to Hive being
welcome
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.
tag cloud
- literature community
- American literature
- poetry
- literature
- poem
- literary
- creative writing
- writing
- poetry community
- Michael Istvan
- Istvan
- perception
- defiance
- suffering
- existential poetry
- dissociative
- existential
- healing
- human
- mortality
- power
- art
- artist
- evolution
- God
- death
- love
- darwin
- anxiety
- rape
- psychoanalysis
- addiction
- homeless
- addict
- trauma
- therapy
- rapist
- traumatic
- hypersexual
- hyperarousal
- grooming
- anal sex
- anal
- heart
- incendiary
- dead
- Identitarianism
- tyrant
- meditation
- poverty
- fap
- choking
- traitor
- treachery
- identity
- honey pot
- true crime
- power dynamic
- cunnilingus
- Vaginal
- woke
- animals
- OwnVoices
- empathy
- ally
- crime
- summer
- scarf
- crack
- body disposal
- kidnapping
- disease
- identity politics
- Klan
- Vagina
- sex
- indians
- turtles
- surrealism
- fisting
- anality
- erotic
- scatalogical
- Pussy
- poet
- violence
- sublime
- artistry
- borders
- safe space
- poetry editor
- van gogh
- censor
- adolescence
- censors
- mega dildo
- class
- Nietzsche
- gut puncher
- campus warrior
Posts
Band Performance Section of "Hypocorism" (ROUND 1)
"Band Performance" is a section of Hypocorism that performs its central argument in its own architecture: it is a meditation on the impossibility of clean categorical separation — between desire and love, between protection and exploitation, between logic and lived experience, between selfhood and the other — rendered in a prose form that itself refuses to stay cleanly inside any category. It is at once a philosophical essay, an erotic confession, a grief narrative, an ekphrastic excursion, and a love letter structured as self-prosecution. Its central intelligence is a man at war with his own intelligence, and the section's formal achievement is to make that war feel simultaneously desperate, lucid, self-serving, genuinely beautiful, and genuinely dangerous, without resolving any of those tensions into a verdict.
The section opens in medias res — the narrator has driven, out of habit, to a private cemetery spot, a place of established significance that is being revisited in her absence as a kind of secular vigil. The gesture is immediately characterized as simultaneously voluntary and compelled: "out of habit — but not entirely." This hedged self-knowledge is the piece's governing mode. The narrator is always catching himself in the act of a motivation he cannot fully own, always adding a qualifier that simultaneously reveals and protects. The cemetery is the right place for such a narrator: it is a space organized around the impossibility of retrieval, the permanence of loss, and the ongoing necessity of meaning-making in the face of brute facticity.
The car, the tree, the park orientation — these domestic rituals accumulate into a portrait of a man whose relationship to control borders on compulsion. The oral-care routine that has "ballooned, one micro addition at a time, into a half-hour stretch" is one of the section's most precise psychological notations, and it functions not merely as character detail but as structural analogy: the narrator's relationship to ethical reasoning has similarly ballooned through micro-accretion, one qualification at a time, into an elaborate apparatus that is simultaneously rigorous and self-serving. He is as precise about his parking coordinates as he is about his philosophical positions, and in both cases the precision is a form of control that mimics care.
The bassinet gravestone is the section's central ekphrastic object, and the narrator's response to it constitutes some of the piece's most accomplished writing. "Laid out was a little christening gown, its lace detail softening into a flatscape at a rate too slow for human notice in process outside of a centurial time elapse compressed into a short video." The description is precise to the point of scientific rigor, and it is this rigor — this refusal of easy sentimentality — that makes the passage devastating rather than merely sad. The gray lichen spreading "like tiny archipelagos," the moss "pooled in the deepest creases," the parallel grooves of the name worn past legibility: these details accumulate into an argument about the relationship between inscription and erasure that the narrator recognizes immediately as hers. "Even your chiseled name dies." He "cribs her poem seed" — a phrase that is itself a small theft, a small appropriation — and emails it to himself. He is always processing her through his own machinery even when the thought originated in hers.
The synesthetic description of the cherub faces — "sharp urine and pungent halitosis, once angular and glinting like an Ethiopian cage shaken to terrify the cat into secretive production, now mellowed to what could be mistaken for unfiltered honey" — is the narrator performing his arcane erudition at precisely the moment when simpler language would have been more vulnerable. He opts for the civet comparison over the "Face on Mars" comparison, he tells us, "in his worry about cliché." But the worry about cliché is itself a form of defense: it keeps him at the level of craft rather than feeling. The section is full of these moments in which intellectual facility becomes a buffer against the thing it is supposedly describing. That he names this tendency does not exempt him from it; it merely demonstrates the depth of the trap.
The philosophical digression on the wedge between logical closure and existential satisfaction is the section's most formally daring passage, and it does not read as digression because it is the argument the whole section is making in embodied form. The narrator is a philosopher who has spent decades dismissing first-person experience as philosophically irrelevant — dismissing, precisely, what she insists upon when she yells "I have one life!" The wedge he describes — between the airtight ontological account and the nausea that no such account can assuage — is not merely an academic problem. It is the structure of his entire situation. He can argue, and has argued, and continues to argue, with complete logical coherence, that the age gap between them makes romantic involvement morally suspect. He wins every argument. He does not win. The section dramatizes what it describes: the insufficiency of third-person ethical bookkeeping as a technology for navigating actual lived bonds.
That the girl is sixteen is not incidental to this analysis and the section does not permit it to be incidental. The narrator knows it. He rehearses the arguments. He presses himself with them in interior monologue, in fantasy dialogue, in his compulsive returns to the philosophical literature on justification and lived experience. But the section is too intelligent to present his philosophical pressure as exculpatory. If anything, the elaborateness of the ethical apparatus — its many qualifications, its genuine sophistication, its real philosophical substance — becomes, under readerly scrutiny, evidence of the degree to which sophisticated consciousness can be weaponized in service of desire. The narrator is aware of this possibility. He accuses himself of it. The accusation does not stop him. This gap between self-knowledge and behavioral change is the section's darkest psychological territory.
The fantasy-her dialogues are the section's most formally inventive device and its most ethically complex. Fantasy-her is articulate, perceptive, independently-minded, and capable of arguments that puncture the narrator's philosophical defenses: "The territory ain't the map. That's what you say right? Maps blur the shit — every hospital, no matter how different they are, the same red cross. Feel me? I'm real in the territory. I'm not just a kid. I'm this kid." This is a genuine philosophical point, one the narrator could not have improved. But the dialogues are his construction. He has given her the arguments that defeat him. He has scripted her victory. The fantasy form has, he notes, "its own life like a song looping in your head" — but it is his head. The fantasy version of her accesses "his mind too, just as real-her did," but the parenthetical "just as real-her did" reveals the asymmetry: fantasy-her's access to his mind is, in fact, his mind's access to an image of her. He cannot stop projecting, even when he is most insisting on her independent reality.
The band performance itself is one of contemporary American prose's more quietly devastating set pieces. The fluorescent tubes "at the same merciless wattage of lunch hour," the smell of tater tots and floor wax, the "childish cacophony" — the scene is rendered without glamour or sentimentality, and its refusal of glamour is what makes the narrator's response to it so disarming. When she rises and puts her lips to the mouthpiece, "her posture took on a fierce gravity." The physical description is both accurate and erotic, and the narrator knows it, does not look away from it. "His chest tightened, pitched forward." But what follows is not reduction. The horn becomes, in his hearing, the embodiment of her central argument — "screaming, shrieking, her existential challenge to abstract reasoning, to impersonal logic that could capture a lived bond no more than physics could God" — and then, critically, exceeds his reading of it. "Her solo had too much presence for that reading to stand. She was her own person. This was a rage against all flattening."
The Rilke invocation — "You must change your life" — is precise because it is the line from "Archaic Torso of Apollo" that designates the aesthetic object's demand on the viewer. The torso's gaze, Rilke writes, reaches everywhere and insists on transformation. The narrator hears this demand from her playing, and is moved by it — genuinely, physiologically moved, to tears and boogers and a cracked voice and a paper towel from the janitor. The janitor's "They grow up fast" is simultaneously banal, appropriate, and quietly vertiginous, given what we know. The narrator's "Yeah" costs him something.
The section's final movement, centered on the card, constitutes its emotional climax and its most concentrated formal achievement. The card — made to look deliberately primitive, backwards S's and P's, tornado swirls — carries a message whose poetic compression exceeds anything the narrator produces in his academic or ekphrastic modes:
Hurry kills Presence / Worry kills Peace / Doubt kills Faith / Ego kills Love / Fear kills Spark / Duty kills Intimacy
Each line is a diagnosis of what he is doing to them, to himself, to the possibility of the connection he claims to value above all. And the reversal — "Read it the other way too" — transforms each line into its positive: Presence kills Hurry, Peace kills Worry, Faith kills Doubt, Love kills Ego, Spark kills Fear, Intimacy kills Duty. The card operates as a chiasmus, a logical inversion that proves she has been listening more carefully to his own philosophical training than he credits. The final notation on the back — "I kill the noise" — is the most compact formulation of her function in his life, and the most quietly devastating thing in the section. She kills the noise. He has not been able to return the service.
