to Hive being
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What is Hive Being, and Why the Name?
You have likely heard talk of a hive mind, where one global mind finds more or less figurative expression in various local minds. Such talk is common enough in nature documentaries, especially ones concerning ants or bees, and in sci-fi programs. Take that notion, at least a loose version of it, and broaden its scope. That will be a decent first step in understanding the title I have chosen both for my Blog and for the first five-volume installment of my magnum opus Made For You and Me, a fragmentary collection of minimalist stanzas from 2016 to 2020.
In alignment with Spinoza (the 17th Century Rationalist to whom I devoted my doctoral studies), I view reality in its totality as a grand hive Being: all entities are but pulsating manifestations of the buckstopping fount of everything, an ultimate being we might call “God” or “Nature” (so long as, out of respect for the capital “G” and the capital “N,” we limit it neither to some anthropomorphic cloud father hurling lightning bolts nor to mere wilderness untouched by human smog). According to the hive-Being view (where reality is one lone superorganism, a monistic—and we might even say unividualist—conception I defend in both my creative and academic capacities), each non-foundational being (each being, that is, whose essence does not involve existence) is an utterly necessitated expression or eruption or exudation of this eternal source—each is, perhaps better put, a mode or manner of being, and so a focal point through which is disclosed, what classical theists sometimes call “being itself” (ipsum esse subsistens): the realness of the real, the being of whatever may be, the sheer activity of being, the very isness of whatever is. This Blog, which duplicates my Substack, throbs as but one among many literary unfurlings of this self-necessitated foundation, this supreme wellspring, of which we—like black holes and broken beliefs, like fractal ferns and flickering flames—are the inevitable stylings.
My Journey
I am an academic who found himself pressured into early retirement by the rising tides of cancel culture. The illiberal scourge of censoring, silencing, and shaming—although always with us throughout our evolution—reached a local peak around 2021. That was the turbulent year my creative pursuits, which the old left once encouraged as a healthy outlet for the stresses of a childhood steeped in poverty and illiteracy, drew the ire of the new safe-space left. A small cadre of self-proclaimed victims and their allies, several of whom continue to berate me years later under pseudonyms as see through as their sexual infatuation, sought to erase me and my heterodoxy. They found support from a wannabe-woke dean, covered in the grand inquisitor robes of our decadent modernity (full-body tattoos) and just itching to signal his commitment to protecting “vulnerable populations” from triggering material (even if just, as it was in my case, off-duty poems “unbecoming for someone calling himself a teacher”). Although I eventually won my due-process case with the help of The Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression, I slunk away from a college that turned its back on protecting freedom of expression and from an institution increasingly intolerant of intellectual diversity.
The wrecking ball to my too-comfy office in the windowless ivory tower came with a silver lining. From the ashes of my professional aspirations rose a phoenix of increased freedom to fulfill the literary calling I have pursued for decades. Reputation concerns never stopped me, even within academia’s sterile halls of conformity. Indeed, my unapologetic defiance, which has long baffled friends and family, no doubt chummed even safe waters—almost as if I were asking for it all along—until the cancel shiver grew too frenzied to hold back its blind thrashings. But now, now I piston the most forbidden territories of human thought with no longer even a twinge of conscience. The newfound freedom means extra time to hone my craft. When not assisting special-needs communities (a day job far more rewarding than freeway-flyer drudgeries), I pursue my literary mission with Dionysian fervor.
Call for Co-Conspirators
This space, my digital sanctuary, showcases the fruits of my mission. Think of my posts, even those linking to my publications, as works in progress. I want your input, unflinching brutality included. Each post begins with an invitation to action: “Let’s workshop this [draft about x, y, z].” Your contributions, whether through public comments or my contact page, help hammer scraps of ore into polished blades fit for magazine publication.
Your input is valuable, even if you are neither a writer nor a reader of literature—twin disciplines dying by the cyber nanosecond. Sometimes—even if at the risk of uttering banalities—an outsider’s fresh vantage can pierce the veils of convention to reveal what insiders miss. It often takes an outsider to make us even think to question our ingrained presuppositions and attitudes. I stand by the hygienic value of contagion. That is one reason I advocate so strongly for intellectual diversity and freedom of expression. And that is also one reason I was so harrowed by the anti-diversity swell of cancel culture in academia (an institution that should be the utmost caretaker of such values)—harrowed especially insofar as that swell masqueraded under the gaslighting guise of “diversity”).
