And it is all true. But, what I didn’t do was what I love.
Buisness as usual against the heart.
And I’m to blame today. I’m not sad, or feeling pathetic or anything. It is just a itty bitty resentment at myself that I could’ve done something much more literary this year.
I think all this amounts to is an old notion that “I’m always living my life for someone else.”
But isn’t that a good thing? To help children and make your dad proud? I was told it is. And there is no such thing as lying. Especially by the same value-based system that tells me I can buy my way to happiness.
It’s all dangerous, and I kinda know the right answer for me, but like, I’m not always right.
Ben Bonkoske is the author of two novels, Spoon in the Road, and Carolina, Colorado, California. He is also the author of two collections of short stories, Ten Zen by Ben, and Eleven Stories for 11:11. He lives in Chicago, where he likes to take walks.
B. A, M.A.T.
Ben Bonkoske 