Ben Bonkoske

  • personablity

    Sometimes, very rarely, my mind is silenced. I have been muddying it up with classical music (along with other contemporary indie-trash) I know will make my writing suffer, but the slow release of a 30-minute orgasm, writing alone in my basement to Vivaldi is worth the corruption. The rest of the time it is just second-guessing all the mistakes I make. Walking away. If only today. And yet, I make the decision to be an artist. Just you wait. Even I know it is a mistake I am willing to make. One more failure for my future. Money only makes me happy from behind the curtain. The most I ever held was somewhere around 8,000 dollars for a murder I committed, and for some reason, even as an artist, I doubt that is impossible to recreate. The intensity of my consciousness reacts fleetingly. It pulses like blood that only when I let a little run out of my veins do I decompress from my balloon-like state that is sure to explode if I know nothing, which I know very well. Nothing is ever still. There are no facts to life. It is constantly changing. Even now, as I sit in my little hole below the ground, I hear the water trickle down the pipes from my cold shower I just lied about. Tonight we got a very embarrassing glimpse at what our country is headed for, but before I attend to the very serious circus, I must confess how my heart still beats. It is like a chord. I can not determine who I will see in my dreams, so therefore I do not know what it desires (here I am, pleading). Consciously or subconsciously, I can only answer its questions like an unprepared cherub in kindergarten, unable to read, but willing to learn, so that someday he may even confess his own truths the length of a book. My goal is 100 (I did 100 pushups and situps today, but what I mean is books to finish writing) before I die, but if I really get lucky enough to have ONE sell, then i’d bet I could do more (but at this rate, at this hour, i’m focusing too much on articles instead of novels) before I develop Alzheimer’s from all the mountain-dew I drank in college. I only wish to let my heartburn cry each and every night until I arise alone and then die. I have no need for lust in my lazy eye, I’d rather be blind. Sometimes I laugh so hard, I don’t need to remember who I am, or why. I should be happier for all that God has given me, taken away, and given in a whole brand new way. It is cleansing. I smell. It doesn’t make any sense, and yet, at the same time, I’m becoming more consistent. What am I saying…It’s been three days…a new record. I still whine over the love I had, and the one I will never understand. Music makes us so damn human. I listened to everything a band wrote because it made me think of you (the vague “she” in all great poetry books) growing up. I look forward to the most stupid things in this outrageous under-stimulating daily life. I write about how unfair it is to judge my progress since it is in a vacuum. What will happen when we return to our daily dying.
    Biden was bullied. Trump is ugly. America the great. You’ve got to be joking.

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  • poet’s try

    A little can do a lot. A little reorganization can go a long way. A little proper communication can go even further. Where am I going? Away! AWAY. I don’t want to see everyone I knew from high school when I am a happy failure in my own self-dignified way. It’s overrated. I don’t necessarily crave new acquaintances either, because let’s face it, they all have their problems they might over explain. I’m the same. I found a little hole in the wall where a stray lightbulb and smooth jazz hides me away from the very complicated, scary, inconceivable daylight from outside. Like a child opening its eyes for the first time after a birth squeeze, I might be coming out of a somber quiet depression. Hopefully, but unlikely. I’m more convinced it is hypomania ready to slay me by tomorrow this time. If I put in half the hours I did today tomorrow, it’d be a good day. That’s untrue and I’ll explain why. If someone has one good day, they will expect the next to be just as fulfilling, however, it’ll take the same amount of productivity to reach the same level of affirmation, so if I’m half as productive tomorrow, I will be half as happy as I am today, and that is why I am crazy. I build dream upon dream and burnout like a burnout. Who cares, you want to know why I am actually doing something with my life? Because I have gone the distance in between my last mistake and today. It pains me to think how far ahead of myself I would be if I hadn’t made my most recent mistake, and the one before that all the way back to my birth, or worse, showing up to school stoned when I was class president. Everybody knew my defamed name. They probably still won’t forget how unmemorable I really am. Parent’s from my home town didn’t like me because I didn’t have that much money, when in reality it is because I was a trouble maker anyway. I’m listening to music that for the first time doesn’t make me feel like life is one empty shallow unexplained explanation for itself. I’m happy enough to not hate everyone for once. I might benefit from a sensory deprivation tank. Here I am, locked away in a nuclear bunker happy as a clam. I am going to be who I am. What I believed. A romantic misfit ready to be deceived. I think I have surpassed two weeks without compulsive mastbehavior. For that, and every other refrain, God is taking care of me. Today, I was ready to say, “Hope is outdated.” And in religious fashion, all of my disbelief evaporated. It really got very old feeling like I always had to explain myself. I almost believed it, but deep down it was like an old relationship. I still don’t know what is going to happen, but like that time I once walked off into the horizon without much to my name, it worked out somehow. I think it is amazing how little money we actually need – a preliminary curse? I haven’t grown a day older, I’m still in love with what’s her name.