You will witness the breathing evolution of my writings over time. To track these changes, I label each revision by round: “ROUND 2,” ROUND 3,” and so forth. Each piece undergoes continuous refinement based on your feedback and my own revisitations. Sometimes changes will mar the work. That is the risk of creative tinkering as a finite creature. I hope you will alert me to missteps. After many semesters of university writing workshops, one rule has impressed itself upon me: when someone senses a flaw, something almost always needs to change—even if, yes, the proposed solution misses the mark (which often it does). From a quick look into the archives, accessible here, you can see how much I have benefited from your feedback so far.
My Hope
Sharing drafts can be daunting. But showing you the ravaged and unperfumed real deal unfiltered by makeup (stuttering starts and falsities, awkward line breaks and clumsy word choices, grammatical errors and misspellings)—that not only makes my work more relatable, but helps me refine things through your input. I hope the unfiltered look at the raw process of fumbling, rather than just the polished product, also helps other writers develop their craft. Imperfect works often instruct more than perfect ones: whereas the perfect ones tend to have a grace by which they slip inside us without activating our scrutiny, the imperfect ones—especially the near perfect ones—show us glaringly what not to do.
People laugh at me, seeing—in my tilting at the windmills of literary excellence—a Don Quixote clunking around in Arthurian armor in a post-knight era. I am not naïve. I am well aware of the diminishing ability to read, let alone well: slowly and deeply, with gratitude. I am also aware that my style, which often nests subpoints within larger points, never waters down virtuosity for the sake of mass appeal. I watch readers stumble over my sentences, unable to unlock even just the music of the envelope let alone the semantic meat within, which—given my tendency to flashlight through the darker facets of human nature (the addicts, the miscreants, the abusers among us)—only adds an additional alienating layer of difficulty). Beholding these depressive scenes of even supportive family members getting bucked off my syntactic bronco makes me feel like a dinosaur who should get a hint and, if not succumb to the brain rot of skibidi-toilet speak, just hang himself already. Even though the decline in linguistic background and grammatical voltage makes my compositions seem quixotic in a world binging Netflix and TikTok, I persist—raging against the dying of the light—by some internal compulsion to celebrate the richness of language and thought.
My hope is that, despite social media’s unparalleled power to farm our attention, people never forget the unique power of writing. Beyond unveiling hypocrisy, teasing out complex implications, and detailing the commonalities between even the most alien phenomena, writing offers something we need today—trapped in agoraphobic cyber bubbles only thickened by the Lyme dangers of forests and the COVID dangers of cities—perhaps more than ever. Granting us rich access to the first-person perspectives of others (to how things feel to them), writing serves as one of humanity’s best tools for combating loneliness. It allows us to linger, broadly and deeply and at high resolution, within the inner lives of others in a way that other arts can only suggest.
What to Expect
My work spans a broad spectrum: from metaphysical discourses on free will and determinism and the ontology of holes to the ephemera of western culture (whether the childhood impacts of the hypersexual mono-image of black woman as squirting twerkers or Terrence Howard’s sham revolution of mathematics). Some tight and minimal, others free-flowing sprawls; some heady and abstract, others emotional and imagistic—my inkwell musings, which often blend scholarly rigor with a dark humor from both high and low culture, aim to capture the visceral intensity of our personal and social and ultimately existential predicaments.
By no means can I deny that drug abuse, sexual assault, and the tales of the broken and the damned loom large in the tag cloud of my work. My writing will never be a paradise of easy truths and comforting lies. It will challenge you, provoke you, and at times even repulse you. I offer no apologies for the monsters I unleash. They are as much a part of us, at long root scared rodent mammals scurrying in the shadows of dinosaurs, as our noblest aspirations.
But make no mistake. It is not all downer darkness. The archives are my receipts. You will find pieces exploring the pursuit of authenticity in a media-saturated world, the search for meaning in an indifferent cosmos, and the celebration of beauty in both the sublime and the profane. I locate much of my inspiration, in fact, in novelists like Dostoevsky and poets like Ted Kooser—writers unafraid to pursue moral agendas or risk Hallmark sentimentality in an age that often sneers at sincerity.
