Ben Bonkoske

Poet Without a Pen

Ben Bonkoske

  • 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!’

  • Typewriter Tuesday 4/16/24

  • Monday Night Poetry 4/15/24

  • 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.

  • Thursday? This way!

    I recall once hearing a drummer say that two weeks without practicing made him rusty. I tried to bless myself with a little typewriter typing, but it became evident that I lacked the cohesive composure to type tightly after two days without public writing. Plus, they were smoking and playing dominos on the train tonight.

    It’s been said to marry – because if you marry a good woman you will be happy, and if you chose poorly, you will become a philosopher. My oh my. How I would gather all this nonsense information to dissect like a live frog in front of everyone every week. I think the worst thing about me is that I expect people to treat me differently than I treat them, and then I blame them for however they treat me. I don’t always blame them, but I disregard them, for sure. I’d die if my ex wrote about me.

    Part I:

    I take my writing too seriously and it makes me super butt hurt when I read everyone I find IRL. Maybe I don’t give them enough credit, or time to digest their vomited words. But it is a let down. However, I’m happy in my corner – literally writing this in a gloried closet I’ve turned into my “office” alike Ocean Voung whom I have mutual hate with. But ya know, Stephen, and Ray, and Cormac, Penisbrain, and Whitebeard all wrote by themselves. But I’m unsure if they got a whole lot better – they just wrote more. I’d hope to get better. And I guess I have the next years.

    “Practice” makes perfect. But so does other stuff, like people.

    Writing is just about knowing where to make the cut. And then, how to cut. I hope that doesn’t insinuate that every word is an attack, but instead a dexterous revival of someone’s health.

    And it’s about time I take some risks with my writing. I think the main issue I have with all the writing I read, is it is so damn similar. The stories might be a little different, but it sure feels derivative. And I ain’t found my perfect voice neither (late onset regret of living in the south, tis not a classy voice). But I sure hope we all don’t become droning vocalists of the written word, saying all the same things in different ways with the same words. Let’s make sure to read some humans.

    And that is part one of my update. I have been so fixated on how I think the world is supposed to look, look, act, be, act, and appear, or sound, and all that psychological shit. I know I’ve said it’s ok to be human, but like I really see what a Clockwork Orange is. It is a person who appears to be a human, but is a wind up toy by God or the Government. I was one. Chillax doesn’t sum it all up, but I’m breaking my own constitution.

    Starting with reading David Foster Wallace’s novel The Broom of the System. I’ve been wanting to read it for three years now, but I’ve been punishing myself by reading “the classics” like that is how it’s supposed to go. I read maybe five books last year. Because none of them (besides the memoirs! (Memoirs for chrissakes)) I wanted to read. I was reading them to be a spiritual intellectual. So I’m so fucking happy to be reading something I want. God isn’t that what the fuck it’s supposed to be about? Being an artist etc. Like why the fuck would you hate yourself to make yourself to watch a movie. Let’s see what else I allow myself to do.

    Part II:

    If I have an update on my love philosophy (life) it is a few things: Well, the story is out. The blonde wins!!! Everybody. I see why there can be resentment towards those yellow haired Goldie locks that steal our men. I’ll save you a couple thousand pages, but “I wasn’t strong enough” to not love her. As if that’s what the world deserves as a moral. No, it wasn’t mr. five year old moping.

    The real moral, is, at this time the best I can say, is, we both knew we were wrong for each other, but she was strong enough to say it for both of us. And it redeems a lot. I’ve been deep down in some pit of hell, propagated by the media and Taylor Swift that every relationship ends with trying to get back at the other person with a diss album or revenge porn or whatever, but hey, I loved that girl. And she ended up being a good person. Who didn’t just break my heart because she could. You’re up to bat.

    (write and release)

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.