Ben Bonkoske

  • ughly

    I used to be much better at getting straight to the punch. I would only write about what mattered. Now, I meander and take the scenic route to get to what I want to say. “Longest way round is the shortest way home.” – James Joyce.

    I get into a bad habit of doing what I want. 2/3 for tonight and I don’t know if I’ll make it to morning. 1. Hot shower 2. Ice cream.

    Why is it that everybody who does drugs is so much cooler and casual about how hard life is? It is almost like they enjoy it. I have never once felt better than someone who gets high. When I was high, I did feel better than everyone though. I hated life when I enjoyed it.

    I suppose it isn’t wise to write about love, falling in it and all. I was just a kid the first time I jumped in that puddle. I don’t think I’ve ever dried off. The good ol’ days were a rotten egg, but as of late, lately isn’t so bad. I’m using muscles I’ve never used before and the heart is a muscle.

    Instagram: Bencbon

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  • uh oh

    Let’s just look on the brightside. It isn’t worth reliving nightmares. Fear is interesting. It is amorphous, follows us through childhood lurking like a shadow, and then consumes us like the sun. I wish we outgrew crying when we got older. I’m a tear salesman. Being a good person is just being nice when you could be mean. I’m recognizing I’m not as smart as I thought I am. I did that all by myself. There is a lot of great things I’ve done. All day I have the luxury of thinking. Learning is a skill I tried but failed at. It is my low IQ. But my heart beats. The best part of my day is when I feel something. I’d burn all the lovely books that make me think for love. I’ve torn many, many pages out of my journals out of frustration (but that is personal). I am at fault. But goddamn do I think highly of myself. And others. One of the worst memories was the realization of how boring and vacant some people are. But there is always beauty. My mind has a bad metabolism and I’m a glutton for beauty. It is not a sustainable objective. But the alternative is just my luck. If I want to take anything from the past year of my life is the ability to find beauty burrowed under a rock. The little earthworms, and kiss them right on the tip of their heads. I suggest you do the same. Make sure to look them in the eye! Sex isn’t everything. I don’t know why it is taking me so long to see it. Just you wait, I’ll die a priest. Abstinence isn’t everything either. In fact, it’s the opposite of everything technically. The less I say, the more.

    Instagram:Bencbon

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  • Monday Night Poetry #7

    If you read this we are both losers

    I cheat, and for some reason

    I never learn

    burn me a CD of burning passion

    and I’ll act irrational

    Romance is a dance danced by man entranced

    flaccid

    My wardrobe is not filled with animals

    or dark secrets anymore

    just holes I fill up,

    Destroyed

    by an annoyance of knowing

    better, and yet

    I remember

    clouded memories

    fervent childhood

    mistakes made

    by faking it

    until it was as real

    as night and day

    -B.B

    Instagram: Bencbon

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  • uh huh

    I don’t dance as often as I’d like to. Not much use without a partner these days. Luckily, when I do dance, it doesn’t need to be to music. Why wait? I just move myself to my passionate discontent, thrashing and bashing to silence. Drinking makes me think I’m a dashing good dancer, when the fact is, that I probably look stupid. But who the fuck cares at that point. “Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.” – H.P Lovecraft. I derive joy from looking insanely stupid.

    I make everything into a competition. NOBODY WILL LISTEN TO MUSIC AS MUCH AS ME!!! Humorous, but pathetic. I danced tonight in my cramped quarters and I thought about how it would make sensational capital for TikTok. I’m just going to say yes, I’m mature enough not to have that accursed time-waster. I have enough time that I unintentionally waste. Today though, no time wasted. I could accredit this to two tall glasses of water and the first cold shower in much too long that woke me up. I think I can aliken my competitive nature to addiction of any sort.

    I realized that I am addicted to hot showers! Humorous, but serious. I learned that two people who cuddle too much can experience withdrawals when they are separated for too long, so I don’t see what would be different with overstaying my welcome in a bathtub. I feel like I’m the only person who can take something as enjoyable as art and have it just kill me a little inside each time I listen to it. When I listen to other people’s music, usually this rigidity melts away. It is just a song for the sake of a song. Thank God. But love songs do make me anticipate tomorrow, and for that I’m thankful, not to mention, they are a good excuse to break free and boogie.

    I guess when you start rethinking old jealousies that ruined you once, you have a little too much time invested in the past. “I never ask a man what his business is, for it never interests me. What I ask him about are his thoughts and dreams.” – HP Lovecraft. That’s what I should have been more interested in. People who come, or more, stay in your life help build a future, not tear apart the past. It really shouldn’t matter because it doesn’t anymore. Just an unintentional time waster. I’ve learned better, but I don’t know any different. If that makes sense? I know what I knew and I don’t know why that has everything to do with what I’m doing. I look forward to the day I’ve written enough so I can come home to you. Let’s hope I don’t kill myself before that happens, unintentionally of course.