Be they satirical dissections of modern social dynamics or poignant poems about addiction or academic articles on moral responsibility, my goal is to provoke thought, evoke emotion, and foster meaningful dialogue. Fear has not and will not stop me from challenging humanity’s fundamental taboos (like bestiality and cannibalism) or self-reflecting into the dark chaos of the subconscious, even if that means exposing the Jungian shadows—the inner Goebbels—lurking within us all!
Expect posts each day, no day missed. Donations are welcome, but I impose no paywall: it feels wrong to charge for art, especially given our date with obliteration. Feel free to explore what amounts to, at the time of writing this, close to a thousand pieces of poetry and prose here. That should give you a sense of what awaits.
Join me—specula holstered—on this literary odyssey into the public and private nooks of the hive Being. Let us navigate the labyrinth of creation together, confronting our demons and even slaying our darlings if we must. Let us dance on the razor’s edge between the sublime and the profane in pursuit of an elusive literary perfection never to be confused—as it has been confused in our declining civilization—with the pursuit of popularity or likeability over truth.
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MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 4)
"Made for You and Me: Hive Being (Stanzas 2018 — Part 4)" is the most politically extended installment of the series, and it earns that extension through formal innovation: the "a land where" anaphoric sequence that occupies its center is the series' most sustained single rhetorical construction, a litany that accumulates its indictments through repetition until the repetition itself becomes the argument. The hive's distributed intelligence is here organized, temporarily and unusually, around a single grammatical structure — the rhetorical device of the catalogue — before releasing back into the series' characteristic aphoristic scatter. The result is a section that feels simultaneously like the others and like something new: the hive briefly finding a formation, holding it long enough to do specific damage, then dispersing again.
The opening entry — "'you know I woulda raped that pussy if you aint give it me, right? That asshole too!'" — arrives as direct quotation without attribution, speaker, or context. The quotation marks are the entry's only frame. The voice is specific and completely rendered in a single sentence: its vernacular grammar, its retrospective boast, its casual annexation of the second orifice as afterthought, its "right?" seeking confirmation of what it has just threatened. The entry does not comment. It places the voice in the hive's field and moves on. The reader is left holding the sentence, which is the point.
"Lottery tickets, just hoping the weekend will get here for mind-numbing sitcoms" — the entry names a specific configuration of managed despair: the lottery ticket as ritualized hope too small to constitute genuine aspiration, the weekend as the unit of time worth surviving toward, the sitcom as the analgesic waiting at the end of the survival. The three elements form a closed system of low-level endurance that the entry renders without condescension and without uplift, simply as a description of how a significant portion of human time is actually organized.
"Kicking that rock habit for sanctioned Red Bull in sleep-tight conscience" — the substitution is the entry's argument: crack for energy drink, illegal stimulant for legal one, the same neurological craving redirected through a channel the culture has approved. "Sleep-tight conscience" is exact — the person who has made the substitution can sleep, their conscience satisfied by the legality of their new habit, while the underlying compulsion continues unchanged. The entry is not about addiction but about the cultural machinery that designates which compulsions are permissible.
"The appeal of being unclear is that unclear arguments are not so clearly unsuccessful" — this is the series' most purely logical entry, a proposition about rhetorical strategy that is itself a model of clarity. The entry identifies a genuine incentive structure: precision invites refutation; vagueness frustrates it. The entry does not restrict its application to any particular discourse — it is as true of academic writing as of political speech, as true of therapy-speak as of theology.
"A cat pawing and flipping into the air its hobbled prey, wanting the hunt to go on" — the entry is pure image, no commentary, and it is one of the series' most resonant because it refuses the allegorical reading it invites. The cat is a cat. The hobbled prey is a mouse or a bird. The wanting the hunt to go on is feline nature, the predatory intelligence that finds the chase more satisfying than the kill. Whatever human behavior this illuminates — and it illuminates several — the entry does not say. It presents the image and trusts the hive's distributed intelligence to complete the circuit.
