Ben Bonkoske

Poet Without a Pen

Ben Bonkoske

  • suiciety

    five-o clock shadow.

    Never make fun of someone for crying because as sure as I will someday be a paraplegic from a motorcycle accident, I assure you that you will have tears in your own eyes, seeking comfort from somebody you once laughed at. People love to laugh at you when you’re down. Get up. By yourself. It is best to be self-reliant. Crying alone is probably also best. I wouldn’t want that broadcasted, but who knows, someday we might be sharing our most embarrassing moments just because more people will read it. I think it is ironic that the more I am struggling, and the more I write morbidly, the greater response I get from the WordPress community. Thanks guys. Honestly, if I didn’t have writing as an outlet I would get mentally constipated and plugged up. This way is the best. You read a little nice incite. You read my suicidal ideation. We’re all happy. One big happy family. I’m only being sarcastic. For as crabby, and depressed as I get, compared to 2018-19, 2020 has been a serious home improvement. Don’t know what is different, but I’ve made some changes. I’m coming up on cold shower #30…in a row. And I mean frigid ice-cold showers. I don’t think it does a damn thing, but I feel more accomplished after I do it. It is the little things. Little goals we can check off at the end of a day we spent procrastinating that protect us from hating ourselves. I am a little bit of a night owl. Just in the sense that I get the most amount of things done in the evening. I’m yarbles in the morning. Good for a long walk, tea, and reading. Do you have any idea how absolutely pathetic you have to be that A SHOWER is on your list of things to accomplish? Ram Dass once shared a story about how the Buddha met a monk who practiced the art of levitation, and after twenty years of constant mediation, he could walk on water. The Buddha responded, “But the ferry is only a nickel.” In other words, I am making progress, being more disciplined in certain inane ways, but I might be cutting at the wrong tree. A part of me thinks I could benefit from a good psychedelic experience. Have that self-reflection that I will see everything I’m doing wrong, but as John Lennon said, “We always just come back to sobriety.” Perhaps a short-lived experience my refurbish my perspective, but in the long long long run, it is just going to be the same old bullshit a different day. I doubt I will find all the answers I’m looking for. What depressed me is I’ve given up on looking for answers from other places. I’m content with possibly being wrong. I think something happens to us after we accomplish new heights. It really goes a long way if you don’t give up. Or, after you give up, you just try again. We forget who we are when we win, and I must confess, I’ve seen good people change. I’ve changed. I still get agitated, aggravated, and can be dismissive to everyone around me BECAUSE I KNOW BEST. It is funny that for as little as I have going on in my life, I think about doing a lot of things and take myself extremely seriously, and yet, accomplish so little.

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  • A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess – Book Review

    In this dystopian novella, we follow a beautiful character arch in an unforgiving hero’s journey. Little Alex, of only fifteen is giving the old in out to poor helpless devotchkas. The book comes complete with an entire vocabulary of slang that the Humble Narrator uses throughout the book. At first, it is a little disarming, but once you get used to the silly words, the book is worth the read.

    I never felt comfortable reading it. That is to say, it is a rather heady book that will require some effort from the reader. If you venture out of your comfort zone you will not be disappointed. It is still up in the air whether or not I prefer the film equivalent to the book, but I will say that I was not disappointed, and both are works of brilliant art meant to be recognized as cannon. At times the book is hard to look away from out of sheer horror. It isn’t scary, but it is terrible. Art is meant to disturb rather than comfort.

    I will say, however, that the book can do without the last chapter. I read the book with a forward from Anthony Burgess, stating that the book (which the film was based on) was initially published without the final chapter. I believe it really isn’t needed. I was expecting some grim revelation but I agree that the point that Alex is a horrible monster is conveyed without an anticlimactic ending representing him back where he was at the start, only a few years older.