That he "stayed quiet, letting her watchful smile and searching eyes stay pure" is the section's most ambiguous moment of tenderness. He does not perform his comebacks. He honors the card's message. Whether this constitutes genuine transformation or a more refined form of self-congratulation — noting his own capacity for restraint — the prose leaves open. The final detail, that he does not masturbate when he returns home but instead stands before the card "as if it were a candle flame," is not redemptive. It is continuous with the section's logic: he is capable of restraint when the alternative is insufficient, when the better thing is also the thing he wants more. He has not changed the wanting. He has found a different object for the night.
Formally, the section moves between registers with a precision that mimics the narrator's own oscillating consciousness. Academic prose gives way to vernacular transcription, ekphrastic notation gives way to fantasy dialogue, philosophical argument gives way to physical sensation, and back. No register dominates for long enough to become a stable dwelling. The sentences themselves enact this: they are long, elaborately subordinated, clause-heavy structures that accumulate qualifications the way the narrator accumulates ethical hedges — each parenthetical a micro-adjustment, each revision a small retreat from the claim of the sentence before it. The prose sounds like a man thinking, which is to say it sounds like a man evading and pursuing the truth simultaneously, which is to say it sounds true.
"Band Performance" is ultimately a section about the limits of the intelligence it enacts. It does not condemn its narrator from outside; it gives him every tool — philosophical, emotional, aesthetic, self-critical — and watches what he does with them, which is, in the end, to remain. To stay in the cemetery. To drive to the school. To stand in the back of the auditorium in the dark. To cry at the janitor. To go home to the card. The intelligence does not free him. It furnishes the cell.
Meta Description
A section from Hypocorism tracing a philosopher's recursive self-prosecution in a cemetery and a school auditorium: desire, ethical argument, fantasy dialogue, and ekphrastic grief converge in a prose form that performs the section's central claim — that no amount of third-person reasoning can fully account for, or finally restrain, the first-person life.
Keywords
Hypocorism, Band Performance, age-gap narrative prose, philosophical fiction, first-person lived experience, ekphrasis and grief, fantasy dialogue fiction, erotic cognition prose, Rilke archaic torso, existential wedge, interior monologue analysis, ethical self-prosecution, cemetery ekphrasis, contemporary American literary fiction, desire and restraint, close reading prose fiction
Parthenia Spring (ROUND 3)
Introduction In "Parthenia Spring," the speaker transforms a localized Austin memory into a meditation on deep time, ecological immersion, and historical inheritance. Dedicated to a specific chapter of the author's life, the poem operates on multiple planes simultaneously: it is a phenomenological record of a physical dive into the frigid depths of the spring, a modern recreation, and a quiet acknowledgement of the indigenous peoples—such as the Tonkawa and Apache—who inhabited and moved through the landscape long before urbanization. Through precise material detail, kinetic enjambment, and a vertical optical shift, the poem accomplishes a synthesis of personal nostalgia and ancestral resonance. The Materiality of History: Weight and Ancestral Lineage The poem immediately establishes its stakes through physical weight in the opening stanza, introducing "Stone ballast cradled / at heart, a boy / moonhops (as natives did) / in a clearing of eel grass." By describing the stone as a ballast, the speaker frames the boy's body not merely as a swimmer, but as a vessel navigating an aquatic space. The parenthetical aside—(as natives did)—is a crucial pivot. Rather than romanticizing or appropriating indigenous history from a detached distance, the poem roots historical continuity in a shared physical technology: using heavy stones to overcome buoyancy and descend into the aquifer. The moonhops across the eel grass connect the modern child's play to ancient survival and ceremonial practices, binding past and present through the shared resistance against water. Kinetic Form and Environmental Pressure The formal mechanics of the second stanza mirror the physical realities of diving into a deep, high-pressure spring head. The text moves through enjambment as the boy "lies back under / its calm / heft in the frigid / gush of the headspring— / verdure pulsing." The tactical use of enjambment forces the reader to experience structural suspension. Breaking the lines across "under / its calm / heft" mimics the physical drag, inertia, and downward pull of the water column. The language moves deliberately between opposites: the calm heft contrasts with the sudden, dynamic energy of the frigid gush. Furthermore, the phrase "verdure pulsing" animates the underwater flora, transforming the spring bottom from a static landscape into a living, breathing ecosystem that matches the internal tension of a body holding its breath under pressure. Optics, Mediation, and the Vertical Axis The poem's concluding movement shifts perspective from the ocean floor upward, using modern optics to frame a primal visual field "like surface-treading limbs / in his goggled eyes, drawn / up to that quivering / smear of sun." Separated from the surface by a heavy column of water, the boy looks up through his goggles at the distorted world above. The choice of the word quivering—a deliberate evolution from a softer, more passive shimmer—introduces a restless, optical jitteriness. The sun is reduced to a smear, warped by refraction, currents, and the motion of surface-treading limbs. This imagery accomplishes a brilliant psychological and spatial inversion. The modern swimmer, equipped with goggles, looks up at the unheeding modern vacationers overhead, yet his entire method of being there is ancient, suspended between the silent floor of the aquifer and the sunlit world above. Conclusion "Parthenia Spring" achieves its resonance by refusing to treat nature or history as mere backdrops. By anchoring the poem in the precise physics of underwater descent—the ballast stone, the cold current, and the distorted refraction of light—it turns a fleeting memory into an artifact of deep time. The boy at the bottom of the spring becomes a conduit, unknowingly stepping into an ancient footprint, proving that the landscape retains the memory of all who have sought its cold refuge. Keywords: Parthenia Spring, Barton Springs, Tonkawa, Apache, deep time, phenomenology, enjambment,
White Supremacy on Its Deathbed (full book, Round 3)
"White Supremacy on Its Deathbed" is the most formally ambitious, politically volatile, and intellectually demanding work in the project — a lyrical essay that refuses every available category for its containment. It is not a polemic, not a memoir, not a work of cultural criticism, not a prose poem, though it borrows the instruments of all four. Its governing formal claim, announced in the preface and enacted across six chapters, is that the most devastating threats to Black flourishing in contemporary America arrive not from the residual energies of white supremacy but from the apparatus constructed in white supremacy's name — and that this reversal is the defining irony of the present moment, an irony so severe it has the structure of tragedy.
The Sowell and Washington epigraphs establish the essay's intellectual lineage before the preface begins. Both figures are positioned as prophets whose warnings went unheeded — Sowell's observation that racism has been placed "under new management," Washington's warning about race-problem solvers who "don't want the patient to get well." The essay inherits from both a suspicion of institutionalized grievance, a commitment to Black agency as the only durable foundation for Black flourishing, and a willingness to say what the dominant discourse has made professionally dangerous to say. What the essay adds to this tradition is the formal apparatus of a lyrical essay that refuses the sober register of policy argument and instead floods its argument with the full resources of literary violence — the grotesque, the satirical, the scatological, the pornographic, the comedic, and the tragic operating simultaneously.
The preface establishes the essay's central thesis with compressed clarity: that the "antiracist movement, in its mainstream form at least, nourishes itself ultimately upon the bogus notion that white supremacy — although 'now invisible most of the time, to most eyes' — flourishes today well beyond merely the American marrow from which it supposedly can never be removed." The move is rhetorical and argumentative simultaneously: by positioning DiAngelo's framework as the object of critique and citing McWhorter, Chait, Loury, Steele, and Hughes as critical allies, the essay places itself within a specific tradition of Black and liberal dissent from progressive orthodoxy, a tradition with genuine intellectual pedigree that the dominant discourse has systematically marginalized. The preface also discloses the personal — the cancellation of the author's professorship on grounds that his creative writing was "unsettling especially to vulnerable populations" — which grounds the essay's animus in specific biographical injury rather than abstract ideological position. This disclosure is crucial: it tells us that the essay is not a detached analysis but a document of genuine wounds, that the furious intelligence driving it is in part the intelligence of someone who has been hurt by the very apparatus he critiques.
Chapter 1, "Gator Bait," establishes the essay's central rhetorical device and sustains it across hundreds of pages: the extended rhetorical question "what might white supremacy do from its deathbed?" followed by the refrain "It could just sit back and revel in our world where..." The device is formally brilliant because it inverts the standard antiracist framework without abandoning its terms. Rather than arguing that white supremacy is absent, the essay argues that white supremacy's most effective remaining operation is to do nothing — to allow the apparatus of antiracism to perform the work of degradation, infantilization, and dependency that white supremacy itself could never accomplish openly. The irony accumulates across the chapter's historical inventory of Black achievement and opportunity: the essay asks what room white supremacy has to grow in a time when Black Americans have reached every pinnacle of American life, and answers that it needs no room because the work is being done for it. Coleman Hughes's opening epigraph frames America as "one of the least racist places on Earth," and the chapter's historical inventory is designed to substantiate that claim against the dominant narrative — not to deny that racism exists but to argue that the dominant narrative's exaggerations have become more damaging than the residual racism they nominally address.