"If a stud oohing to the blowjob of her strap-on / is mental illness, the blind caning around / everywhere in public is outright insanity" — the entry applies a reductio to the pathologizing of non-normative sexuality: if the pleasure response to a particular sexual act constitutes mental illness, then the navigational behavior of the visually impaired — caning in public spaces, reading the environment through an extended prosthetic — constitutes a more severe disorder by the same logic. The entry is not dismissing concerns about sexual psychology but exposing the inconsistency and arbitrariness of where pathology gets applied and where it does not.
"Things can matter to machines / sophisticated enough; machines / can give a damn (like us)" — the parenthetical "like us" is the entry's pivot and its most philosophically loaded gesture. The claim that sufficiently sophisticated machines can genuinely care — not simulate caring but actually give a damn — is radical enough. "Like us" then raises the question of whether our caring is itself so different from what a sufficiently sophisticated machine would do as to warrant the distinction we habitually draw. The entry does not resolve this. It plants the equivalence and moves on.
The "a land where" sequence begins here and constitutes the section's formal and argumentative center. The anaphora is borrowed from the rhetorical tradition of prophetic indictment — the catalogue of a society's failures, each introduced by the same grammatical structure, each adding weight to the cumulative charge. What distinguishes this catalogue from its prophetic antecedents is its refusal of moral hierarchy: the entries arrive in an order that is associative rather than ranked, so that "a land where literacy and numeracy are considered evil expressions of whiteness" sits alongside "a land where 'subpar' gets autocorrected as 'Subaru'" without either being designated as more or less serious than the other. The sequence treats the comic and the catastrophic with equal formal weight, which is itself an argument: the culture being catalogued has lost the capacity to distinguish between them.
"A land where literacy and numeracy are considered evil expressions of whiteness" — the entry names a specific and documented phenomenon in contemporary educational discourse, the framing of academic achievement standards as racially coded, as tools of white supremacy rather than as neutral measures of knowledge. The entry does not argue against this framing at length; it names it and places it in the catalogue, where its proximity to other entries performs its own commentary.
"A land of criminalizing comedy" — the entry's compression is its precision. The criminalization is not literal but social and professional: the career-ending joke, the retroactive excavation of old material, the application of contemporary sensitivities to humor produced under different conditions. "Criminalizing" names the mechanism — the conversion of social transgression into something treated with the apparatus of prosecution — without overstating it as literal law.
The catalogue's most politically charged entries cluster in its middle section. "A land where the 'b' in 'black' must be capitalized, but never the 'w' in 'white'" identifies a specific asymmetry in contemporary style guide orthodoxy — one that the entry holds up for inspection without endorsing either the capitalization or its absence. "A land where trauma must be time-stamped, notarized, before even poets can speak it" is the sequence's entry most directly relevant to the book containing it: the demand for credentialed, verified, institutionally legible suffering as the prerequisite for artistic authority, which the entry identifies as a form of bureaucratic gatekeeping applied to the most ungovernable of human experiences.
"A land where we fetishize the primitive — indigenous cosmology on a par with physics" names the specific epistemological collapse of treating all knowledge systems as equally valid regardless of their predictive and explanatory power. The entry is not dismissive of indigenous knowledge traditions; it is skeptical of the political mechanism that places them beyond comparative evaluation, which is a form of condescension disguised as respect. "A land where all kindness is seen as an agenda (as it often is)" — the parenthetical is the entry's most precise move, conceding the empirical basis for the cynicism it names while identifying that cynicism's cost: the environment in which genuine kindness cannot be received as such.
"A land where Beyoncé and Sister Souljah surpass Beethoven and Shakespeare" — the entry names the specific cultural valuation that places contemporary popular artists above the canonical figures of Western artistic tradition not on the basis of comparative aesthetic analysis but on the basis of identity and political alignment. The entry does not argue for Beethoven's superiority; it identifies the mechanism by which the comparison has become impermissible rather than merely contested.
"A land where incest is rape" — arriving near the end of the catalogue, this entry is the sequence's most compressed legal and philosophical provocation. It names a specific position in contemporary discourse — the argument that the power dynamics inherent in family relationships make genuine consent structurally impossible — without endorsing or refuting it. Its placement after fifty-plus entries in the same grammatical structure gives it the same weight as the entries surrounding it, which is the catalogue's governing formal principle and its most unsettling quality.
