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What is Hive Being, and Why the Name?

You have likely heard talk of a hive mind, where one global mind finds more or less figurative expression in various local minds. Such talk is common enough in nature documentaries, especially ones concerning ants or bees, and in sci-fi programs. Take that notion, at least a loose version of it, and broaden its scope. That will be a decent first step in understanding the title I have chosen both for my Blog and for the first five-volume installment of my magnum opus Made For You and Me, a fragmentary collection of minimalist stanzas from 2016 to 2020.

In alignment with Spinoza (the 17th Century Rationalist to whom I devoted my doctoral studies), I view reality in its totality as a grand hive Being: all entities are but pulsating manifestations of the buckstopping fount of everything, an ultimate being we might call “God” or “Nature” (so long as, out of respect for the capital “G” and the capital “N,” we limit it neither to some anthropomorphic cloud father hurling lightning bolts nor to mere wilderness untouched by human smog). According to the hive-Being view (where reality is one lone superorganism, a monistic—and we might even say unividualist—conception I defend in both my creative and academic capacities), each non-foundational being (each being, that is, whose essence does not involve existence) is an utterly necessitated expression or eruption or exudation of this eternal source—each is, perhaps better put, a mode or manner of being, and so a focal point through which is disclosed, what classical theists sometimes call “being itself” (ipsum esse subsistens): the realness of the real, the being of whatever may be, the sheer activity of being, the very isness of whatever is. This Blog, which duplicates my Substack, throbs as but one among many literary unfurlings of this self-necessitated foundation, this supreme wellspring, of which we—like black holes and broken beliefs, like fractal ferns and flickering flames—are the inevitable stylings.

My Journey

I am an academic who found himself pressured into early retirement by the rising tides of cancel culture. The illiberal scourge of censoring, silencing, and shaming—although always with us throughout our evolution—reached a local peak around 2021. That was the turbulent year my creative pursuits, which the old left once encouraged as a healthy outlet for the stresses of a childhood steeped in poverty and illiteracy, drew the ire of the new safe-space left. A small cadre of self-proclaimed victims and their allies, several of whom continue to berate me years later under pseudonyms as see through as their sexual infatuation, sought to erase me and my heterodoxy. They found support from a wannabe-woke dean, covered in the grand inquisitor robes of our decadent modernity (full-body tattoos) and just itching to signal his commitment to protecting “vulnerable populations” from triggering material (even if just, as it was in my case, off-duty poems “unbecoming for someone calling himself a teacher”). Although I eventually won my due-process case with the help of The Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression, I slunk away from a college that turned its back on protecting freedom of expression and from an institution increasingly intolerant of intellectual diversity.  

The wrecking ball to my too-comfy office in the windowless ivory tower came with a silver lining. From the ashes of my professional aspirations rose a phoenix of increased freedom to fulfill the literary calling I have pursued for decades. Reputation concerns never stopped me, even within academia’s sterile halls of conformity. Indeed, my unapologetic defiance, which has long baffled friends and family, no doubt chummed even safe waters—almost as if I were asking for it all along—until the cancel shiver grew too frenzied to hold back its blind thrashings. But now, now I piston the most forbidden territories of human thought with no longer even a twinge of conscience. The newfound freedom means extra time to hone my craft. When not assisting special-needs communities (a day job far more rewarding than freeway-flyer drudgeries), I pursue my literary mission with Dionysian fervor.

Call for Co-Conspirators

This space, my digital sanctuary, showcases the fruits of my mission. Think of my posts, even those linking to my publications, as works in progress. I want your input, unflinching brutality included. Each post begins with an invitation to action: “Let’s workshop this [draft about x, y, z].” Your contributions, whether through public comments or my contact page, help hammer scraps of ore into polished blades fit for magazine publication.