Chapter 2, "Macaroni Sounds (Over That Brrrap-Brrrap-Brrrap)," is the essay's most formally extreme section and its most legally treacherous. The extended catalogue of rap lyrics — drawn from across decades and artists, ranging from the merely raunchy to the genuinely criminal — is the chapter's central formal argument, and that argument is structural rather than merely illustrative. The sheer accumulation is the point: the catalogue is too long to be selective, too comprehensive to be dismissed as cherry-picking. What the essay is arguing through form is that the monolith of hypersexual, hyperviolent imagery in mainstream Black popular culture is not an aberration but a system — and that the system's persistence, its escalation, its normalization, and its celebration by the very progressive apparatus that claims to fight Black degradation constitutes a catastrophe for Black dignity that no honest account of the present can avoid. The C. Delores Tucker speech — intercut with Sukihana's lyrics in a formally devastating counterpoint — is the chapter's emotional and argumentative center: Tucker's 1993 anti-gangsta-rap testimony, delivered with the full moral authority of the civil rights tradition, is shown to have been not only ignored but actively overrun by the very forces she named. The chapter's invented La'Cinda'Relle Cinderella parody is the essay's most formally audacious set piece — a sustained satirical fiction that enacts its argument through pastiche, using the genre machinery of the fairy tale to render visible what the culture has normalized. That it is simultaneously funny, devastating, and genuinely offensive is the point: the essay refuses to make its critique comfortable, insisting that the reader who laughs at La'Cinda's story or who winces at it or who is aroused by elements of it is implicated in the cultural system the essay is examining.
Chapter 3, "Toby in Kunta Mask," shifts the essay's focus from cultural to educational institutions, and its governing argument is the most philosophically sustained in the work: that the lowering of standards for Black students, the pathologizing of intellectual achievement as "acting white," the substitution of grievance pedagogy for genuine education, and the condemnation of the very Enlightenment values — reason, objectivity, scientific inquiry, diligence — that have historically enabled marginalized groups to compete and flourish, constitute a form of anti-Black racism more insidious than any cross-burning. The chapter's use of invented classroom scenarios, spoken-word performances, and hypothetical courses like "Afro-Mathematics" operates as satirical defamiliarization — taking the real logic of certain progressive pedagogical positions and following it to its conclusions with merciless literalism. The chapter's intellectual touchstone is McWhorter's observation that what is being implicitly communicated to Black students is "we can't cut it" — and that this communication, however kindly intended, is the most devastatingly racist message available. The Marva Collins reference is the chapter's positive counter-example: a Black educator who held Black kindergarteners to demanding intellectual standards and achieved remarkable results, a figure whose approach the dominant progressive framework would now classify as oppressive.
Chapter 4, "Open Season," is the essay's most politically direct chapter, and its catalogue of ways that affirmative action and special dispensation have simultaneously patronized and damaged Black people draws heavily on the established conservative and centrist Black intellectual tradition — Loury, Steele, McWhorter — while pushing that tradition's logic further than it typically goes in respectable venues. The chapter's argument is that the infantilization of Black people through lowered expectations is not a side effect of well-intentioned policy but its necessary structural consequence: that the logic of "you cannot be expected to compete under these conditions" contains within it the premise of permanent inferiority, and that this premise — however wrapped in the language of justice and compassion — reproduces the essential content of the white supremacist worldview it claims to oppose. The chapter's most intellectually serious move is the distinction between emergency medicine and chronic dependency: affirmative action as a "syphon" to start a flow that then requires individual development to sustain, rather than as a permanent substitute for that development. This is not a novel argument — it is recognizably Steele's and Loury's — but the essay deploys it with a ferocity and a fullness of implication that the more measured academic versions rarely reach.
Chapter 5, "Nazi Alert," is the essay's most formally anarchic chapter and its most deliberately provocative. The extended catalogue of white self-abasement — the Race2Dinner dinner party, the boot-kissing campus ceremony, the various white progressive confessionals, the university convocation speech — is the chapter's rhetorical engine, and its operation is complex. On one level it is satire, following the logic of certain progressive positions to absurd but not entirely implausible conclusions. On another level it is a serious argument about the psychological and social consequences of a culture that has normalized the public performance of white guilt as a substitute for genuine engagement with racial inequality. The Thomas Chatterton Williams epigraph frames the chapter's central claim: that mainstream antiracism "mirrors ideas of race — specifically the specialness of whiteness — that white supremacist thinkers cherish," that both sides "eagerly reduce people to abstract color categories" and "feed off and legitimize each other." The chapter's catalogue of the various double-binds whites face — damned for speaking, damned for silence; damned for engaging with Black culture, damned for not engaging; damned for defending themselves against accusations, damned for failing to defend themselves — is the essay's most formally precise argument about how the antiracist framework has made productive interracial discourse structurally impossible. The chapter also contains the essay's most controversial material: the extended passages describing rising white radicalization and the fantasies of retributive violence. These passages are not endorsements — they are the essay's most urgent warnings, rendered in the register of inevitability rather than desire, showing the trajectory that sustained dehumanization historically produces.
Chapter 6, "Let My People Go!" is the essay's shortest and most direct chapter, and it closes on Farrakhan's inversion — "Pharaoh has already let you go! But it is you who have not let Pharaoh go!" — as its governing image. The chapter synthesizes the preceding argument into its cleanest formulation: that the "biggest threat to goodwill between whites and blacks is the various things done in the name of an 'anti-nazi commitment to inclusion and equity'"; that the biggest inciter of individual racism on both sides is all that keeps being done to fight a systemic racism "long ago put into remission"; that "the best evidence for the lie that white supremacy continues to have a pervasive grip over this country are the various things done in the respectable (and big-money) name of 'dismantling white supremacy.'" The Coleman Hughes epigraph frames the chapter as a moral-panic analysis: the antiracist movement as a species of the same mass delusion that produced the Satanic daycare hysteria of the 1980s — a phenomenon that "looks like obvious absurdity from the outside" while seeming "totally reasonable to those on the inside." The chapter ends not with resolution but with the trajectory the essay has been tracing throughout: a call for the alignment of "our perceptions with our reality" as the only path toward the racial healing that the dominant discourse, in its exaggerations and its incentives, actively forecloses.
Formally, the essay's most significant achievement is its management of tone across its enormous length. The "It could just sit back and revel" refrain functions as a kind of liturgical structure — the repeated phrase creating a cumulative ironic weight that grows heavier with each iteration, so that by the essay's final pages the refrain carries the full weight of everything that has preceded it. The essay moves between registers — academic citation, satirical fiction, lyrical description, catalogue, invective, confession — with a fluency that refuses the reader any stable interpretive position. One cannot read it as simple polemic because its formal complexity exceeds polemic. One cannot read it as detached analysis because its personal investment is too fully disclosed. One cannot read it as satire because its factual claims are too seriously documented. It is closest, in the tradition of African American letters, to certain modes of the jeremiad — the prophetic denunciation of a people's failure to live up to their own stated ideals — but its target is not the nation's failure to honor its Black citizens. Its target is the failure of the institutions claiming to honor those citizens to honestly reckon with what that honoring requires.
The essay's ultimate subject is Black agency — its suppression, its necessity, and its recovery. Every chapter circles back to the same argument: that genuine Black power requires the willingness to look honestly at the full complexity of Black life, including the aspects that progressive orthodoxy has made taboo to examine; that the dependency cultivated by the antiracist industrial complex is the most effective remaining mechanism for Black subordination; and that the path out runs through exactly the qualities — reason, rigor, self-examination, accountability, aspiration — that the dominant discourse has classified as expressions of whiteness. The essay's anger is not the anger of white supremacy. It is the anger of someone who believes Black people are capable of more than the framework built to protect them allows them to be.
Meta Description
A lyrical essay of extraordinary formal ambition and political volatility — moving across six chapters from historical inventory through cultural critique, educational analysis, satirical fiction, and radical political provocation — to argue that the contemporary antiracist industrial complex constitutes the most effective remaining mechanism for Black subordination, its infantilization, dependency cultivation, and standard-lowering performing the work that white supremacy itself could no longer accomplish openly, leaving the deathbed patient to sit back and revel.
Keywords
White Supremacy on Its Deathbed, lyrical essay, antiracist critique, Black agency, victimology narrative, Glenn Loury, Shelby Steele, Thomas Sowell, John McWhorter, Coleman Hughes, C. Delores Tucker, gangsta rap and Black culture, affirmative action critique, Enlightenment values, moral panic, jeremiad form, satirical fiction, La'Cinda'Relle, Race2Dinner parody, dependency and dignity, progressive orthodoxy, Black intellectual dissent, contemporary American political essay, formal complexity, ironic refrain, racial double-bind
One Lifeboat Fewer (ROUND 3)
"One Lifeboat Fewer" is a poem about the specific cognitive impoverishment that follows the death of someone who shared your memories — the person whose presence allowed your past to remain three-dimensional, verifiable, and alive. Its nine lines move through three tercets with the careful formal architecture of an elegy that has stripped itself of all conventional consolation, arriving at a single devastating economic metaphor: the survivor as "inheritor of unexpected poverty."
