Ben Bonkoske

Poet Without a Pen

Ben Bonkoske

  • wicked

    I must remind myself (in the midst of spreading myself very thin), that I am first and foremost a writer. Writers live off of bread if they have to. Exhausted, I write to you. I think it is a good habit to push myself through a dreary daydream this late at night, for the reward of accomplishment. It is a good time to come back to the real world. I don’t think I realized how, not only pathetic, but detrimental this past year has been to my psyche. Admittingly, it doesn’t sound much better for any of my cohorts. I’m going to say it, being a man kinda sucks. In a good way, but the 21st-century man is ashamedly in touch with his emotions. I think it would be worse to live in the 50’s when it was taboo to show anything unmanly. Today is a different time. In a town that hasn’t changed much since I was in high school, things are in fact different. I am the one different. Happily, I will reminisce. But I have my sights set on the future. Waking up a little earlier, running a little farther, having the courage and discipline to say what I must carefully. We all fall into traps, we all fall out of love, but if we are lucky, we will build a support that will catch us.

    Do you ever just have days in the mirror when what you see fluctuates? Sometimes I’m a handsome bastard, but today was the first day in a long time that I saw myself for what I think I am. A disproportionate ugly hobbit. Oh well, tomorrow I will be beautiful. If I do enough soul searching, even I won’t be able to see my flaws. And isn’t that what we are all really doing? Hiding in broad daylight.

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  • welcome home wildkit

    I’ve been running for so damn long. Running God knows where. Sometimes I look up to the sky and shake my head, asking, “God, where the hell are you taking me?” I’ve been around the block once or maybe two times, but I am happy to take a walk down memory road, relishing in beauty I never caught before. I suppose there was some hidden beauty in Asheville that it took me a very long time to discover. It really did its job trying to dig up dirt on me. I’ve been the man of the hour, I’ve been kicked out of parties. One memory that stands out was at a contact improv meet (which is a touchy dance form), where I met a wizened Aries. I asked him what was his life goal or some stupid, overly personal confusing question and he said, “I want to try to not miss anything.” My whole life I’ve been so convinced I’d be missing something if I just didn’t make life the most unbearable ungodly thing. I really am happy to not have to fight for some spot on stage. I want to write an off-off-off-off-off-off-off Broadway prostitute a love letter. I am happy. So often I feel like I come up short, am not enough, or that life is unfulfilling, but tonight, I want to try and remember how happy I am, so I can believe that I truly once was. It is very rare these days. Or, at least it was. It is like striking gold, or oil! in the midst of a beautiful city named after an onion that is known for its shitty winters. Make the best of the worst. I am realizing how weak I’ve been when I was so horribly cushioned. Maybe I needed to be cradled a little, but goddamnit if I don’t know that there is some stunted growth or arrested development. Do you see how quickly I find something so friggen wrong with something that I can’t change? Or better, make an excuse for why I’m sad, lonely, and ugly. Doing the same thing everyday for a year, not seeing anyone you love besides the person you love to hate the most every day, is very, exponentially unhealthy. I once spent 1 whole month inside. I am a 17 year old man all over again. Not to get too personal, but my dad never saw me as grown-up, so I never had a reason to. He is the worst loving person. I’d be anywhere without him, I’d be nowhere. He just doesn’t think I can do it. He has a very low opinion of me. Which I am figuring there are people who feel the same, but at the same time, there are people who love the hell out of my obnoxious ass. I didn’t write anything about him for the past year because I was under his roof, and he made it seem like he was helping me the hell out. And that I should never forget it. I want you all to know, If I wanted to be in New York, I’d be there right now. There is more to life than living in New York City. I’d probably take a train this time, but the walk would do me good. I was in the woods of Michigan for 13 months. I walked something like 1,200 miles in that time. I love to walk. I don’t think I could get a car, but I could go anywhere I damn wanted to. The goal, is to get a motorcycle and not get murdered in South America ,(but more on that later) People love to watch what they think is someone else failing. If I cared what everybody thought of me, I’d ask. I’m really just trying to figure out what I think of myself. I’m a lot less than what I once thought I was, but I’m actually much, much more.

