Authenticity is something that will ultimately reveal itself, whether that be in a career, a relationship, or in the mirror. I have been opening up, unsolicited, far more than I would like to admit. I have all sorts of demons which haunt me and a sad sob story. I remember explaining to my grandmother that if life continues on like “this” she may be attending my funeral. She said that she wouldn’t blame me. What is hard to accept is that I have not left what I came here to leave, so you will have to put up with me for what I wish was three years, but is more than likely going to be five or six more weeks of winter. I’m stupid in so many ways. I understand a lot more about the world than I’d like to admit. But that is all I’m good for, admitting things that are of nobody’s business, and understanding myself, because at the end of the day, God might not be so sympathetic to an early arrival, but I, personally, would understand why I left during the intermission.
Poet Without a Pen
Ben Bonkoske
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workfires
America’s birthday was tonight. I went to the party. Many of the people I loved were there. Some weren’t. I’m only as good as my tired soul, but I’m wide awake, its morning. I’m happy
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Tuesday Morning Poetry #1
Let’s never lose sight
that life is to be enjoyed
not a toy that is unopened
or destroyed
-B.B
All the books in the world
don’t equal pi
and won’t find me
her number, sign, or middle name
but what does it matter?
under the moonlight
B.B
Somethings don’t fit properly
but souls are molded like clay
and you can always
find a new way
B.B
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waking up
“Forgiveness in no way requires that you trust the one you forgive.”
If I’m going to procrastinate, I might as well get something done. A friend of mine had her last class of undergraduate this past week, and she reveled in the thought that now she can focus on the more important parts of life since she won’t be occupied with classes. I thought this silly of her, until I realized that I wasted ALL DAY just avoiding doing what I should, which is to read a few short stories for my fiction class. It isn’t so much that there is work to be done, it is the drudgery of just accomplishing crap when you know damn well that your time would be better spent on artistic endeavors. I knew moving back to the city was going to be a little shocking, and I am managing…pretty well, all things considered. Some weeks will be easy, some I’m sure will chew me up and spit me out I sure. My bedtime has been very inconsistent, I will say that. I’m back to day 0 on all of my stupid standards I hold myself to like cold showers in a row, and etc. But it is nice to not look at the time as a battle of how can I do the least with the most amount of energy. Today, either way, was one of those days. I do hold myself to high standards, so it is very common that I feel “dirty.” What a waste of my early twenties. I think Charles Yu wrote that during this period he was unhappy for the right reasons. I relate. I am trying to be the best version of myself. A man of substance, flesh and blood. Is it the end of the world that I fall below par? No. Do I feel farther away from reaching my optimum potential because I socially make bad decisions? I suppose. I suppose I suppose I suppose, I think, I know everything. How little is my brain at comprehending the big questions. I think that is first and foremost my biggest issue. I try to trivialize the big questions by answering them. I know that I know nothing. I overestimate the importance of things, and when they come around, they never seem to matter the way they do in my head. Better off dead, I suppose.
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well, well? well…
Is it possible to reinvent the wheel? I suppose if there was, it would have been done. There are only so many pieces that fit in that missing hole. I have never been so happy in my damn accursed life. I think that is the saddest part. I do believe I am cursed. Self-inflicted voodoo. The curse will last either 6 years or if I read a book that I stole. Probably about 2 years ago to the date. Wow. That was the first time that two years felt like a long time ago. Time goes so damn fast, and I’m sure to look back and think it is all just one big mistake. One after the other. I’m crazy enough to think I’m normal now. I hope that you hope I find whatever I am looking for. It would really feel good to think that after all of the resentments, there is still someone on my side. I think I was a controversial bastard when I was younger. I hated a lot of people as a way to cope with how awful I felt about who I was as a person. I don’t think I knew any better. I am not trying to recapture that notion. That awful essence of an air of egotistical importance. That’s not an excuse but it is a reason for why we can make fools of ourselves. Substance makes you appreciate others a lot more.
I have officially been back in Chicago for a week. Talk about not having the time. It was a horrible, horrible, horrible, revelation to learn that I hadn’t written on my typewriter in over a month. Entry: March 31st. Entry April 30th. I am unable to find anything in between. The whole reason I didn’t get drunk last night was so that in lue of a hangover, I’d get something on the page. Guess what? I woke up when school was probably getting out. It was the first time that I’d seen live music in a damn long time, and I felt fine as hell afterward. Too warm to sleep. Sneaking into bed well after 2. Good ol’ Simon and his new main squeeze. I danced, and as usual, I got the whole place to boogie. I was sober a sardine for the first set. It was painful. However, once everybody else got nice and loose from the booze, I loosened up my tight ass and the next thing I knew, I was talking with all sorts of strangers and even was given the old eye from a cootie patootie. I try not to go a day without putting something on the page, but I suppose a month isn’t the longest stretch I’ve gone without having something to say. If you haven’t uncovered my con yet, my special insight is unremarkable. But I love you anyway. I know I need to say something, but I suppose it used to come a little easier in my head. Easy is the opposite of what I’m after. I’m a terrible artist, but at least I’m a try-hard. There are so many talentless people. There are a lot of female teachers. Neither of those things seems to make a difference to me. I know something special when it dares to dance back.
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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 