The title establishes the poem's governing figure before the first line. A lifeboat is emergency survival equipment — what you reach for when the ship goes under. One lifeboat fewer means the mathematics of survival have worsened; the margin has narrowed. Applied to the death of a person who shared your memories, the metaphor argues that such a death is not merely a loss of companionship but a reduction in one's capacity to survive the sea of the past. Memory, the poem proposes, is not a private archive but a shared one — and when the co-archivist dies, the archive itself is partly destroyed.
The opening tercet names what has been lost with a precision that accumulates across its three lines. "Luminous no longer to nourish / them" — the "them" initially unspecified, held back by enjambment — establishes the dead person as a source of illumination for something essential. "If only with his nudging / glance" specifies the mechanism: not dramatic intervention but the small, continuous, lateral confirmation that another person provides simply by being present and sharing the same field of reference. The "nudging glance" is exact — not a full look, not an explanation, but the sideways recognition between two people who share a context so thoroughly that the glance alone activates the shared archive. "To flush, to flesh, / them out" finally names what the nudging glance accomplished: to give the memories body, dimension, substantiality. "Flush" carries its photographic sense — to develop, to bring the latent image to visibility — alongside its sense of fullness and color. "Flesh" is equally precise: memories without a co-witness are skeletal, structural; the other person's presence gives them flesh, makes them inhabitable again.
"To affirm or refute / your playback" deepens this analysis. Memory is not simply stored and retrieved; it is played back, and playback requires an audience capable of affirming or refuting the version being replayed. The co-witness does not merely confirm — they can also push back, correct, offer a different angle. "Refute" is important: the relationship the poem mourns is not one of simple validation but of genuine epistemic partnership, in which the other person's disagreement was as valuable as their agreement, because both kept the memory from calcifying into unchecked self-narrative.
"Memories / defoliate into stumps too soon / after that tssk of the flame" is the poem's most formally inventive passage. "Defoliate" is a word from herbicide and warfare — the deliberate stripping of foliage from trees to deny cover, most famously associated with the systematic destruction of the Vietnamese jungle. Applied to memory, it suggests that the death of the co-witness performs an act of exposure and devastation on the shared archive — not the gradual fading of ordinary forgetting but the sudden stripping of everything that gave the memories their living cover. What remains are "stumps" — the memories are not gone but reduced to their bare structural remnants, alive enough to mark where something was, too diminished to shelter anything.
"That tssk of the flame" is the poem's most daring sonic invention. "Tssk" is onomatopoeic for the sound a flame makes when it goes out — the soft, almost dismissive extinguishing that is the opposite of the dramatic death we might prefer to assign to those who mattered. The word is also the sound of mild reproof, of impatience, of the tongue click that says "such a shame" without fully committing to grief. The flame "who shared them with you" confirms that the dead person was not a passive repository but an active participant in the maintenance of the shared archive — they shared the memories, tended them, gave them their heat.
"Inheritor of unexpected poverty" closes the poem on its governing paradox. The survivor has not lost something external — a companion, a friend, a co-witness — but has inherited a condition: poverty. Poverty is the absence of resources one needs to function, to participate fully in the life available to one. Unexpected poverty is particularly devastating because it arrives without preparation — one did not know one was living above the poverty line of memory until the death revealed the true accounting. The word "inheritor" is exact: the survivor has received this poverty as a bequest, has been handed it by the death, carries it now as part of their estate.
Formally, the poem's three tercets mirror the three functions of the co-witness named in the first two stanzas — to nourish and flesh out memories, to affirm or refute their playback, and finally to be extinguished — before the third tercet names the result. The enjambments are consistently used to hold the key terms — "them," "memories," "stumps" — past the line break before delivering them, creating small suspensions that reproduce the experience of reaching for something that is no longer where one expects to find it. The sonic texture is careful throughout: the soft fricatives of "flush" and "flesh," the percussive precision of "tssk," the formal weight of "defoliate" and "inheritor" anchoring the poem's more colloquial moments.
What "One Lifeboat Fewer" achieves is a portrait of a specific and undertheorized form of grief — not the loss of a person's presence but the loss of the cognitive and epistemic function they performed, the way their existence made one's own past survivable and legible. The poem does not console. It maps the new poverty with precision, which is the only honest gift available.
Meta Description
A poem about the cognitive impoverishment that follows the death of a shared-memory witness — arguing that the co-archivist's death strips memories of their living cover, reducing them to stumps, and leaves the survivor an inheritor of unexpected poverty: the sudden revelation that one's past required another person to remain three-dimensional and survivable.
Keywords
One Lifeboat Fewer, elegy, shared memory, co-witness grief, memory defoliation, cognitive poverty, nudging glance, tssk of the flame, inheritor, unexpected poverty, contemporary American elegy, tercet form, close reading, grief and epistemology, memory and survival
Cosmetic Repairs (ROUND 1)
"Cosmetic Repairs" is a poem about the persistence of exploitation across racial lines — specifically, about how the mythology of African resistance to colonial capitalism can obscure the degree to which predatory economic behavior is not a racial inheritance but a human one. Its nine lines move through a single extended analogy with the compression and timing of a well-thrown punch, arriving at an image so contemporary and so specific that the historical figure invoked is both honored and deflated simultaneously.
The title announces the poem's argument before the first line begins. Cosmetic repairs are surface corrections — the kind that make something look fixed without addressing structural damage. Applied to the racial mythology the poem is about to examine, "cosmetic" names the ideological operation of celebrating African rulers who resisted European colonialism while quietly editing out their participation in the slave trade. The repair is cosmetic because it leaves the underlying structure — exploitation as a feature of power rather than a racial pathology — entirely intact.
Queen Nzinga's parenthetical introduction is the poem's central formal device and its most precise intellectual move. "That big boss / who owned and sold / countless black slaves" is not a dismissal of Nzinga's historical significance — her military resistance to Portuguese colonialism was genuine and remarkable — but a refusal to perform the cosmetic repair the title names. The poem insists on the full complexity of the historical record: Nzinga was a formidable sovereign, a skilled diplomat and military strategist, and also a participant in the slave trade. The admiration and the indictment are simultaneous. "Big boss" carries both registers — genuine respect for her power and the ironic deployment of the term against the mythology that would make her an uncomplicated hero of Black liberation.
The poem's pivot from historical figure to contemporary type is its most audacious move, and the precision of the analogy is what makes it land. The "smiley African slumlord every hood knows" is not a caricature but a recognizable social type — the landlord who purchases foreclosed properties in Black neighborhoods, performs the minimum necessary repairs using the cheapest available labor, and then extracts rent from the same community. The smile is specific: not warmth but the particular facial presentation of someone whose economic interest is to appear benign while executing extraction. That this slumlord is Black, and that the poem explicitly identifies the labor as "Mexican patch jobs" — the cheapest available, itself an observation about labor hierarchy within communities of color — refuses the comforting narrative that Black ownership of Black community resources is categorically different from other forms of extraction.
"Her black Benz / bumping Burna Boy" closes the poem on a detail of such precision that it functions as a complete cultural portrait in seven words. The black Benz is the specific register of wealth that announces arrival without ostentation — not a Ferrari, not a Rolls, but the car that says "I have made it within the system." Burna Boy — the Afrobeats superstar whose work is explicitly engaged with African pride, post-colonial critique, and pan-African identity — playing from the slumlord's speakers as she collects rent is the poem's final irony. The soundtrack of liberation accompanies the act of extraction. The cultural product that celebrates African resilience and resistance to exploitation provides the aesthetic backdrop for the reproduction of exploitation's logic. This is not hypocrisy in the simple sense; it is the poem's argument made audible — that the ideology and the practice can coexist without cognitive dissonance because the cosmetic repair has been so thoroughly performed.
The poem's formal economy is striking. Nine lines, three tercets, no wasted syllable. The first tercet establishes the historical figure and the suppressed fact; the second performs the analogical pivot to the contemporary; the third delivers the image that completes the argument. The tercet structure creates a reading experience of controlled acceleration — each stanza advances the argument one step, and the final stanza arrives with the force of a conclusion that the poem's structure has been building toward without announcing. The enjambment between "her black Benz" and "bumping Burna Boy" holds the image for a beat before completing it, allowing the car to register before the music complicates it.
What "Cosmetic Repairs" refuses is the comfort of a racial explanation for exploitation. The poem argues that predatory economic behavior — the extraction of wealth from vulnerable communities through ownership of their housing — is not a pathology imported by European colonialism but a feature of power operating across any body that holds it. Queen Nzinga's slave trading and the slumlord's rent collection are not identical acts, but they share a structural logic that the mythology of Black resistance to white supremacy has been cosmetically repaired to conceal. The poem performs the repair's removal in nine lines and asks the reader to sit with what the surface was covering.
Meta Description
A poem that dismantles the cosmetic mythology of uncomplicated Black resistance by placing Queen Nzinga's historical slave trading alongside the contemporary African slumlord extracting rent from Black neighborhoods — arguing that predatory economic behavior is a feature of power rather than a racial inheritance, its soundtrack the very music of pan-African liberation.