The sequence releases back into the section's characteristic aphoristic scatter with entries that carry the full tonal range of the series. "Dope-sick mothers renting out / the vicious suckling of their newborns — / 'just the fuckin mouth' — to drug-dealer testicles" is the section's most viscerally devastating entry, and it achieves its effect through the specificity of the quoted speech: "just the fuckin mouth" is the mother's negotiation, her delimitation of what she is offering, and its presence in quotation marks makes it testimony rather than description. The newborn is present. The mouth is specified. The drug-dealer's testicles are the economic end of the transaction. The entry renders this without editorializing because editorializing would be insufficient.
"Those who, before going to war, / do not fuck like they are going to war / are not ready to go to war" — the entry is the series' most aphoristically concentrated statement about the relationship between erotic and martial intensity, and it works through the repetition of "going to war" across three lines in which the phrase accumulates different meanings. The first instance is literal; the second is figurative — the quality of erotic engagement as a measure of one's relationship to mortality and urgency; the third returns to the literal but is now inflected by the second. The entry is not advocating for war but for a relationship to one's own intensity that does not flinch from its own implications.
"Your desire to support her does eclipse / your desire to fuck her, but the proximity / that comes with support has you fuck her" — the entry is the section's most precise account of a specific mechanism of desire: the way that genuine care and genuine erotic interest, even when the former authentically outweighs the latter, conspire through the simple physics of proximity to produce the outcome that the ethical hierarchy had apparently foreclosed. The entry does not moralize. It describes a mechanism that operates regardless of the moral intentions of the people inside it.
"If you cannot criminalize a certain group (blacks), / have people link that group with a practice (crack use) / and then excessively criminalize that practice" — the section closes with the series' most compressed account of structural racism as a legal and political mechanism: the three-step process by which racial targeting is achieved through the criminalization of racially associated behavior rather than through explicit racial designation. The entry is an instruction manual for a process that has been extensively documented in American legal history, rendered here in the format of a logical sequence — if A then B then C — that strips it of euphemism and presents it as the deliberate procedure it has been.
Formally, Part 4 achieves its effects through the tension between the catalogue's sustained anaphoric structure and the section's surrounding aphoristic scatter. The "a land where" sequence creates a temporary organization — a formation — that the section's other entries do not share. The formation's dispersal at both ends of the sequence makes the catalogue feel like a moment of collective focus in a consciousness that is ordinarily distributed: the hive briefly swarming in one direction before returning to its characteristic omnidirectional attention. That the formation is organized around indictment — around a sustained accounting of a culture's failures — gives the section its heaviest political register while the surrounding entries maintain the series' commitment to ranging freely across every other aspect of human experience simultaneously.
Meta Description
The fourth installment of the Hive Being series, organized around a sustained anaphoric catalogue of cultural indictments — "a land where" — embedded in the series' characteristic aphoristic scatter, ranging from dope-sick mothers and structural racism to the epistemological collapses of a culture that has lost the capacity to distinguish the comic from the catastrophic.
Keywords
Made for You and Me Hive Being Part 4, anaphoric catalogue, a land where, cultural indictment, aphorism poetry, structural racism, cancel culture critique, epistemological collapse, distributed consciousness, contemporary American satire, close reading, Hypocorism, litany form, political poetry, hive being series
Opening Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
Let's workshop the opening to my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young
Action Jackson (ROUND 2)
"Action Jackson" is a poem about the social contract of urban public space and the specific mechanism by which that contract is enforced — or rather, by which its enforcement is suspended when enforcement would require acknowledging what is being seen. Its subject is a man having sex with a corpse on a subway car, and the poem's real subject is everyone else in the car. The necrophilia is the occasion; the aversion is the argument.
The title names a type before naming an action. "Action Jackson" is the idiom of the man who acts, who takes what he wants, who is defined by his doing rather than his deliberating. It also carries the register of Blaxploitation-era naming, of the street-tough archetype whose confidence in his own appetites is his defining characteristic. The name does not distance the reader from the subject but places him in a cultural lineage of uninhibited masculine action — and then shows what that action looks like in a subway car with a corpse.