Your input is valuable, even if you are neither a writer nor a reader of literature—twin disciplines dying by the cyber nanosecond. Sometimes—even if at the risk of uttering banalities—an outsider’s fresh vantage can pierce the veils of convention to reveal what insiders miss. It often takes an outsider to make us even think to question our ingrained presuppositions and attitudes. I stand by the hygienic value of contagion. That is one reason I advocate so strongly for intellectual diversity and freedom of expression. And that is also one reason I was so harrowed by the anti-diversity swell of cancel culture in academia (an institution that should be the utmost caretaker of such values)—harrowed especially insofar as that swell masqueraded under the gaslighting guise of “diversity”).

You will witness the breathing evolution of my writings over time. To track these changes, I label each revision by round: “ROUND 2,” ROUND 3,” and so forth. Each piece undergoes continuous refinement based on your feedback and my own revisitations. Sometimes changes will mar the work. That is the risk of creative tinkering as a finite creature. I hope you will alert me to missteps. After many semesters of university writing workshops, one rule has impressed itself upon me: when someone senses a flaw, something almost always needs to change—even if, yes, the proposed solution misses the mark (which often it does). From a quick look into the archives, accessible here, you can see how much I have benefited from your feedback so far.

My Hope

Sharing drafts can be daunting. But showing you the ravaged and unperfumed real deal unfiltered by makeup (stuttering starts and falsities, awkward line breaks and clumsy word choices, grammatical errors and misspellings)—that not only makes my work more relatable, but helps me refine things through your input. I hope the unfiltered look at the raw process of fumbling, rather than just the polished product, also helps other writers develop their craft. Imperfect works often instruct more than perfect ones: whereas the perfect ones tend to have a grace by which they slip inside us without activating our scrutiny, the imperfect ones—especially the near perfect ones—show us glaringly what not to do.

People laugh at me, seeing—in my tilting at the windmills of literary excellence—a Don Quixote clunking around in Arthurian armor in a post-knight era. I am not naïve. I am well aware of the diminishing ability to read, let alone well: slowly and deeply, with gratitude. I am also aware that my style, which often nests subpoints within larger points, never waters down virtuosity for the sake of mass appeal. I watch readers stumble over my sentences, unable to unlock even just the music of the envelope let alone the semantic meat within, which—given my tendency to flashlight through the darker facets of human nature (the addicts, the miscreants, the abusers among us)—only adds an additional alienating layer of difficulty). Beholding these depressive scenes of even supportive family members getting bucked off my syntactic bronco makes me feel like a dinosaur who should get a hint and, if not succumb to the brain rot of skibidi-toilet speak, just hang himself already. Even though the decline in linguistic background and grammatical voltage makes my compositions seem quixotic in a world binging Netflix and TikTok, I persist—raging against the dying of the light—by some internal compulsion to celebrate the richness of language and thought.

My hope is that, despite social media’s unparalleled power to farm our attention, people never forget the unique power of writing. Beyond unveiling hypocrisy, teasing out complex implications, and detailing the commonalities between even the most alien phenomena, writing offers something we need today—trapped in agoraphobic cyber bubbles only thickened by the Lyme dangers of forests and the COVID dangers of cities—perhaps more than ever. Granting us rich access to the first-person perspectives of others (to how things feel to them), writing serves as one of humanity’s best tools for combating loneliness. It allows us to linger, broadly and deeply and at high resolution, within the inner lives of others in a way that other arts can only suggest.

What to Expect

My work spans a broad spectrum: from metaphysical discourses on free will and determinism and the ontology of holes to the ephemera of western culture (whether the childhood impacts of the hypersexual mono-image of black woman as squirting twerkers or Terrence Howard’s sham revolution of mathematics). Some tight and minimal, others free-flowing sprawls; some heady and abstract, others emotional and imagistic—my inkwell musings, which often blend scholarly rigor with a dark humor from both high and low culture, aim to capture the visceral intensity of our personal and social and ultimately existential predicaments.