Keywords
Cosmetic Repairs, Queen Nzinga, African slumlord, Burna Boy, pan-African mythology, slave trade, housing extraction, Black landlord poetry, racial critique, exploitation and power, contemporary American poetry, tercet form, historical analogy, Afrobeats irony, post-colonial critique
Exorcism Rites for Cisnormative Panic (ROUND 1)
"Exorcism Rites for Cisnormative Panic" is a poem about the performative collapse of a denial that cannot complete itself. Its fourteen lines enact, through typographic emphasis and syntactic recursion, the psychological experience of a man attempting to talk himself out of a conclusion his own language keeps producing. The poem does not argue about trans identity or sexuality from the outside. It goes inside the specific cognitive loop of someone for whom the argument matters personally and urgently, and renders that loop with formal precision — the italics, the em-dashes, the repetitions — as the poem's primary expressive medium.
The title does substantial work before the first line. "Exorcism rites" frames what follows as a ritual of expulsion — an attempt to drive something out through the correct performance of the right words in the right order. Exorcism assumes that the thing to be expelled is external, an invading presence, something that does not belong to the self being cleansed. The poem's irony, established in the title and confirmed throughout, is that the thing being exorcised is the conclusion the speaker's own reasoning keeps reaching. The ritual fails not because the words are wrong but because exorcism cannot work on something that originates from within. "Cisnormative panic" names the condition being treated: the anxiety produced when one's cisgender self-understanding is destabilized by attraction to a trans person. The title is clinical, almost academic, and its clinical distance from the poem's actual anguished texture creates an irony the poem exploits from its first line.
The poem is structured as a single argument that cannot finish its own sentences. The opening quotation mark announces a speaker attempting to state a position clearly — "Dating a trans girl, that doesn't make / me gay" — but the statement immediately requires reinforcement: "dating a trans girl / does not make me gay." The shift from contraction to full stress — "doesn't" to "does not" — marks the first crack in the argument's confidence. The speaker is already amplifying before he has finished his first claim, which is the poem's first signal that the amplification is not rhetorical flourish but structural necessity: the claim requires more force because it is not holding.
The second stanza introduces the appositive — "a girl, / doesn't make me gay; dating / a trans girl — a girl who is a girl —" — and this is where the poem's real argument begins to surface. The speaker reaches for the appositive as a logical support: she is a girl, therefore dating her cannot make me gay. But the em-dash that opens and the em-dash that closes "a girl who is a girl" turn what should be a clarifying aside into a suspended qualification, a parenthetical that cannot close without drawing attention to its own defensive necessity. "A girl who is a girl" is not a neutral description but an argument the speaker is making to himself, and the dashes frame it as something inserted under pressure, something that needs to be said precisely because it might otherwise be doubted.
The third stanza is where the poem's syntax fully breaks down and becomes its subject. "Doesn't — does not — make me / or anyone gay" compounds the negation's failure to stabilize: first the contraction, then the full form, the dash between them marking not emphasis but revision, the speaker catching himself mid-word and reaching for a stronger formulation. "Or anyone" is the poem's most revealing addition — the sudden universalization of a claim that began entirely personal. The speaker cannot simply argue his own case; he needs the argument to be universally true, because a personal exemption would carry a different weight than a categorical principle. The universalization is the panic's footprint: if it were only about him, something would already be conceded.
"I mean — it just doesn't —" is the poem's final and most devastating line. "I mean" is the collapse of formal argument into colloquial appeal, the speaker abandoning logical structure for the register of someone trying to make a friend understand something obvious. And then the em-dash after "doesn't" — the sentence that cannot complete itself, the argument that ends not in a period but in silence. The poem closes on the interrupted syntax, the thought that runs out before it can arrive at a conclusion, which is itself the conclusion: the exorcism has failed. The thing being expelled has won not by argument but by the exhaustion of the argument against it.
Formally, the poem's typographic emphases — the italics on "make," "not," "a girl," "is," "does not," "me," "anyone" — are not decorative but diagnostic. Each italicized word marks a site of pressure, a location where the argument requires extra force, and the distribution of these pressure points across the poem maps the exact shape of the speaker's anxiety. That "me" receives italics — "make me" — tells us that the personal stakes are as fraught as the logical ones. That "anyone" receives italics tells us the universalization is doing defensive work. The poem's emphasis patterns are a seismograph of the panic its title names.
What "Exorcism Rites for Cisnormative Panic" achieves in fourteen lines is a complete portrait of a mind attempting to use language as a tool of self-persuasion and discovering, in the attempt, that language is a very poor tool for this particular job — that the more precisely you try to articulate a denial, the more precisely you articulate what you are denying. The poem does not adjudicate the speaker's sexuality or the validity of his anxiety. It renders the anxiety's internal mechanics with enough precision that the reader can feel the cognitive loop closing around the speaker even as he reaches, again and again, for the words that would open it.
Meta Description
A poem that renders cisnormative panic as a self-defeating syntactic loop — tracking through italics, em-dashes, and recursive negation the precise cognitive mechanics of a man whose attempt to argue himself out of a conclusion keeps producing the conclusion he is arguing against, the exorcism failing not because the words are wrong but because what is being expelled originates from within.
Keywords
Exorcism Rites for Cisnormative Panic, trans identity poetry, cisnormative anxiety, syntactic recursion, self-persuasion failure, typographic emphasis, em-dash poetry, italics as diagnostic, sexuality and denial, contemporary American lyric, cognitive loop poetry, exorcism metaphor, close reading, gender and sexuality poetry, performative contradiction
Demons Outside of Hollywood Take Their Time (ROUND 1)
"Demons Outside of Hollywood Take Their Time" is a nine-line poem tracing the somatic lineage of a grandmother’s hand—from its current state of desiccated, rheumatoid decay back to the pungent, auditory reality of her adolescent self-touch. Moving through three tightly constructed tercets, the poem operates with the clinical intimacy of anatomical inspection, framing physical aging not as an arbitrary tragedy, but as a slow-collecting corporeal debt: the physical bill the Pied Piper eventually presents to the flesh for a youth spent without shame.
The title rejects the sensationalized, fast-moving horror of popular cinema in favor of a patient, domestic reality. "Demons Outside of Hollywood Take Their Time" establishes the poem’s core thesis before the first line begins: true terror operates over decades in the quiet erosion of tissue, joints, and domestic boundaries. The "demons" are not supernatural apparitions, but the persistent, unvarnished physical truths of human existence—desire, body funk, noise, and decay—that wait across a lifetime to settle their accounts.
"Granny’s hand—blue veins / bulbous against taut desiccation / milky in its translucence" opens the poem on microscopic anatomical detail. The speaker fixes on the physical tension between interior swelling and exterior drying; "bulbous" veins strain against skin defined by "taut desiccation," a state of complete moisture loss. "Milky in its translucence" completes this image of paper-thin old age, rendering the hand as a semi-transparent shell stretched thin over pressurized vascular structures.
"Fingers gnarled like afflicted / ginger—once churned that nub / into diced-onion agonies" transforms the hand from human tissue into something subterranean, twisted, and root-like, capturing the physical distortion of disease. The poem immediately bridges this modern decay with past action through the labor-intensive verb "churned." The hand now crippled by time once churned her own nub into "diced-onion agonies"—a phrase that strips adolescent female masturbation of any romantic or soft-focus framing, rendering youth as volatile, sulfuric body chemistry worked into a raw lather through sheer mechanical friction.
"The whole house could smell, / tacky tween plaps mean enough / to unzip Dad in the hall" expands the private physical act into an uncontainable domestic event. "Tacky tween plaps" is the poem’s central auditory compound, stacking heavy consonants to evoke the wet, suction-heavy sound of uninhibited adolescent touch. The impact radiates into the hallway, proving "mean enough / to unzip Dad in the hall." The verb "unzip" serves as a violent metaphor for psychological undoing and structural collapse, as her own father is dismantled out in the corridor by the raw, unavoidable sensory reality of his daughter’s bodily heat. The poem leaves the reader at the collision of two eras: the wet friction of a young girl's youth and the desiccated, ginger-knuckled debt of her old age.
Meta Description
A nine-line poem tracing the history of a grandmother's hand from the rank, onion-funky heat of her adolescent self-touch to the gnarled, rheumatoid decay of her old age—contrasting the wet auditory shock felt by her father against her desiccated physical present.
Keywords
Demons Outside of Hollywood Take Their Time, corporeal debt, rheumatoid aesthetics, diced-onion agonies, tacky tween plaps, somatic memory, domestic gothic, transgressive poetry, aging and decay, tercet form, intergenerational shock
Beyond Stitchable (ROUND 1)
"Beyond Stitchable" is a poem about a specific and disturbing form of erotic fixation — one organized not around conventional sexual pleasure but around the involuntary physiological responses of neonatal bodies to sexual violation, specifically the cardiac response: the heart's unbroken squeeze in the milking gallop of ecstasy. Its nine lines move through three tercets with the compression of clinical observation rendered in the register of obsession, the speaker cataloguing what hooks her with the precision of a researcher and the investment of an addict.