    The best part of the book is the narration and wordplay. It is just beautifully written and is comparable to The Catcher in the Rye with such an iconic voice. I can hear every syllable and the sarcastic tone of the Narrator. The story is good too, and I would have loved to have talked with Anthony Burgess about what happened when the brilliant concept for the book went through his head like a bullet. The man is a genius, and I look forward to his lesser-known work. It plays well to a science fiction audience but is really a prolific character study. I had fun reading it (even when it felt like a chore) and I look forward to re-reading it again someday, it is that horrorshow.
    90/100

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  • so what

    Sorry I am so sad. I am out of words. The lonely few that come to my muse’s aid will hopefully console my delicate existence. Once we go down the rabbit hole of self-improvement, and “changing our life around,” it gets harder to stop and smell the roses. I care so much about my brain, beautiful or ugly as it may be. People are not perfect, but I am always warming up for the “most-disciplined” Oscar speech. Everything is out of reach, only a few feet away. A doughnut would solve all my problems. If only I owned a bakery. Hungry, Hungry, Hungry. Ol’ sugar will make me unlovely. I don’t want to start tomorrow late, but all I think about is when the depravity ends, and a blissful sleep I slip into. Deep sleep now that I have no reason to get up in the morning. I lost yet another friend (two in one day) over something less important. Another tally for writing. By the time I’m published nobody will want to read me. I’m such an asshole apparently. Of course, a part of me thinks everybody else is crazy, but deep down, I know it’s me. If there weren’t people willing to jeopardize relationships for better art, art would be a waste. I am a bad artist, but a worse friend.

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  • suck to

    I’m really good at taking the joy out of life. Like a bad scientist, and I’m the lab rat. I’m getting nowhere. Fast. The world is catching up and I’m falling behind. And I’m falling, falling, falling. Falling like a snowflake. Uniquely worthless. Dancing towards disaster. If there wasn’t a struggle, I don’t suppose I would deserve all that I look forward to. Success without joy. These days dreams are becoming nightmares. A dead-end job ending me up dead is my highest expectation. I compare myself to everyone, and as I said, I’m falling behind. There is too much talent for this shallow world. No one worth loving. No one listening. No one to die for. Time is unfair because whenever you have it, you waste it until there is none of it left. Then you are old. Everyone insists I’m young but I think that is just a good excuse to not listen to me. When I care so much, everything means so much less. It isn’t worth it. It’s lonely and isolating, but what? Have you ever expected less? You used to go to Lollapalooza by yourself. You used to have things to look forward to. But now I just think back to everything that made me happy sourly. I’m a grumpy old cat. I make promises I can’t keep to myself. I’m mentally deteriorating. I have hatred in my heart I can’t deny and my god, I’d like to just be alone. By everyone. For long enough to remember where I hid my smile. It just feels like when I finally found happiness, I lost it. Purposefully.

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  • stub born ness

    In other news, a girl I dated in the sixth grade is getting married. It could be her twin, but I feel old. I once knew a girl who was so in love with herself that every boring story had the remarkable spin of out-of-the-ordinary. I don’t like her anymore. I think that is whats happened to me. I was a very arrogant young man, and just like how young love will pass you by, it gets a little old. It is hard to see all of the things wrong with yourself unless you look into a full-length mirror. I don’t get out much. I talked with an old roommate who lives under a tarp now. It was a joyous dialectic discussion. Yes, great ingenuity from a hermit and toad. I wonder how many discussions I’ve had sounding like an idiot without even knowing it. It is better to be blindly kind than perceptively pretentious. I am always caught somewhere in the middle of not giving people enough credit, and thinking the world of them. The longer I go on my self-help journey to disappointing isolation, the more I realize how it is best to expect less. One human alone can’t accomplish as much as an institution brainwashing an army. That being said, I am convinced I am an inadequate writer and student, and more than likely, lover. If things had gone on as they were, with consistent heartbreaks and bad jazz, I don’t think I would be in the position I am now, to love correctly. Love is messy, and my emotional affairs are like a Pollock painting, but I am not drowning in my own insecure tears. Instead, they are tears better left to dry up and try again. I am not old. And I am not in a rush to grow up. I am in a rush to start making a change. An army of one. I do a lot of sadistic crap, but for some reason it makes me feel like I’m on the right track. The less we enjoy life, the more we can inspire ourselves that it will be alright, easier tomorrow. But hot damn, I am dopamine deficient. I’m a much slower runner than I was, but I am going to go twelve times as far. Winter is on her way, and I don’t anticipate I will feel warm about everything in a way I’ve never unveiled. Nevertheless, I pray that change will come. That I will not be ashamed of that mirror, and the longer I stare into the abyss, I will continue to float in space, untouched by low expectations and self-hatred. It is basic math.

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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.