    Instagram:Bencbon

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  • A Thousand Splendid Suns – Book Review/Synopsis

    Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always.

    There have been books and movies that have made me laugh, but you know that there is something significant when a work of art makes you cry. This was one of the hardest books I had to read, and I couldn’t put it down. Khaled Hosseini is truly a master of fiction. He is a doctor from California and not classically trained in creative writing, but make no mistake that he could be compared to a modern Kafka, or Hemingway the way that he can make you feel without having to resort to complicated language, tricks of grammar, or pretentious storylines. His own background, born in Afghanistan, lends a working knowledge to the plot and story, but his ability to write a narrative of two Afghan women seamlessly is really something that should be appreciated. He writes about human emotion and pain that is not mutually exclusive to gender, yet makes a compelling assertion for the mistreatment of women in the Middle East. I envy his truly gripping emotional captivation.

    For some reason, when I read Khaled Hosseini’s work, there always seems to be time to read it. It is like nothing else in the world truly matters because you must learn the fate of these characters. His writing is not suspenseful, but it is enticing, borderline enthralling. I felt like I knew the characters and my heart beat for each one of them. There were many times while reading this book that my heart was figuratively broken. It is impossible to not have tears, empathy, compassion, anger, and joy when you read his work. Every time I thought I could predict what was going to happen on the next page, instead, I was surprised. My only critique of the book is that it is indeed a very sad story. By the end of it I was emotionally exhausted, and occasionally thought to myself, “If one more bad thing happens, I’m done.” Ninety percent of it is just blow after crushing blow to the two protagonists, Mariam and Laila. However, it makes the few pages that have delight that much sweeter. Bottom line, it is beautiful. No words are wasted, no rabbit holes that don’t matter, it is constantly carrying itself to one of the greatest examples of ethos I have ever read. Do not miss this book or its predecessor The Kite Runner.

    Synopsis:

    Mariam is a hamari, which means that she is an illegitimate child of her father Jalil, a cinema owner. Jalil visits her once a week. However, her mother, Nana, is skeptical of her father’s loyalty to Mariam. Mariam asks Jalil to take her to the cinema to see Pinocchio for her fifteenth birthday but he never shows. Mariam decides to walk to his house. Jalil sees her waiting outside of his house throughout the night but he sends his driver to take her home. Upon arrival, back at her hut she finds that her mother has hung herself.

    Mariam is taken back to Jalil’s house for a few days until she is forced into an arranged marriage with a man named Rasheed. Rasheed is roughly forty years old, while she is only fifteen. They soon learn that she can not make a child and Rasheed resents her for this and becomes abusive.

    In part two we are introduced to the narrative of Laila. She lives down the street from Rasheed and Mariam. Her father is an educator, her brothers are lost at war, and her mother suffers from severe depression. She finds comfort in a boy with one leg named Tariq. She falls in love with Tariq but he reveals that he is going to leave with his family to Pakistan. They make love. A few days later her family decides they are going to leave as well, but as they are packing a rocket hit their house and kills her parents.

    Rasheed and Mariam nurse Laila back to health. A man comes to visit her to tell her that Tariq has died. She is devastated and upon learning that she is pregnant with Tariq’s child. She agrees to marry Rasheed without revealing that it is Tariq’s child in her belly. Mariam resents her for being able to get pregnant while she couldn’t. Rasheed is upset when the child is a girl named Aziza instead of a boy. Mariam and Laila become friends by bonding over the child, and regard themselves as allies against Rasheed’s abusive ways. Laila reveals that she has been planning to run away and asks Mariam to come with her. They are stopped at a bus station and are severely beaten when they return to Rasheed’s home.

    Laila gets pregnant again, this time with a boy named Zalmai. Rasheed’s shoe store burns down and they begin to starve. Because of this, they give Aziza to an orphanage. Laila risks seeing her but is often beaten for not being accompanied by Rasheed.

    One day Tariq arrives at her door and she realizes that the tale of his death was a trick by Rasheed in order to get her to marry him. When Rasheed finds out that Tariq has returned (from the loose lips of Zalmai) Laila is severely beaten. With a shovel, Mariam kills Rasheed. Laila, the children and Tariq flee while Mariam is put on trial for the murder. She is sentenced to death.

    Part Four is in the present tense for some reason. Laila, Tariq, and both of the children live simply, but Laila feels guilty that she is not fulfilling her potential and decides that it would be best to move back to Herat where they grew up. She visits the house that Mariam grew up in and talks to the son of a mentor from Mariam’s childhood who gives her a box filled with money and a VCR tape of Pinocchio from Jalil.

    Laila becomes a teacher at the orphanage that Aziza lived at for a while. She realizes she is pregnant again, and know what she will name it if is a girl.

    This book was powerful. It is not for the faint of heart. It will grip you and you will have a new profound empathy for the women in the Middle East. It is not a book to miss.

    97/100

    Instagram: Bencbon

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