The title names the poem's governing category before the first line begins. "Beyond stitchable" names the degree of damage the speaker's fixation concerns — not injury that can be repaired but injury that exceeds repair, the body opened past the threshold of closure. The clinical register of "stitchable" is the poem's formal key: the speaker approaches her obsession with the vocabulary of medicine, of damage assessment, of the body as a system whose tolerances can be measured.
"She cannot stop corralling / reports of neonatal cock sleeves" opens on the speaker's compulsive information-gathering — "corralling" naming the activity as herding, organizing, containing a proliferation that keeps escaping its enclosures. "Neonatal cock sleeves" is the poem's most deliberately clinical grotesque — the infant body rendered as a receptacle in the coldest possible vocabulary.
"What hooks her, hole ruin / just the tip" isolates the specific element of the fixation. "Hole ruin" and "just the tip" are in tension: the diminutive of "just the tip" placed against the absoluteness of "ruin," the minimization of the act set against the totality of its consequence.
"Are the thoracic / creampies, how even the tiniest / plum heart will squeeze" is the poem's central image. "Thoracic creampies" is the poem's most audacious compound — the slang of pornography applied to the thoracic cavity. What hooks the speaker is the cardiac response: the heart's involuntary squeeze at the moment of violation. "The tiniest / plum heart" renders the neonatal heart with a fragile sweetness that makes the image most disturbing.
"Unbroken, unlike beheaded / cloaca" is the poem's crux and requires its specific context to land fully. The beheaded goose cloaca is a known sexual practice: the goose is decapitated so that the cloaca spasms and contracts around the man during his climax. But those spasms are broken, irregular, convulsive — the twitching of a severed nervous system. The infant heart, by contrast, remains unbroken even as everything around it is destroyed beyond stitching. It does not spasm. It squeezes in its natural milking rhythm, steady and complete. The speaker's fixation is precisely on this — the heart that keeps its unbroken beat, that maintains the exact rhythm humans crave in ecstasy, persisting through total violation with a terrible fidelity to its own nature.
"In that milking gallop / humans in ecstasy demand" closes the poem on its most philosophically disturbing formulation. "Milking gallop" names the cardiac rhythm as simultaneously agricultural, mechanical, and erotic. "Humans in ecstasy demand" extends this to the species: the cardiac squeeze the speaker is fixated on is not aberrant — it is the same physiological rhythm that organizes all human sexual ecstasy. The poem closes on the suggestion that what separates the speaker's fixation from ordinary desire is not the rhythm itself but its location and context. The heart squeezes in ecstasy. Here it squeezes in violation. The distance between these two events is left as the reader's problem.
Meta Description
A nine-line poem rendering a speaker's compulsive fixation on neonatal cardiac response to sexual violation — the heart's unbroken milking gallop contrasted against the broken spasms of a beheaded goose cloaca, the specific object of obsession rendered through the collision of clinical anatomical vocabulary and pornographic slang.
Keywords
Beyond Stitchable, neonatal fixation, cardiac response, thoracic creampie, plum heart, milking gallop, hole ruin, beheaded cloaca, clinical grotesque, obsessive speaker, contemporary American poetry, tercet form, ecstasy and violation
Bulletproof Vow (ROUND 1)
"Bulletproof Vow" is a poem about the specific failure mode of magical thinking under combat conditions — specifically, about the soldier whose private bargain with the cosmos remains not merely intact but actively strengthened by the carnage surrounding him, the evidence of mass death feeding rather than challenging his belief in his own protection. Its nine lines move through three tercets with the compression of a poem that knows the joke is on the dead man, and treats this knowledge with neither contempt nor sentimentality but with exact, dry precision.
The title establishes the central irony before the first line begins. "Bulletproof" names the soldier's belief in his own protection — the vow as armor, the promise as ballistic material. "Vow" names the instrument of that belief: a solemn promise carrying the weight of the sacred in a context where the sacred is the only available protection. The compound names both the aspiration and its failure simultaneously — the vow was supposed to be bulletproof, and the soldier never knew it wasn't, because the belief held all the way through.
"Beguiled by belief / in a just cosmos that strikes bargains" opens on the soldier's theological position with precision that is also a diagnosis. "Beguiled" names him not as stupid or delusional but as seduced, charmed, taken in by something appealing that turns out to be false. The just cosmos is appealing precisely because it operates by rules, honors agreements, can be negotiated with. "Strikes bargains" names the transactional theology organizing his thinking: if he does x, the cosmos will do y. The bargain has the structure of a contract, and the beguiled mind experiences contracts as enforceable.
"Dried brain on his canteen / less bother than bolster" is the poem's most formally compressed and most psychologically precise image. The dried brain on the canteen is the material evidence of what combat does to the people around the soldier — the physical residue of a fellow human being's death, carried on the object the soldier drinks from daily. And this evidence does not bother the belief. It bolsters it. This is the poem's central and most disturbing psychological claim: that the need for the vow to be true intensifies in direct proportion to the death surrounding him. The carnage is not a challenge to magical thinking but its fuel. The more desperate the conditions, the more desperately the vow must be believed, and the more desperately it must be believed, the more impervious it becomes to anything that might threaten it. The belief does not survive despite the horror. It survives because of it, the dried brain on the canteen becoming not a warning but evidence of how necessary the vow is.
"Ecce homo: yet another butchered / in battle after having sworn" — "ecce homo," Pilate's presentation of the condemned Christ, arrives as the poem's darkest formal joke. "Behold the man" — and the man is yet another soldier killed while believing his vow would protect him. The Latin invokes the tradition of sacred sacrifice while immediately deflating it: this is not martyrdom but the common fate of the man who thought his private bargain with the universe was enforceable. "Yet another" is the poem's most devastating qualifier — the soldier is not exceptional, not the first, the vow is not original, the error is repeated across the history of combat with terrible consistency. The cosmos has not been keeping its side.
"To deliver — hand deliver, / not cock — squadmate letters, / if need be, to cobwebbed wives" reveals the vow's actual terms and the moral architecture the soldier has constructed around them. He swore to deliver his squadmates' letters to their wives if they were killed — and specifically to do so without sexual opportunism, the "hand deliver, / not cock" distinction naming the temptation the vow forecloses. The cobwebbed wives are waiting, their marriages long-distance and neglected, the cobwebs naming the sexual deprivation of prolonged separation. The soldier's vow specifically forecloses taking advantage of that vulnerability. He is going to do this right, and doing it right is the currency of the bargain he believes the cosmos is honoring.
The poem closes on these terms — on the vow as it was conceived, the letters, the wives, the distinction between hand and cock — rather than on the manner of the soldier's death, which has already been named earlier as butchery in battle. This formal choice is the poem's most precise: the soldier's last defined act is the vow itself, the belief in its terms, the moral seriousness with which he took the bargain. He dies having kept his side. The cosmos, as always, was never keeping its side at all. The vow was bulletproof in the only sense that mattered to the universe: it held until there was no longer anyone to hold it.
What "Bulletproof Vow" refuses is both elegy and contempt. The soldier is genuinely moral — the vow to hand-deliver rather than exploit is a real ethical commitment. The belief in its protective power is the error, but the error is beguiling rather than foolish, seductive rather than stupid. And the carnage that should have opened the belief to doubt instead sealed it further, each death making the need more acute, the need making the belief more necessary, the belief becoming more impervious precisely because the evidence against it was everywhere. The dried brain on the canteen is the poem's governing image because it names this mechanism without explaining it away — the horror that the most devastating evidence becomes the most powerful confirmation of what the desperate mind needs to believe.
Meta Description
A nine-line poem about a soldier whose belief in a protective cosmic bargain is bolstered rather than challenged by the carnage surrounding him — the dried brain on his canteen less bother than bolster, the need for the vow to be true intensifying with every death, until he is butchered in battle having kept his side of an agreement the cosmos was never keeping, the poem closing on the vow's terms rather than the death, the belief held all the way through.
Keywords
Bulletproof Vow, combat magical thinking, just cosmos, transactional theology, ecce homo, cobwebbed wives, hand deliver not cock, dried brain canteen, bolstered belief, carnage and magical thinking, squadmate letters, beguiled belief, belief and need, contemporary American poetry, nine-line poem, tercet form, war poetry, irony and death, vow and protection, cosmos and contract, elegy refused
Quikrete (ROUND 2)
"Quikrete" is an exceptionally transgressive, structurally lean polemic that uses extreme imagery to launch an indictment of pathologically self-serving domesticity. Operating at the intersection of body horror, social satire, and forensic crime, the poem targets a nightmare inversion of parental responsibility: a dynamic where adoption becomes an engine for ego, competitive status, and objectification. Rather than depicting a calculated murder, the poem tracks the tragic, accidental outcome of long-term sadism—two adoptive fathers who view a child as a prized personal commodity, only to accidentally break that "toy" through reckless, competitive abuse. The title functions as the poem’s grim, material resolution: Quikrete—an industrial, fast-drying concrete mix—is invoked not to signify domestic construction, but rather swift forensic concealment: the fast-curing cement rushed in to encase a corpse, seal a grave, and preserve a suburban facade.
