Ben Bonkoske

Poet Without a Pen

Ben Bonkoske

  • Defund Pornography

    With the consistent stream of social justice in the form of cancel culture knocking at men’s backdoors, I think it is time we recognize an overlooked luxury that may be doing more harm than good. I am unsure if we are moving towards a more progressive society, or if by cushioning every sharp corner that we are going backwards. I am not necessarily suggesting a prohibition of porno but nevertheless, the porn industry is an unregulated black hole that maybe should be reconsidered or at least better understood. I would argue that the industry was initially designed for men with magazines like Playboy. I would hope that 50 years later society might value women to a higher degree than degrading them to exploit their bodies for masturbation, however, the opposite appears to be true in this respect. Playboy and pornographic material validated women’s value based on their appearance in society. I am not suggesting that in other industries there haven’t been strides in alternative directions concerning women’s rights, but the two are not mutually exclusive.
    Everybody can enjoy porn. However, this is done at the expense of young (and older) women and men. It is not a victimless crime. The internet is still like the wild west, and there are repercussions for people doing illegal activities (such as videos of teenagers brutally murdering a kitten) but for some reason, prostitution is validated by the act of filming it. Porn takes advantage of men and women to ensure embarrassment, confusing emotions, and assurance of fewer job opportunities. Individuals who engage in filming their bodies for payment (or fun) don’t need to necessarily put it on their resume, but to be consistently running away from mistakes made before they can drink is a high price to pay for someone twice their age ejaculating to and then symbolically throwing out as they clear their browser history. And that is exactly what the porn industry does to old talent once it is used up. They throw them away.
    I would assume that the majority of traffic that watches porn is men. We all have the right to do whatever we want, but nobody wants to see me, naked on camera playing with myself unless they are a pervert. Nevertheless, there seems to be an emerging industry of that very thing for young girls with companies like OnlyFans. There may be the argument that a teenage girl undressing on camera is empowering, but I don’t know why. Perhaps the idea that she can score a man with such a large member, or that she feels important because thousands of people pay to watch her undress is impressive but I think such a goal compromises a lot of other values and morals of a healthy relationship.
    Regardless, sex, an intimate experience, is diminished and demoralized the second it is compromised for payment and viewership. Just think of the concept, twopeople having sex while videotaped for money. It just seems unethical when written on paper and I know I am not alone when there is a guilt that waves through us during clean up. I am not writing this because of my tiny penis but instead because of my grounded principles. I don’t hate porn and I would lie if I said that while writing this I didn’t contemplate watching some, but that is a major problem. It gives a false set of physical expectations of both sexes and should not be revered by impressional young girls and boys. I was in fifth grade the first time I masturbated to porn, and although I’ve had healthy sexual relationships since then, I don’t think that it is benign because it has altered my expectations with women. Often putting sex on a pedestal over an emotional connection.
    I understand that the men masturbating are not the initial victim that most people recognize when it comes to this issue, but the content breeds an addictive, domineering, false reality on both sides of the camera. I understand that men are not the sole audience, but it feels like a very chauvinistic predatory culture designed to empower and deflate men at the same time. I am surprised that there isn’t more controversy about internet porn with movements like the #Metoo. Although the #Metoo movement strictly concerns sexual harassment but for some backward reason people identify pornography as empowering for young women. I think that it is ethical harassment and abuse since can be the same thing that Harvey Weinstein does, just on camera. It promises a brighter future for sexual favors.

  • Shantaram – Book Review

    If you need some deep pagan wisdom, this book will look into your heart and soul, and you will find what you are after. I hope to become a better writer someday, and that is best achieved through reading difficult books that are outside of my comfort zone. This is the second book in my life that truly tested me in my capabilities of digesting good literature. With both of them, there were times when I wanted to give up, but like all hard battles, the ones we see through to the end end up teaching us the most. Shantaram was like a marathon; if you look at each moment, page, or mile independently it is not heartbreaking, but to string it altogether would knock anyone on their feet. It is a truly compelling epic. It had the ability of balancing an impressive time span, rememberable characters, a smart plot, with enough heart to urge you further and enough fiction to leave you in suspended disbleif. A good book does not reveal the truth. Some stories are good enough just to be a fantastical story or a plot, but this book had the courage to make you feel the triumph and believe it too. The character development was genius because it isn’t revealed until the last page if Shantaram is a tragic hero or not. By the end of it, I no longer wished it to be over. Nevertheless, I found myself at periods trying just to turn the page so I could get it over with. This book really is about the journey rather than the ending. I was humbled by the end of the story because of the literary talent of the author. I could not write this book. No one who hasn’t lived in India could convey a culture as well as Gregory David Roberts does. It is a perfect example of how race should not define what a story can be about. Although it is not technically a difficult book (if you can have the patience to read a 1,000-page novel), it is deep and deserves, like most great pieces of literary art, to be reread. There was a single plot point that went over my head and it made me feel like I should burn the damn thing for outsmarting me, and outsmart me, it did. The only flaw is somewhere along the adventure it begins to take the story a little too seriously, but it does not make it any less enjoyable. I found the most enjoyable parts of culture shock and transition of living in Bombay that Shantaram encounters in the beginning, rather than crime-ridden navigation towards the end. This book does not have much ego and all of it is profound in many ways. The tone is serious but light, and you may find yourself moved to embrace the little things in life since many, many events build this love-story to India.
    89/100
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  • in side