By no means can I deny that drug abuse, sexual assault, and the tales of the broken and the damned loom large in the tag cloud of my work. My writing will never be a paradise of easy truths and comforting lies. It will challenge you, provoke you, and at times even repulse you. I offer no apologies for the monsters I unleash. They are as much a part of us, at long root scared rodent mammals scurrying in the shadows of dinosaurs, as our noblest aspirations.

But make no mistake. It is not all downer darkness. The archives are my receipts. You will find pieces exploring the pursuit of authenticity in a media-saturated world, the search for meaning in an indifferent cosmos, and the celebration of beauty in both the sublime and the profane. I locate much of my inspiration, in fact, in novelists like Dostoevsky and poets like Ted Kooser—writers unafraid to pursue moral agendas or risk Hallmark sentimentality in an age that often sneers at sincerity.

Be they satirical dissections of modern social dynamics or poignant poems about addiction or academic articles on moral responsibility, my goal is to provoke thought, evoke emotion, and foster meaningful dialogue. Fear has not and will not stop me from challenging humanity’s fundamental taboos (like bestiality and cannibalism) or self-reflecting into the dark chaos of the subconscious, even if that means exposing the Jungian shadows—the inner Goebbels—lurking within us all!

Expect posts each day, no day missed. Donations are welcome, but I impose no paywall: it feels wrong to charge for art, especially given our date with obliteration. Feel free to explore what amounts to, at the time of writing this, close to a thousand pieces of poetry and prose here. That should give you a sense of what awaits.

Join me—specula holstered—on this literary odyssey into the public and private nooks of the hive Being. Let us navigate the labyrinth of creation together, confronting our demons and even slaying our darlings if we must. Let us dance on the razor’s edge between the sublime and the profane in pursuit of an elusive literary perfection never to be confused—as it has been confused in our declining civilization—with the pursuit of popularity or likeability over truth.

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Gonzo Domestic Squabble (ROUND 5)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Gonzo Domestic Squabble (ROUND 5)

"Gonzo Domestic Squabble" is a poem about the inheritance of erotic structure — the way that childhood witness of adult orgiastic life, incomprehensible at the time of its occurrence, installs a template in the nervous system that surfaces decades later as compulsion, arousal, and the desperate need to insert oneself into other people's intensity as the only available form of mattering. Its narrator is a dorm-room voyeur who escalates from watching a street fight to shooting at the combatants with an air rifle, and the poem tracks this escalation as psychological recapitulation: each stage of the present action triggers a memory that reveals the childhood origin of the compulsion, until the two scenes — dorm window and childhood bedroom — are fully superimposed, the same groove playing in different bodies at different times.

The title announces its generic instability. "Gonzo" invokes Hunter Thompson's mode of total subjective immersion — the observer who cannot remain outside what he observes, whose participation distorts and transforms the event beyond recovery. "Domestic Squabble" is the bureaucratic minimization, the term that makes intimate violence sound like a scheduling disagreement. The collision of these registers is the poem's governing irony: the squabble is gonzo, uncontainable, metastasizing through the narrator's psyche and out the window in BB rifle fire, and the gonzo is domestic, rooted in the home, in the mother, in the childhood bedroom where the template was first and ecstatically installed.

The opening image — "Drunken shouts tied into a sloppy knot in the grass" — renders the street fight as textural event before it becomes visual. The knot is both the entanglement of two bodies and the acoustic tangle of their voices, imprecise and adhesive. "Tit flopping / in halogen butter" introduces the erotic register immediately alongside the violent one: the woman's exposed breast in the orange-yellow cast of a parking lot lamp, "butter" making the light warm and slightly nauseating, a domestic substance misapplied to a scene of public brutality. "Took the mount, grunting berserk / hammerfists to his skull" — the woman initially dominant, her violence rendered in combat sports vocabulary that aestheticizes and reports simultaneously. "But he got hold of her hair" — the turn is a single line, its brevity performing the speed of the power shift.