The poem opens by laying bare the psychological and social pretense that precedes the violence:
The adoptive gays, one-upmanship
revving waiting-list edging
into trichotillomania,
Here, the poem dissects the administrative gauntlet of modern adoption—a system reliant on socioeconomic auditing and moral vetting. By fusing "waiting-list edging" with "trichotillomania" (the compulsive, neurotic pulling out of one's own hair), the poem characterizes the prospective parents as driven to a state of self-cannibalizing fixation. However, this agonizing process does not yield nurturing readiness; instead, it fosters an entitled, competitive hunger for ownership. The desire for parenthood is transformed into a high-stakes game of "one-upmanship," where the child is conceptualized prior to arrival not as a human subject requiring care, but as a long-sought trophy acquired through endurance.
The shift into the execution of the assault highlights the complete moral detachment with which the perpetrators operate:
tag team a fatality (“Finish Him!”
skinned in synonym), colonic torsion neither dad—
Crucially, the parenthetical reference to Mortal Kombat’s iconic directive, “Finish Him!”, is explicitly noted as being "skinned in synonym." The text establishes that "Finish Him!" is not spoken dialogue; rather, the arcade framework serves as a conceptual blueprint that has been re-clothed—or "skinned"—in their own sadistic, real-world vernacular. By mapping the mechanics of a fighting-game fatality onto a physical assault, the perpetrators trivialize real-world harm as a competitive sport. The phrase "skinned in synonym" operates as a double entendre: it denotes the cosmetic "skins" of video game avatars while describing how language itself has been flayed to disguise severe abuse as collaborative play.
The second stanza introduces the poem's central tragedy and structural pivot:
whirler, impaler—meant
to bloody the kiddo creampie: “Fuck yeah! Spin that lil
prick!”
The critical phrase "neither dad... meant" provides the dark thematic core of the narrative. The catastrophic internal injury—"colonic torsion"—was not a calculated, premeditated execution. Having waited years on a waiting list to secure a human possession for long-term exploitation, the fathers did not intend to destroy what they had acquired. Instead, in their manic, competitive enthusiasm—acting as specialized instruments of torture ("whirler, impaler")—they push the assault past the physical threshold of human endurance. The sickening juxtaposition of diminutive affection ("kiddo") with crude predatory slang ("creampie") reveals their complete reification of the child.
The dialogue—““Fuck yeah! Spin that lil prick!””—captures the actual spoken commands into which the "Finish Him!" archetype was re-skinned. Mechanically, the open-vowel roar of "Fuck yeah!" maintains the breathless, uninhibited adrenaline of the act, while "Spin that lil prick!" acts as a sharp double entendre referencing both physical rotation and severe degradation. It represents the height of their unrepentant frenzy, captured mere seconds before the fatal collapse is realized.
When the physical rupture occurs, the frantic kinetic energy of the assault instantly vanishes, replaced by the cold, logistical imperative of the poem's title. "Quikrete" is the emergency solution to a broken possession. The poem leaves the reader at the exact threshold where sadistic play ends and forensic management begins: the realization that the long-sought commodity has been permanently ruined, requiring bags of fast-setting concrete to entomb the evidence beneath a slab before the outside world notices.
Meta Description
An exceptionally transgressive poem tracking two adoptive fathers whose ego-driven waiting-list one-upmanship culminates in an accidental, fatal colonic rupture of their child, leading directly to the industrial quick-dry concrete disposal of the body.
Keywords
Quikrete, literary analysis, contemporary poetry, transgressive poetry, child abuse, body disposal, adoption vetting, objectification, colonic torsion, whirler impaler, skinned in synonym, social critique, close reading.
Quikrete
"Quikrete" is an exceptionally graphic and highly transgressive poem that uses extreme sexual and violent imagery to launch a scathing critique of perceived excesses in contemporary gay adoption culture, specifically targeting what it portrays as a self-serving, competitive, and ultimately perverse approach to parenthood. The poem functions as a polemical indictment of a specific pathology it attributes to a segment of "adoptive gays," hinting at concealed violence and irreversible harm.
The title, "Quikrete," is a brand name for fast-setting concrete mix. This subtly ominous title immediately foreshadows the poem's themes of permanent, perhaps irreversible, damage or a swift, brutal outcome, strongly hinting at body burial or the quick disposal of evidence, solidifying a crime. It suggests a destructive force that solidifies quickly, leaving no trace.
The poem immediately thrusts the reader into a scene of disturbing competition and violence: "The adoptive gays, one-upmanship / revving waiting-list edging / into insanity, tag team / a 'Finish Him!' fatality (only / no arcade-pixel respawn)." The phrase "one-upmanship / revving waiting-list edging / into insanity" characterizes the adoptive parents as engaged in a destructive, competitive quest, driven to extremes by the desire to outdo each other, turning the adoption process into a perverse game. The allusion to "Finish Him!" from the video game Mortal Kombat and "fatality (only / no arcade-pixel respawn)" brutally underscores the literal, irreversible harm inflicted, contrasting it with the simulated violence of a game.
The specific act of violence and its horrific consequence are then detailed: "colonic torsion neither dad— / spinner, fucker—meant / to shadow the kiddo creampie: / 'Fuck yes! Spin that lil’ prick!'" This is the poem's most shocking and explicit core. "Colonic torsion" describes a severe, life-threatening injury to the child. The poem attributes this to neither dad "mean[ing]" it, suggesting an unintended but direct consequence of their actions, a result perhaps of their perverse game. The terms "spinner, fucker" are presented as roles or personas taken by the dads, linking the violence directly to their sexual practices or aggressive behaviors. The phrase "kiddo creampie" is a grotesque and deeply disturbing sexualization of the child, implying the child is an object of their gratification. The concluding shouted line, "'Fuck yes! Spin that lil’ prick!'" is a horrifying climax. It implies a perverse encouragement of an act that leads to severe harm, revealing a profound lack of empathy, a sexualized view of the child, and a moral depravity that the poem attributes to this specific group.
Thematically, "Quikrete" critiques what it portrays as a hyper-sexualized, self-centered, and pathologically competitive strain within gay male culture, particularly as it intersects with parenthood. The poem argues that when parenthood becomes a vehicle for "one-upmanship" or "soiree flex" (as seen in related poems), driven by ego and a desire for novelty, it can lead to horrific and unintended consequences for the child, ultimately suggesting a possible, grim disposal or concealment implied by the title. The poem suggests a complete inversion of traditional parental care and responsibility, replacing it with a disturbing focus on sexual gratification and competitive performance, ultimately portraying these "adoptive gays" as monstrous in their self-absorption and disregard for the child's well-being. It is a highly aggressive and controversial condemnation of perceived ethical failures within a specific community.
transgressive poetry, social critique, gay culture, adoption, pedophilia, child abuse, violence, satire, moral depravity, sexualization, one-upmanship, identity politics, controversy, shock value, body burial, concealment.
Docking
"Docking," a poem brimming with raw intimacy, offers a glimpse into a pivotal moment of sexual exploration between two young boys, Mark and Dodi. Through evocative imagery and a deliberate use of language, the poem delves into themes of budding sexuality, power dynamics, and the vulnerability of self-discovery.
The poem opens with a direct and provocative image: "Mark peels open and pulls back the tan prepuce." This act of unveiling sets the stage for the poem's exploration of the body as a source of both fascination and trepidation. The word "bewitched" applied to Dodi suggests a long-held, almost mystical, attraction to this hidden part of Mark's anatomy, possibly stemming from a childhood encounter in the "first school shower." This detail hints at the early awakening of their sexuality and the formative impact of shared experiences.
The language used to describe the exposed genitals is both sensuous and precise. The "chiseled peach-cleft underbelly" and "glossy rose-madder glans" create a vivid picture, while the color choices evoke a sense of youthful vibrancy. However, the focus on Mark's body positions him as the one offering, while Dodi assumes the role of the recipient. This initial power dynamic is further emphasized by the verb "plants" used to describe Dodi's action.
The imagery shifts when the focus moves to Dodi. The "meatus smooching flared ruff of flesh" emphasizes the physical act, while the act of "hooding" Mark's hand "full over Dodi's crown" introduces a reversal of roles. This suggests a potential fluidity and shared agency in their exploration.
The poem's central metaphor, "one retractable rod," highlights the physical connection forged by the boys. However, the act of "shafting" carried out with "strong but slight back and forth" movement underscores the tentative and perhaps even hesitant nature of their encounter.
The final line, "Mark's hand-clutch at the seam secures," reinforces the initial power dynamic. Mark's hand becomes an anchoring force, suggesting a need for control or perhaps a fear of losing this newly discovered connection.
"Docking" raises important questions about the complex interplay of power and intimacy in youthful sexual exploration. The poem avoids explicitness, instead relying on suggestive language and imagery. This ambiguity allows the reader to project their own interpretations onto the scene, fostering a sense of both intimacy and voyeurism.
