Ben Bonkoske

Poet Without a Pen

Ben Bonkoske

  • year one

    If I was to look back at all the emotions I felt this past year, I would admit that they were significantly less compelling than previous years. I pulled all-nighters, I laughed, I cried, but I didn’t jump off a four-story building, or bike to California. I worry that if I don’t kindle my little flame of insanity, I will lose it. Nevertheless, this has been the best year of my life and I didn’t even have to do anything. Today marks one year sober. It is everything I imagined I would have to do to win back the trust of those I hurt. I imagined this day through the five years I tried to achieve it, the speeches I would give sharing my wisdom, the phone calls to ex-girlfriends, my shiny new coin. What I didn’t imagine is where I would be in my life, and I think that is what makes my life a satirical black comedy. I get what I want, but it is nothing that I wanted. I’d much rather be a published author in some ditch shooting up. Some advice I was once given has been turning over in my head. None of those external affirmations matter because you (i.e me) are a good person. Why does it feel like people who attain success don’t know how to appreciate it. If you are a young writer I’m not talking about you. I don’t know who I really hold a grudge against these days but I’d much rather be someone else. I don’t want every right of passage to be sour and jaded. Walk to New York, took a bus home. Biked to California, broke both my legs. One year sober, the party is over. Another piece of advice I was given was that I shouldn’t live my life for others, or because of others. I would never achieve my goals if the prize was someone’s affection or my father’s trust. I had to do it for me. What a lovely bunch of bullcrap. I am not enough. I might have the foresight to know you are not enough either, but together we might go twice as far. I don’t do good with achieving my goals. It is a good reason to relax. I’ve done nothing this whole year. I don’t deserve a cake. I will also say that a year is a hell of a lot shorter than I remember. I can already smell next Christmas. Everything else from my childhood will surely fade into the background, so I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t grow up as well. I’m a stupid stubborn man-child. I hope someday somebody sees that for as much of a failure I feel like, I tried to persevere so that somebody might recognize a glimmer of hope in the idea that they are not alone. I don’t feel alone. I feel like we are all alone. Hallucinating a mirage of mystic mayhem that passes for a 9 to 5. What a great fucking year, let’s hope.

    Instagram: Bencbon

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  • toon town

    I reside in one of those little communities that have character, and thankfully, no corporate cancer cells disguised as McDonalds, Walmart, or Macy’s. I fall asleep to the sound of beach music. I wake up to birds chirping. We get our fishin’ straight outta the river and our chicken straight from the coop. I walk roughly five miles a day (if you include my 2.5 daily run/jog/who am I kidding…walk) in the forest. I am hidden among the trees and close companions with deer and squirrels, although I have had a lot of trouble spotting the elusive fox. I swear, one of these days my karmic energy will be affirmed by the patronus of that red bastard. I attend weekly bonfires. I have an office that has a beautiful view of a crawl space and a disquieting furnace. I cook. And I’m taking the necessary steps for a bright future. What I’m trying to say is I’m afforded time, quiet solitude, and peace. However, for as far as I am away from the noise of the city, I sure hear a lot of the gossip, smell a lot of the trash , and feel as important as a Manhattan megalomaniac young man. Do you want me to be honest? When I am surrounded by people all I can do is compare, degrade, and raise my nose at everyone I meet. I don’t know why I have such a capricious opinion of everything. At least I’m humble enough to know I’m not better than anyone else. Doesn’t matter if they are poor, ugly, stupid. I love those people. It is the ones who think, are beautiful, and unforgivingly rich. What is this called? I’m sure it is a syndrome.

    I classify myself as “the best of the worst.” My friends tend to be some of the world’s worst degenerates. I am an honest con man. A swindler at best. People sometimes whisper to me that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself but life is most meaningful when it is hard, difficult to understand, and unbearable to overcome. To be honest, all the hard work vanishes the second I find myself in a physical “altercation” i.e encounter. All the books I read. Useless. My routine. Irrelevant. My writings. Meaningless. For some reason, humans, or more specifically, my perspective, just feels so damn sexually driven. I am cognizant, peripherally perceptive, and mature enough to recognize that cognitively we aren’t necessarily sex-crazed animals and we abide to a social contract of romantic relationships. However, instinctually, I just feel like we can’t help our impulses when we look at someone who is sexy, even if they are with another man, especially if he is shorter than me. I really don’t want to. I find myself holistically praying for their relationship and that nefarious nymphomaniacs like me don’t intervene. However, today, that is just the way I saw it. That is what happens when you are secluded in the country for the better half of a year and go into a concrete beast, window shopping.