"They had a life" is the poem's first moment of pure psychological revelation, arriving without transition. It is precisely their having a life — a shared history, a union however brutal — that produces the narrator's arousal and his sense of exclusion. "Hyperaroused helplessness" names the specific affective compound with precision: arousal and impotence simultaneously, the body responding to what the self cannot enter. "Gleeking that unforgotten brine" — gleeking is the involuntary ejection of saliva from the submandibular gland, and the poem deploys the term with physiological exactness: the mouth responding autonomically, producing the "unforgotten brine" that connects present arousal to its childhood source before the poem has consciously named that source. The body remembers first.

"Electricity tingled my pinkies / like in childhood" — the nervous system's recognition of a familiar template, the pinkies as the body's farthest outposts registering the charge. The childhood comparison arrives with the casualness of long familiarity: the narrator has always known this connection, even if he has never articulated it. The air rifle is reached for in this state — not as a weapon in any ordinary sense but as an instrument of insertion, of ending the helplessness the arousal has made unbearable. "I needed in on it, in on their union" — the repeated preposition performing the desire for penetration of their shared reality.

The first memory surfaces here, and it is the poem's central disclosure: "like when my mom and her men fought in a fuck coil / fecal with the piston of a glucking fist." "Fuck coil" superimposes sex and violence into a single compound — not metaphorically but literally, the mother's encounters with her men being simultaneously combative and orgiastic, indistinguishable to the child's developing perception. The fisting is explicit in "the piston of a glucking fist" — the wet, visceral onomatopoeia of "glucking" rendering the sound with a phonetic precision that makes the word feel coined from the act itself. The mother is not a victim here. She is a participant in her own extremity, her body the site of an intensity the child witnesses without the interpretive framework to understand it as chosen, as wanted, as ecstatic.

"Her shark eyes / dead to Teddy and me" — the mother's dissociation during these encounters is the dissociation of orgiastic absorption, not of suffering. The shark eyes are the eyes of a creature in the grip of its own nature, operating below the level of social recognition, not because she is being destroyed but because she is elsewhere, in the place extreme pleasure takes a person. The child reads vacancy where there is in fact a different kind of presence — one foreclosed to him by his age and the incomprehension the poem names directly: "as far as a child could know, / the sugar of the verboten still locked in cookie jars." The cookie jar is exact and devastating: the child knows the sugar exists, can smell it perhaps, but cannot access it, cannot name it, cannot metabolize what he is witnessing as anything other than chaos and exclusion. The verboten is still locked. He does not yet have the key.

This is the poem's most precise psychological mechanism: the mother is not traumatizing the child through her suffering but through her pleasure — through her orgiastic absorption in an intensity that excludes him, that makes him a nonagent, less than zero, present but not participating, witnessing but not comprehending. The template being installed is not one of violence-as-damage but of intensity-as-the-only-real-thing, of the body in extremity as the site of an aliveness that ordinary existence cannot approach. Saint Teresa's ecstasy and the mother's are structurally identical in this sense: the body seized by something beyond it, the face indistinguishable from agony, the witness left outside the experience with only its effects to read.

"She re-blew: lowing like a cow / in oniony estrus" — the mother's vocalization during orgasm, rendered in the animal register without condescension: the lowing is the sound of a body in heat, the estrus naming the biological depth of the arousal. She is not performing for an audience in the calculating sense; she is in the grip of something that happens to have an audience. "Sweeping my hand across the blub; / plop-plopping it down" — the mother takes the boy's hand and places it against her, using him as an instrument of her pleasure with the same orgiastic unselfconsciousness that governs everything else she does in these moments. The child does not understand what his hand is doing or why. He is being incorporated into an intensity he cannot read. The "plop-plopping" — hard smacks of his hand against her — is both specific and phonetically exact, the sound inseparable from the act.