Ultimately, "Docking" offers a compelling snapshot of a pivotal moment in the lives of these two boys. Their exploration is both physically intimate and emotionally charged, hinting at the complexities of self-discovery and the evolving nature of power dynamics in early relationships.
blog
FAQ
Visit my Substack: Hive Being
Visit my Substack: Hive Being
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)
Featured Blog Posts
have appeared last night—
all those met along the way?
"An Introduction to Chaos Magic(k)" is a character study of extraordinary density that operates simultaneously as social criticism, psychological portrait, spiritual anatomy, and elegy for a generation caught between the wreckage of postmodernity and the human need for enchantment that postmodernity cannot satisfy. Its unnamed protagonist — the brujita, the cyber witch, the self-styled metaverse malvada — is rendered with a specificity that refuses both the condescending dismissal the author's note acknowledges as a temptation and the uncritical celebration that her own self-mythology demands. The piece holds her in the space between these responses, which is where the most honest literary attention lives.
The mirror is the piece's governing formal and philosophical structure, announced in the recurring lead sentences and sustained throughout as both literal object and conceptual frame. The floor mirror the brujita leans toward, the phone selfie, the floor monitor displaying her avatar, the Tumblr manifestation board, the diary, the SpongeBob hat as relic of reflected childhood — everything in her environment functions as a surface in which she attempts to find a stable self and finds instead proliferating versions, none quite coinciding with the original. "Her reflection, close to touching the original, pulses for her like psilocybin" is the piece's most compressed statement of this condition: the reflection approaches but never achieves coincidence with what it reflects, and the gap between them — that millimeter of irreducible distance — is where the brujita lives. Chaos magic, as the piece understands it, is the attempt to close this gap by force of will — to make the reflection become the original through sufficient intensity of self-declaration.
The piece's most significant formal innovation is its deployment of the alternative-world counterpart. The Hagatess comparison is not merely a sociological contrast between urban digital witchcraft and rural embodied witchcraft, though it is that too. It is a philosophical argument about the relationship between metaphor and materiality. The Maine witch's hedge-crossing is literal before it is metaphorical; the brujita's hedge-crossing is metaphorical before it is — possibly, aspirationally — literal. "To be a custodian of hedges is to be a custodian of in-between spaces" is the piece's most generous formulation of what the brujita is genuinely doing, even within and beneath the curation and the shitposting and the manifesting: she is genuinely inhabiting thresholds, genuinely maintaining the border between meat and pixel, genuinely finding in code a practice that is continuous with the older practice of hedge-witchery even as it is entirely discontinuous from it in every material particular. The piece's intelligence is in granting this continuity without pretending the discontinuity doesn't cost something real.
The rapper tape of self-curation that surrounds the brujita — the IG bio, the CashApp handle, the Depop page, the Redbubble shop, the Tumblr manifestation board, the Only Fans, the Twitch stream, the avatar in Afro-Solarpunk GTA — is not rendered as mere vanity but as a genuine, if displaced, spiritual practice. The piece understands curation as the secular form of the same impulse that fills the brujita's dream satchel with garnet and mugwort: the attempt to shape the environment of the self, to arrange the materials of existence into a configuration that will attract what is desired and repel what is feared. That the materials are now Temu neon lichen and Etsy nymph stickers rather than dried hinojo and foraged knotweed is a difference of platform, not of fundamental human activity. The piece does not excuse the shallowness this sometimes produces. It locates the shallowness within a recognizable human hunger.
The rape sequence — rendered in the staccato blackout structure of traumatic memory, each line a flash cut to black — is the piece's formal and emotional center of gravity, and its placement within the longer narrative arc is precise. The brujita's chaos magic, her manifestation practice, her radical self-sovereignty declarations ("I am the programmer. My decisions, my style, / come from me, not from anything beyond me!") are all, the piece suggests, organized in significant part around this event and its aftermath — the attempt to become the author of a self whose authorship was violated. The diary entry's culminating declaration — "Death, rape, war, divorce, dead-beat dads — / I'm the one who lets them be real or not!" — is simultaneously the piece's most delusional and most sympathetic moment: delusional because the God Mode it claims is unavailable to any human being, sympathetic because the need for it is completely legible given what the preceding flashback sequence has shown. Chaos magic, in this reading, is not primarily superstition but a specific psychological response to the experience of having had one's reality determined by someone else's will. The magic is the attempt to reclaim the position of reality's author.
The mother's whiteness and the father's Blackness organize the brujita's identity in ways the piece renders with careful indirection. The mother — "a true queen but whose whiteness, having grown beyond just 1990s 'uncool' and into 2020s 'problematic,' renders such regality unseen" — is present, capable, genuinely loving, and culturally unmarketable in the brujita's ideological environment. The father — "a deadbeat 'King' who gets off on making store clerks stretch to gather his loosie quarters, bops down the block one cop strangle away from becoming, until at least Disney fashion changes, a city-center statue" — is absent, performatively dignified, and culturally hypervaluable in that same environment. The "$blaxicanbruja" handle navigates this inheritance by claiming the Black and the Mexican and letting the white remain implicit and unacknowledged — a dynamic the piece notes with the quiet observation that she "seemingly identify as part Mexican" while the subtle implication is that she is denying her whiteness. Identity here is not simply chosen but strategically curated, assembled from the culturally available materials in ways that maximize belonging and minimize the liability of the unmarketable.
The anime subreddit sequence is among the piece's most formally brilliant passages — the posts reproduced in their actual idiom, their casual nihilism and identity-grievance and erotic longing forming a kind of found poetry of the platform's affective register. "Shinji Ikari is LITERALLY ME. useless bisexual disasters ✅ daddy issues FOR DAYS ✅ depression naps 24/7 ✅" is simultaneously self-aware and self-regarding, genuinely identifying with a character's psychological complexity and reducing that complexity to an identity checklist. The subreddit is the brujita's social mirror — a space where her specific configuration of pain and humor and political feeling finds community — and the piece renders it without contempt while making visible exactly how the platform's idiom shapes what can be felt and said within it.
The author's note is the piece's most unusual formal element, and its inclusion is a significant artistic decision. The author appears in his own text to describe the process of coming to see the character's humanity — moving from the temptation to dismiss her to the recognition of her innocence, her hard work, her dreams, her potential. The Sagan quotations frame this arc: first the critique (the slide into superstition and darkness), then the corrective (the temperance of criticism with kindness toward those whose culture has not given them all the tools they need). The note does not resolve the tension between these positions; it names it as the piece's governing moral challenge, which is also the reader's. We are invited to hold simultaneously the genuine harm of the brujita's worldview — its solipsism, its victimhood economics, its displacement of real understanding with magical substitutes — and the genuine human being constructing that worldview from the available materials of a specific time, place, and wound. The Hitler quotation is the note's most provocative element, placed alongside the Sagan quotation to suggest that the anti-rational turn has a history that predates Gen Z and has produced consequences far worse than any one young woman's crystal collection.
The diary entry that closes the piece is its most formally distinctive element — the shift to verse within the prose, the "bucking motions of erotic greed" of the handwriting enacted in the erratic spacing and pressure of the lines. "Let my delusions be scarecrows. Let them frighten / any so-called 'reality' seeking to devour my crop: ME." is the brujita at her most genuinely poetic — the image precise, the logic coherent within its own terms, the self-protective function of magical thinking rendered not as pathology but as strategy. The final declaration — "I'm the one who lets them be real or not!" — arrives as both triumph and tragedy: the God Mode claimed, the cost of claiming it left for the reader to feel.
What "An Introduction to Chaos Magic(k)" achieves is a portrait of a specific contemporary formation of the human spirit — wounded, creative, politically confused, genuinely searching, embedded in platforms that shape what can be desired and how desire can be expressed, reaching for enchantment in a world that has systematically dismantled the older structures through which enchantment was transmitted and received, and constructing from the available digital materials something that is simultaneously less and more than what it replaces. The piece does not conclude that the brujita is lost. It concludes that she is navigating, as best she can with what she has, the same territory that humans have always navigated: the gap between the self they are and the self they need to become, with whatever tools their culture and their wound have left them.
Meta Description
A novelistic character study of a young mixed-race Los Angeles woman navigating chaos magic, digital curation, racial identity, sexual trauma, and the human hunger for enchantment in a disenchanted world — rendered through mirrors literal and figurative, the alternative-world counterpart of a Maine hedge witch, a rape sequence in blackout staccato, and a diary entry that culminates in the God Mode declaration of a psyche determined to author its own reality against everything that has authored her instead.
Keywords
An Introduction to Chaos Magic, chaos magic poetry, brujita, blaxican witch, digital witchcraft, manifestation culture, Gen Z identity, racial identity curation, trauma and magical thinking, mirror as form, hedge witch comparison, anime subreddit, Hagatess, alternative world counterpart, rape and self-sovereignty, Carl Sagan Demon-Haunted World, author's note as form, diary as verse, God Mode declaration, contemporary American prose poem, character study, superstition and postmodernity, identity and platform, Los Angeles witch