    and clink. the ice in my glass sings. a soliloquy no less. but no more.
    Today at dinner all we talked about was how terrible celebrities were. This, after dismantling my entire life before I go live it. The chit chat complemented by the rich smell of alcohol was enjoyable but I can’t help but think there should be more things to talk about than television and education. Six months without Netflix and I still find myself glued to alternative time wasters, complacency at its finest. I’d have so many memories to share if I laid them all out in a line but I never find the right time to describe how silly God’s design is. Memories are meant to make us smile, but I have a somber look in my eyes even when I smile. A picture tells no lies and I am a walking paradox. I contradict even the simplest sincerities since I know how scary life can be. In other words, I am ugly. You might not find any problems with me, but believe me, you are too nice. I ruined a small portion of a good woman’s life by being so excited about Turkish Delights. Why do I seem so negative when the right word is introspective? I suppose deep thinkers must die of cancer quicker and earlier than problem drinkers who don’t acknowledge their suppositions. One of the worst things I ever heard was someone asking my approval of someone whose own success was non-existent. I did it once. “LOOK AT WHAT I DID,” I said, and I could feel the dread of nobody caring. It is a hollow chagrin and anyone can tell that the perpetrator deeply second-guesses themselves and has nothing noteworthy worth observing.
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  • InteGRITTY

    People either love you for being an outsider (mixed up with drugs, sex, and lies) or hate you for being so alike them (boring, sober, honest). They basically love a failure and hate competition. They would rather watch a life waste away than to be belittled by an academic overachiever. In some circles, it is reversed. For instance, Dress Rehearsals. I will never fit anywhere I sit. It is not just that people will love to hate you. It is the deep depressing ocean of creating an identity that is worth living, or more importantly, worth reading. I was once a dancing smoking poet. I don’t know what happened but I’ve gone flaccid just to be happy. I’ve given so much away. Nothing gold can stay. I have gone black and I don’t ever want to go back. I’m scared, ok? I’ve been through multiple self-defense classes that have left me with tattered veins. It was love at first sight. A misfit not known to these parts. Go away. Nevertheless, it is always here, on the cusp of something great that I throw everything I’ve worked for away. I had just became so used to everything easy going my way until I died a little inside. Let’s raise a beer to the dead poet who drowns in his own liver. The smoker who died of cancer. The opiate poster child. The drug of love that has started wars. I am no longer a lost hunter, I am a man of peaceful wonder. Hopefully, (as I have discerned with my writing) I will arrive at the same conclusions and vast philosophies that will keep me awake at night with delight that I would high. Dreams are beautiful things. A nightmare in waking life is good poetry. I’d rather be madly insane than happily inane. But no one thinks anything is original at the disposal of dopamine. It is just the blanket statements that capture everything so wide and vast that they can mean anything to anyone. I know, two novels deep and I’ve gathered a few great sentences worth remembering.

  • Irony

    All I’ve done doesn’t amount to much physically. 1.3 pounds (or inches) of paper  I think, but appearances aren’t everything. It’s all online nowadays. I hate this day in age. I commend anyone who can stay away from online gratification in all ways. Socially. Sexually. It’s all the same. Dopamine. I’m highly addicted to it but play it off like I’m just a used car dealer. God, how the boundaries were dissolved before 9 o’clock this morning. Fixing a fence, an unspoken hatred was uttered and I lost all respect for my acquaintance. I still acted like I liked him, and played along platonically. There are bad people of all races, he basically said, but you don’t need to be explicit about what you think of them or anyone for that matter. It is better to pretend to like everything, especially when you don’t amount to much anyway. I’m not one to care so much about social edict but justice is the same in all languages. I’m sore as hell, and my bones are breaking down for not enough calcium. I urked any movement after I snuck back into bed this afternoon. A poor rich man. Salad days are gone. Ode to Viceroy. I crumpled up the last smoke I’ll ever toke I hope. I don’t have a great structure to stand on. I’m like a wind-up clock that spins out of control and has a vampire for its owner. Sunlight betrays me, and I’d burrow deep into the cave of summer hibernation. No use trying, so I idly surrender to a better life, even if I’m not much of a sunshine to be around. At least I’m happy on the inside, which isn’t much but is enough. But on and on it goes and I am just one of the millions who don’t digest anything but crap and act like they’ve never sat on the toilet before and thought to themselves how disgusting their anatomy is. I break digital mirrors. A beautiful soul who is probably in trouble, that’s me. That’s all I’ll ever be. When I let my mind flow it usually goes somewhere discouraging, but lately, I haven’t had the time to do any thinking. My brain is too congested with new goals, smothered by smokey the bear. What is worst is when your best isn’t efficiently effective to cut the pie. My body hasn’t ached in this way since I hiked the Appalachian Trail so at least you know what I mean when I say, It is better than anything, to forgive yourself for not pitying itself.

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.