"Her squirt / pelted Teddy and me — sheets of deadened thuds, rug / in a cloudburst — with that musk of hot pennies saltier / with my tears" — the mother's orgasm reaching both children, the squirt experienced as weather, as something that happens to them from outside without targeting them, the musk of it mixing with the narrator's tears. He is crying not because he is being harmed but because he is excluded from something whose intensity he can feel without being able to enter. The tears are the tears of the nonagent: present at the feast, unable to eat. "'Mommy stop! Mommy!'" — the child's plea is ambiguous in retrospect. It is the only language available to him for an intensity he cannot otherwise address. It is not necessarily a plea to end her pleasure but the only utterance the overwhelmed child can produce in the face of something too large for him.

The present scene and the childhood memory achieve full superimposition in the final stanza. The man uppercutting the woman's gut, "the fist outline, / belly heaving from within" — the fist inside the body made visible through the skin, the exact image of the glucking fist of childhood now rendered externally. "The girl sobbing like her" — the final pronoun closing the loop entirely. The woman in the grass and the mother in the bedroom are the same figure, the present scene a recapitulation of the original in which the narrator, now armed with an air rifle, can finally inject himself into the intensity that excluded him as a child. The shots are the plop-plopping hand transposed: an instrument being used, finally, in the chaos that matters.

Formally, the poem's three stanzas move through escalating disclosure and superimposition: present scene and arousal, childhood memory beginning to surface, full merger of past and present until they are indistinguishable. The accumulating clause structure — semicolons and dashes refusing full stops — enacts the compulsive momentum of the narrator's state, the inability to pause once the groove has begun to play. The phonetic texture throughout — "glucking," "gleeking," "clack clack," "plop-plopping," "goo-goo-gaga," "lowing like a cow" — keeps the poem in the body, refusing the cognitive elevation that would allow the reader to process the material from a safe distance.

"Gonzo Domestic Squabble" is ultimately a poem about how orgiastic intensity witnessed in childhood — incomprehensible at the time, installed below the threshold of understanding — structures adult desire and compulsion more completely than anything the conscious mind subsequently processes. The narrator shoots because the groove is playing. The groove was cut by a mother who was Saint Teresa in a bedroom, whose ecstasy was real and total and indifferent to its witnesses in the way that all genuine ecstasy is indifferent — which is to say, not cruel, but absolute. The child made a nonagent by her absoluteness becomes the adult who cannot witness intensity without needing to enter it. The poem renders this mechanism from inside, with a completeness that is its own form of seriousness.

Meta Description

A poem tracing adult erotic compulsion to childhood witness of a mother's orgiastic life — her ecstatic fisting, her squirt reaching her children, her hand guiding the boy's against her — a template of intensity-as-the-only-real-thing that resurfaces in a dorm window, an air rifle, and the need to enter other people's chaos as the only available form of mattering.

Keywords

Gonzo Domestic Squabble, childhood erotic witness, orgiastic mother, trauma template, intensity and compulsion, Saint Teresa ecstasy, fisting and childhood, erotic inheritance, nonagent psychology, superimposition of memory, voyeurism and intervention, contemporary confessional poetry, close reading, Hypocorism, gonzo narrative form

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Visit my Substack: Hive Being

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Don’t let anyone tell you that real life is lacking in poetic interest. This is exactly what the poet is for: he has the mind and the imagination to find something of interest in everyday things. Real life supplies the motifs, the points that need to be said—the actual heart of the matter; but it is the poet’s job to fashion it all into a beautiful, animated whole. You are familiar with Fürnstein, the so-called “nature poet”? He has written a poem about growing hops, and you couldn’t imagine anything nicer. I have now asked him to write some poems celebrating the work of skilled artisans, in particular weavers, and I am quite sure he will succeed; he has lived among such people from an early age, he knows the subject inside out, and will be in full command of his material. That is the advantage of small works: you need only choose subjects that you know and have at your command. With a longer poetic work, however, this is not possible. There is no way around it: all the different threads that tie the whole thing together, and are woven into the design, have to be shown in accurate detail. Young people only have a one-sided view of things, whereas a longer work requires a multiplicity of viewpoints—and that’s where they come unstuck.—Goethe (Conversations with Eckermann)


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