    Instagram: Bencbon

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  • two day

    Structure is good for my soul.

    I’m too busy writing to write tonight.

    A new friendship is on the horizon.

    It is important to try and be dialed into whatever you do. I suffer from a terrible case of tunnel visions and I haven’t even dropped anything recently. It is, do this, do this now. I have to schedule in a deep breath that I only remember if my alarm clock reminds me. I do however, sleep too much. I don’t know why but my kryptonite is binge watching a series of dreams. I welcome nightmares, but it is funny, I often awake in the middle of the night compelled that my dream would make a incredible novel, but whenever I return to them they are quite ridiculous.

    For example, dinner party turns into a war. Julia Louis- Dreyfus plays the BBQ cook who feeds the soldiers.

    So, in a way, I am broadening my creative expertise. I am convinced that if I keep myself busy I won’t get depressed. However, nothing stops the day coming to an end, confused if I did anything at all, and hiding under the sheets to wake up to the nightmare I call my life. Today (Friday) and yesterday (Thursday) were…good, for whatever that is worth. If I’m being honest, I had four days of complete chaos. I don’t think I did a single thing that wasn’t hedonistic. Too much pleasure really takes the joy out of life. In other words, I do pleasurable things until I kill them, make them dreadful to think about, and they, more or less, ruin me.

    I don’t do well in noisy places. I prefer a quiet place to compose my thoughts. Better yet, to not have any thoughts at all. That is what happened last night, my usual posting hour, and it frightened me. I worry I’m becoming boring, when in reality, I am much more confusing than boring. I am not straightforward. I change day to day, and I hope that in my lifetime I will be completely different than who I think I am today. I could probably be reduced to a stereotype in a Woody Allen film, but I could do the same to most people these days. Let’s give me a shot.

    Simplord

    daddy’s boy

    wannabe self-published writer

    in the middle of nowhere

    “important”

    It is days I don’t talk to anyone that make me uninteresting. I strive off of connection, and I am not yet willing to jeopardize all of that for the rare chance that I can replace it with flashy new replacements. I am already running on empty. I really think it would be a show worth paying for if I died quietly in the most populated city. Anywho, as I said, structure is good for my soul, but it is a silent but deadly killer. I think for the hell of it I will mumbojumbo my routine up in a gumbo stew. Be ok with not being straightforward day after day after day.

    Instagram: Bencbon

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  • ta da

    Is it worse to write something worthless or to just be quiet until you have something meaningful to say? I think one of the greatest signs of intelligence is knowing when to shut the fuck up. The goal is that if I run, write, etc. every day, I will run faster, write deeper, etc. I don’t believe in writer’s block. I do believe in laziness, weakness, in other words, being human. I believe that by removing one from a situation or confusing math equation, you can come back with a fresh new perspective. However, it is common experience that after a break, we often want another excuse to repeat the “time off.” It is time to grow up a little. I think growing up is partially recognizing that we don’t want the same things we wanted when we were younger.

    My day-to-day life exceeds my wildest dreams a year ago. It would bring me to tears to think of where I’ve come compared to who I was a year ago. Well, Not really, maybe it would move me enough to say, “well, good for you.” It would kill me to say that about someone else who just seems like they are in the same place as me…or god forbid, a few years ahead. I am not the end-all-be-all. In fact, I would be a disappointing protagonist in the big book of life. It isn’t easy finding that balance between being kind to yourself, hating yourself, and accepting yourself for who you are. I’m awfully rough to myself so I can only imagine how I treat other people. I don’t get angry that often, but I find myself most comfortable with being sad for no good reason. It isn’t as simple as depression. Maybe I don’t have everything I’d want out of life, but I don’t pretend like I’m happy when we all know goddamn well you are not. Not normal.

    Instagram @Bencbon

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  • Monday Night Poetry #4

    He is me

    She said

    -B.B

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.