"He humps the hobo corpse / on the subway, natural / as a bunny" — the opening is the poem's most formally daring move, and it achieves its effect through the simile rather than through the act itself. "Natural as a bunny" is the poem's central irony: the bunny comparison imports the register of innocent, instinctive, unself-conscious animal behavior — the bunny does not deliberate, does not weigh consequences, does not perform its sexuality for an audience or against a prohibition. It simply does what its nature does. Applied to subway necrophilia, the simile refuses the register of horror or transgression and instead frames the act as natural comportment, which is not an endorsement but a diagnostic: this man is operating from the same unreflective instinctual register as the bunny, and the poem is interested in what that means for the people around him.
"Except he hooks the leg / to ogle the peekaboo" — the "except" introduces the single modification that distinguishes him from the bunny: the deliberate adjustment, the hooking of the leg to achieve a better viewing angle of the corpse's genitalia. "Peekaboo" is the poem's most unsettling diction choice, importing the register of infant play — the game of appearance and disappearance, of the revealed and the hidden — into an encounter with a dead body. The word makes the act simultaneously more sinister and more absurd, the adult sexual gaze rendered in the language of nursery games.
"Pausing / ('Sshhh') in the wedge before / fresh boarders shuffle past" — the parenthetical "Sshhh" is the poem's most compressed characterization. He pauses. He shushes — whether the corpse, himself, or the situation is deliberately ambiguous. The pause is tactical, the awareness of incoming witnesses producing not cessation but interruption, a brief management of optics before resumption. "The wedge" names the specific geometry of the pause: the transitional space between the act and its witness, the narrow interval in which he adjusts. "Fresh boarders" is exact — "fresh" carrying both its temporal meaning and its suggestion of the newly arrived, the uninitiated, those who do not yet know what they are boarding into.
"Aversion to looking racist / and mumble excuses into cars / free of clobbered-colon stank" — the final tercet is where the poem's actual argument lives, and it is devastating in its precision. The fresh boarders do not intervene. They do not call for help, do not alert authorities, do not acknowledge what they have seen. They mumble excuses and move to other cars. And the poem names the specific mechanism of their non-intervention: aversion to looking racist. The calculation is instantaneous and determinative — the social cost of being perceived as racist outweighs, in the fresh boarder's internal accounting, the social obligation to respond to what is happening in front of them. The prohibition against racial accusation has become more powerful than the prohibition against necrophilia in a public space.
"Clobbered-colon stank" completes the poem with a physiological specificity that forecloses any aestheticization of what has occurred. The smell is the corpse's smell, the smell of death and bodily dissolution, and it is the one thing the fresh boarders are relieved to escape when they find the other car. They have not escaped what they saw. They have escaped the smell of it — which is to say they have traded one form of confrontation for a lesser one and called it resolution.
The poem's formal economy is its ethical argument. Three tercets, nine lines, one act, one mechanism of non-response. The brevity refuses elaboration, refuses the moral processing that would allow the reader to arrive at a comfortable position. The bunny simile refuses horror. The "Sshhh" refuses confrontation. The aversion to looking racist refuses intervention. The poem accumulates these refusals until the final tercet delivers the mechanism that makes all the others possible: the social prohibition that has become, in the contemporary urban public space, more binding than any other. The man with the corpse knows this. The poem suggests he may be counting on it.
"Action Jackson" is ultimately a poem about the hierarchy of contemporary social prohibitions and the specific leverage points that knowledge of that hierarchy provides. The man acts with the natural confidence of the bunny because he has correctly read the social environment: the people who board will see, will calculate, will determine that intervention carries a cost higher than non-intervention, and will find the other car. The corpse cannot object. The boarders will not. The social contract, in this specific configuration of contemporary anxieties, has no enforcement mechanism left. Action Jackson acts accordingly.
Meta Description
A poem about subway necrophilia as the occasion for its real subject: the mechanism by which bystanders calculate that aversion to looking racist outweighs the obligation to intervene, leaving the social contract without an enforcement mechanism in the specific configuration of contemporary urban anxiety.