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  • paintence

    I’ve been getting up rather early for as much as I’ve been sleeping in. Some days this week were wasted in bed, but today was a comforting reminder of how little work needs to be done when you actually do it. I think we as humans are plagued by the way we think. It is not so much what we need to do, but thinking about what needs to be done that is our Achilles heel. I spent probably an eighth of the time I spent worrying about my elusive workload doing what needed to be done and I’ve gone from irredeemably behind schedule to probably on time. It is other people that are making my skin crawl by how slowly they attribute to my expectations. It feels like bugs dancing on my flesh with pitchforks. I think very highly of people when, if I looked no further than my speckled bathroom mirror, I would be much less disappointed. I’m at least not mad, or overstimulated, barbaric like I have been the past few nights from a concealed testosterone I refuse to let flow out of me. It has resulted in an unproductive temper. I can see the moon from here; this angled makeshift desk that I write from as I slowly swim across all the properties until I make it back home. I worry I’ll have nothing to come back to its been so long since I visited. I don’t always know what I want to be. I think I just tell myself enough persuasive lies that I think I’ll be all right in the end. I’m just not sure what I’m going for besides reject townie teacher. I’ll spend my whole damn life in one place, slowly decaying from the belief that I never reached my potential and spilled all my dreams and freedoms into what others expected of me, or unreachable goals that nobody could expect to materialize. I’m not hard on myself. I’m hardened like a callous from running thousands of miles in my lifetime through a dark forest only lit by the cigarette dangling from my lips. I can make it home. If only I knew how close to it I was, I wouldn’t always be trying to recapture an old football game. I can’t tell if I’m sick of everyone or just myself. It gets hard to be likable after you’ve known someone for more than 10 years. Try 20. I think I still know one person from that long ago that I still have a warm affection for. And from her, I get a call maybe once every five years. I’d bet there is somebody I’d still enjoy for the rest of my life. Doubtfully ever meet them. It is nearly impossible to break through into a casual relationship if you are outlandish as me. I’m not crazy anymore, luckily, or soon to be fatally. Bored to death. Here I am, thinking I’ve obtained sanity when I’m rambling like a madman on a trampoline. Over the woods, we go. Until tomorrow, another expected assumption I’ll forgo.

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  • Organihilism

    There is nothing wrong with standing up for a cause. However, a good cause has a defined intention, and better yet a noble method and worthy goal. We can all try to outlaw lawnmowers by yelling at cats, but although the intention is defined, the goal is lofty and the method frankly stupid. People should feel empowered and listened to. The problem with the modern revolution (the way I see it) is that there is a decentralized narrative (Besides BLM) and an ineffective vehicle for facilitating a unified front. With the oversaturation of people on social media, dreams are not being granted everyday, and those that are actualized are just becoming a drop in the sea of narcissism painted with genuine philanthropic initiatives. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I don’t think there is anything wrong with standing unified with an “organized” cause, but I really think the reactions/methods behind it are…pedantic and futile. The real movers and shakers are not concerned with political correctness from angsty privileged teenagers trying to out-anti-racist each other but instead a solid (or flawed) narrative that begs questions. A narrative that actually mobilizes structural corruption. One that demands answers from people in power instead of sarcastic ambivalence towards millions of people who lose all their credibility when they become violent. A protest can have a hundred different viewpoints of each protester, that is why Black Lives Matter is the only political movement that has any sustenance, because IT HAS ONE MESSAGE. The lives of black people are not valued in the judicial system. Sadly, Republican news organizations have argued that, because of the riots, BLM is a militarized anti-establishment organization that should be recognized as a threat. HO HO HEY HEY POLICE ARE NOT THE WAY, does very little compared to the activist/lawyer who writes 500 pages on policy reform, that, although flawed, gets the ball moving. It is a perfect example of the pen is mightier than the sword. Brain instead of brawn. Throwing money at hundreds of different organizations will not solve one issue. Protests are a stagnant form of revolution. Riots are just one step further in that same direction, creating another problem instead of solving the initial issue. Anger looses credibility. I’m not saying that African Americans (the race that has resulted in the initial spark for equality through murder) don’t have a right to be angry. But it is like breaking the law to recognize it. We have to be better than what they expect of us. I also don’t think that BLM could be sustainable with only African Americans. It is a group effort that requires everybody to engage in hopefully a more effective change than looting, spiting on SWAT, and disagreeing with every Trump supporter. We are just as responsible for the capacity for change as those who refuse to accept it. It is best to create an argument so rational, so infallibly correct (not any political agenda, but basic human rights), that there can’t be an argument against it. For some reason, I just believe wars are a waste of human potential, and the way that our country fundamentally disagrees on social issues, it may be that we are heading for a civil militant conflict. Trump already brought out the national guard against civilians. NORMAL PEOPLE who, though their methods may be less effective than they think, are being silenced through violence. Violence vs. Violence = no solution = misdirecting of narrative=more deaths. There are physical, social, economic disparities that I believe need to be addressed, but the problems will be alleviated by hundreds of people at a non-profit, case managers, housing experts, social workers, lawyers, and yes, police officers, that will shepard an afflicted individual out of crime and poverty. I am all for police reform, but I think a stronger training program, higher respect for the profession may stop the issue just as well. Hating the police, inciting violence is not going to stop one more black teenager from being killed. I remember in high school debating whether or not I wanted to be a lawyer or a cop because I wanted to make the greatest impact on a problem I saw in society. The way I saw it was that I was better off becoming a police officer because then I could physically intervene and save a life, instead of being a lawyer who receives a paycheck for cleaning up after the mess. I hadn’t really thought about it, but lawyers are profiting over George Floyd’s death. Why is that more acceptable than a minimum wage, undereducated pig who fucks up? There sincerely needs to be reform, but social media has become an outlet to argue, parade bigotry or extreme leftist values, instead of open dialogue. I don’t have the solution of what will open a discourse, what will defuse tension, but making the problem about ourselves, misdirecting questions that deserve to be answered because of how “I” want to be represented, affiliated, is truly going to be the death of freedom of speech, because everyone will silence each other. Nobody can listen when everybody is yelling.