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  • well

    I’m breaking new boundaries with old patterns. I suppose, looking back, we will sometimes wish we spent our time working, other times we will be glad for the rest from the bullshit. I wonder how sad the average person is. What is average anyway? Why are people so consumed with comparing themselves to everyone else? Compared to who I once was, it doesn’t really matter. If all we think about is where are coming from, we will never get anywhere. I worry that the older I get the more I will think about my life as a kid. My childhood started in 7th grade when I lied about losing my virginity. I think a sign of immaturity is valuing some goody-goody girl to fall in love with. I think looking for a slut is immature just the same. Pining over some childhood crap isn’t any good either. To be honest, the idea of falling in love is really repulsive to me as of late. What happened to that warm sweet loving boy? I’m like the callouses on my fingers from practicing Blackbird so much. I hope I discover a band that sounds like everything I am looking for. I want to fall in love with a piece of art. I’m attracted to objects more than my unhealthy perspective of humanity. I think the reason why I think the world is so ugly is that I am projecting a mirror. I remember once being asked if I liked what I saw when I looked in the mirror. At the time, I really did. I was loved them. It is exhausting making up so many reasons why someone should take the time to notice me. I suppose I’m still just doing it for someone I once loved. The sad part, at the end of things, I feel like I didn’t know her at all. My greatest fear is just moving back to Chicago and it is just high school all over again – minus the part about being in love. I’m really worried that the happiest I’ll ever be has already happened. When I walked to New York, I did it because I didn’t have a reason to live. I wonder if in 2024, when I plan to break off for South America on a motorcycle, I will by then. I hope not man, this life really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’d happily die for you. Happily say goodbye to you.

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  • Monday Night Poetry #17

    I am a living rejection

    Everyone will throw you out

    when you smell of normalcy

    this is called Growing up

    There are too many acoustic wannabes

    who want it more than me

    And deserve better than I ever did

    Nobody wants to see me anymore anyway

    I haven’t cried

    in what feels like a year

    You were such an asshole

    Please, for my sake, forget about me

    Sasquatch on vacation

    ready for hunting season

    Why are material things going away?

    It’s all online

    Goodbye childhood

    Get a real job so a woman

    can love you for your money

    -B.B

  • The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway – Book Review

    I have had a bad case of writer’s block for the past month. I suppose a month isn’t the longest period of time to go without saying much, reading much, or putting ink to paper, but I blame Hemingway. I feel like I just don’t get it. I miss all the important parts, I think everyone in his stories talk funny, and it is just dull dull dull dull. A group of four white guys and a minx go to Pamplona. So what? Who cares. One of them is Jewish. Apparently this was a big deal when it was written, but today that just equates to three white guys. It took me well over a month to stomach this story.

    The best part of this book was that it inspired The Rum Diary. You can tell that HST took a lot from Hemingway’s iconic terse language. There is nothing to be ashamed of because of that. It just isn’t my cup of tea. I will take the verbosity and detail of Fitzgerald over elusive, esoteric, and hidden secrets of Hemingway. Hemingway refers to this as the 7/8th iceberg method. Only 1/8 of what is really going on should be explicitly stated, everything else resides under the surface. Thats great if you want to leave all that up to the imagination of the reader, but to me, that is just laziness. Oh, I’m so great that the reader has to do all the work. Give me a break. Your job as a writer is for the reader to be ABLE to imagine what is going on. I felt like the whole story existed in a vacuum.

    Part one is alright. The only memorable character is Brett. All the guys just blend together. Nothing distinguishes them besides the fact that one is rich, one is impotent, and one is Jewish. They all suck. They are mean and not worth sympathizing for. There is a lot of warming up that you must do to get on board with how the people talk in The Sun Also Rises. People just don’t talk that way. It is overtly romantic and stupid. Occasionally I enjoyed what was being said, but then I didn’t know who the hell was talking.

    It is a perfect example of someone not prepared to write a novel writing one. I don’t think Hemingway is stupid, I just think that he wasn’t ready. It is a good FIRST novel, but not one you should read by any means. It is PRACTICE. Hopefully A Farewell to Arms will redeem him, but frankly, everything I’ve read by him is garbage. I constantly found myself wandering, unengaged and not caring about the story. There really isn’t much plot. There are things that happen around a seductress. Possible argument for a character arch but a very weak one. Half the book is them finding a place to drink and the other half is them drinking. Warning: major N Bombs halfway through.

    It is really a bummer when a book bums you out about reading. I usually do book reviews on Youtube, but this one isn’t worth the trouble. It really took away a lot of joy. It makes you feel stupid for not getting it, and I’m positive that it was written drunk. It reads that way anyway. For as simple as his language is, the story is very hectic.

    50/100

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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.