Ben Bonkoske

Poet Without a Pen

Ben Bonkoske

  • 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

  • turn of the century

    Yes, this awful year, I am alone as I write on the night meant for drunken celebration. I’m so tired of being mad at people who never did anything to me. It really makes me smell of jealousy, betrayal and being lovesick over something that happened when I was a cosmic puppy. I can pretend that I will be able to move on, but I’m just worried that if I do, I will be letting myself die. It is that beautiful oscillation between resolution and insanity. Maturity. I never believed when everyone told me I would grow out of being in love with the person who I thought was an angel when I was seventeen. For the first time I can remember, I don’t want to die. Kafka says the first sign of understanding is wanting to die. I’m not afraid of it. I never was. I welcomed it with beautiful scars hidden all over my skin. I’d never get a tattoo, though. That is beneath me. But similar in the way I have grown out of self harm, I wonder if it would just be best for everyone if I gave up, let everybody live their life without worrying about me knocking uninvited at their door. I just feel for the first time like I have some sort of purpose, when, in reality, if an asteroid was going to hit the earth in six months, I can’t imagine how absolutely lost I would feel. It is a fragile ego. I wouldn’t write the way I do. I think a part of me writes in the hope that somebody will read it. But only one person really. If everyone became occupied with facing death, unable to redirect their eyes towards a worthless rant, I’d still write, but just for myself, and I’d still read, but not what I waste my time with now. What I’m saying is, I’m so far up my own ass, that I have tunnel vision. I am unable to see how beautiful life is by being so obsessed with trying to capture its beauty. I really astonish myself that I still have things to say. You’d think I’d run out of original material and resort to copy and pasting obscure poets from India and passing it off as my own. Or just go live under a rock. For the first time, in a long time, a year to be exact, and the year before that, do I not feel alone. She is the thing that makes me feel obsolete. I don’t even know all of my friends. It is only when life is right in front of us that we feel a void in the vastness. Looking back it always feels warm, regardless of how many loved ones died in the process, hearts broken, and dreams deferred. So, I don’t know if I should clutch harder onto the past of a callow lover’s loving love loved once (that’s the best thing I wrote this year and I stole it from Joyce) or I should, grow up, admit I was wrong, delusional, grieving, die a little inside, become a little less associated with the most important thing in my life for the past 7 years, take a deep breath, and commit love suicide. Am I strong enough to kill everything my ego has ever been? I’m not talking about psychedelic ego death where drugs infatuate the brain into thinking they have solved all of their problems. I’m talking about being strong enough to kill Peter Pan. Literally. Or does the world deserve a flying free-spirit in green tights. Talk me into or out of it, all it is is just talking, babbling. So many of the decisions we make in life are for other people. What I’m saying is my whole life has been for someone else, but maybe I should just refrain, let it stay gold by crystallizing it. Whatever happens, what ever you once felt, your reservations about love, past loves, your future, can all be undone with one kiss – just the right person walking into your life. I shouldn’t expect that person to be someone specific. It is too much to ask of them, it is too much to ask of me. I don’t want to fill the hole with books and God. I just want…what do I want? Writing would be very lonely without someone to write for.

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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.