    What is a more effective solution than chants, and selfies?

    As a final point, I think that we have a moral obligation to keep the supreme court as balanced as possible. If one voice outweighs the other, law and order will cease to be the foundation of this country’s judicial system. Well, it might already be that way.

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  • Opera of Oprah

    I think, in all ways besides literately, I have become dull. I am like a nub of a knife that is as round as a spoon. We can only sharpen for so long before it ends up doing damage. The point is weakened by over-explanation so to say. I am so stable I ought to own a horse. In fact, if you were my enemy, by now I’d imagine that you are forecasting a psychotic public hysteria. And if you were really my enemy, you wouldn’t listen to one more word. I think the problem with being good at something is nobody wants to believe it. I doubt myself quite often, but deep down, it has proven to doubt others just as much. Even if you were my friend you might be surprised that I haven’t sabotaged something recently. With America ready to outlaw abortion, I’m not doing so bad. Aldous Huxley wrote that the future slaves will conform willingly because they will believe in the philosophy that takes away their liberties. I suppose if you are going to get anywhere you have to eventually stop failing. We can learn more from failure, but success is a sign of growth. To be honest, I wouldn’t have trusted myself a week ago to not binge watch smut and cough up a lung, but today, after overcoming the spot in the mud where I usually slip, I might go another few weeks or months without getting dirty. Try harder, fail better. Fail at all the progress I’ve made to literally nowhere. It is possible that I am finally letting go of the notion that I am so much better than everyone, or better yet, that people are confined to contrite comparison indefinitely. My mind was like an angry goldfish tonight at dinner, ready to throw up all of my congested sporadic thoughts, irregular notions, and intrusive flashbacks. I suppose my mind couldn’t get off those annoying topics as a quiet dinner guest, but I am outgrowing narcissism. There is nothing wrong with having a healthy exuberant identity, but it crosses the line when you think you ought to be recognized for no other reason than who you are. A good person, even if you and them both know they are better than you in every way, will humbly admit their revelations, epiphanies, and achievements. The best will not even mention it. Instead of being angry by how accomplished others are, and my how wonderful I am at executing frivolous ideas, and noble adventures, I am happy for other people rather than being happy in spite of myself. It’s rather freeing. I don’t have to be what everybody expects me to be. I really don’t want to be that guy at the party who doesn’t enjoy anybody’s company. I usually walked away from those situations convinced that nobody wanted to pay any attention to me anyway (or I had to be the center of attention that people go home talking nastily about). That, my friend, comes from a premature egotistical lense. Maybe it is just because I am so far away from anybody my age, but I really haven’t felt inadequate for the past five minutes. The older the people that I surround myself with, the more I am liable to accept myself, because it is a reminder that everybody is not perfect, but can still be happy. I hate people my age. I hate the culture that surrounds youth, and America. I truly hope someday to transcend the narrative that berates people for being ugly.

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