Ben Bonkoske

Poet Without a Pen

Ben Bonkoske

  • 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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  • On the Road by Jack Kerouac – Book Review

    Jack Kerouac is a perfect example of a writer going beyond the page. His work (or what I have read of it) is good, very good, but his life truly is an exceptional story that undeniably deserves to have been recorded in his guerrilla-style writing that is so iconically his own. I can not talk about On the Road without a little history lesson about the book, and the characters that surround it.

    In high school, my AP U.S History final was a presentation on the Beat Generation, and I am sad to say that I know an Ivy Leauger who was unaware of Mr. Kerouac and this influential change in writing. The Beats basically consist of a group of prigs in New York in the late forties through the early sixties that experimented with drugs, sexuality and renounced nuclear family values. These poets include Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, and Jack Kerouac. Kerouac includes all of these savants in his book under pseudonyms. However, it is Dean Moriarty, the real-life Neal Cassady, who steals the show in this autobiographical novel.

    Jack wrote allegedly wrote On the Road in the span of two weeks on a 120-page scroll (no indentations or paragraphs) so he wouldn’t have to waste time changing the paper in his typewriter (obviously high on speed). It took him years to edit it, but still, it is very impressive that he pooped out such a masterpiece in such a short duration of mental vigor. I will admit, I have mimicked these writing tactics, but have yet to write something as wonderfully entertaining as On the Road.

    There isn’t any plot. There is a story. I will admit, I can’t remember much, or any of it other than it was enjoyable to digest. Jack Kerouac received criticism from Truman Capote that he wasn’t writing, he was typing; that the whole book was just a stream of consciousness “vomited onto the page.” A part of me does not disagree. The other part of me doesn’t care. I am not a believer that writing, more importantly, fiction, has to be confined to only the imagined plot-line. Sometimes what is grounded in reality, “close to the bone” is still an exceptional work of art. I really did enjoy this book. It didn’t show off and was exactly what you might expect from a Columbia drop-out.

    I fell in love with Neal Cassady. Possibly one of the most maddening, tragic heroes I have ever had the experience of knowing through the page. There was no hiding who these people were – lost souls. And very young. For how prophetic the Beats claim to be, I never took away any nuggets of deep wisdom. Instead, there is a lot of manic rambling from Dean. It gets old, but it is also refreshing. It is what I think this whole culture was founded on. Superficial depth. I liked it goddamnit.

    85/100

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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.