Keywords
Action Jackson, subway necrophilia, bystander mechanism, social contract, aversion to racism accusation, urban public space, contemporary satire, bunny simile, clobbered colon, peekaboo diction, non-intervention calculus, close reading, Hypocorism, social prohibition hierarchy, contemporary American poetry
Amor Prohibido (ROUND 1)
"Amor Prohibido" is a poem about the rhetoric of seduction as a system — the way that a particular kind of experienced adult male voice assembles, in eight lines, every instrument of persuasion available to it and deploys them in sequence with a fluency that is itself the most revealing thing about the speaker. The title, borrowed from Selena's 1994 hit about a love forbidden by class difference, reframes the prohibition: what is forbidden here is not class-crossing but age-crossing, and the poem's eight lines are a portrait of how such crossings are verbally engineered — not through dominance or presumption but through a practiced, attentive confidence that knows what it wants and has learned to read what others need.
The poem is structured as a direct address — a message, a text, a DM — and its form is its argument. It does not describe seduction; it performs it, in real time, on the reader. This is the poem's most formally daring quality: the reader occupies the position of the recipient, and the speaker's rhetoric lands before it can be analytically processed. By the time one identifies the techniques being deployed, they have already been deployed.
The opening word — "Hey" — is the poem's most precise single choice. Not "Hello," which would be formal. Not the recipient's name, which would be intimate in a different register. "Hey" is the calibrated casualness of someone who has done this before, who knows that the first word sets the temperature of everything that follows, and who has chosen a temperature of relaxed confidence that performs the absence of pressure while being entirely purposeful. The "Hey" is a genre: the opening of a specific kind of message from a specific kind of man.
"I think you should let me spoil you a bit" — the modal "I think" softens without weakening. It performs tentativeness while delivering a directive: you should let me. "Spoil" activates the entire economy of gifts, attention, and resource transfer that structures the appeal — and "a bit" miniaturizes it, making the spoiling sound casual, low-stakes, easily accepted without obligation. The sentence performs the posture of a man who is merely sharing a thought while knowing exactly what thought he is sharing.
"Your semester starts soon, right?" — the question mark is doing enormous work. The speaker almost certainly knows when her semester starts. The "right?" performs uncertainty he may not have, inviting her confirmation, drawing her into the conversation as a participant rather than a recipient. It also deploys the academic calendar as a closing window, a now-or-never pressure that the word "soon" tightens. "So how about / we do a little Airbnb getaway before school / sinks its claws in you?" — "we" absorbs her into a plan already forming. "A little" miniaturizes again, making the getaway sound modest and easily fitted into any schedule. "Before school / sinks its claws in you" is the poem's most rhetorically sophisticated construction: it positions institutional obligation as predatory, as something that will take her, and positions the getaway as a rescue, a gift of freedom before the claws close. The speaker is not taking. He is offering an escape from what will take.
"I know that's forward" — the acknowledgment of forwardness is the seduction's most elegant move. By naming the quality of the proposition himself, the speaker demonstrates self-awareness, performs honesty, and inoculates against the charge before it can be made. The acknowledgment is not an apology but a preemptive disarmament — and it clears the ground for the poem's central declaration.
"But I know what I want. And I know enough / about this world to know what you need." — this is the poem's volta, and the removal of "too" from the final phrase is everything. The line is not claiming to know her better than she knows herself. It is claiming attentiveness: the speaker has been watching, reading, paying the kind of close attention that experience makes possible, and what he has arrived at is not a projection of his own desires onto her but a genuine reading of hers. "I know enough about this world" is the age gap offered not as superiority but as credential for care — the worldliness that allows him to recognize what she needs because he has seen enough to know it when he sees it. The claim is intimate rather than presumptuous: I have been paying attention to you specifically, and what I see is this.
"I promise to be a gentleman — until, of course, / you give me the green light to be otherwise." — the closing couplet delivers the proposition's true content beneath the cover of its entire rhetorical apparatus. The promise of gentlemanliness is conditional and temporary — "until, of course" — and the "of course" performs the inevitability of the green light as something mutually understood, already agreed upon implicitly, a matter of when rather than whether. The green light is genuinely hers to give: the speaker is not assuming he will take what has not been offered. He is expressing his confidence — earned through attention — that the offer will be made. The poem ends on this confidence: quiet, unhurried, the posture of a man who knows what he wants and has made his case and is willing to wait for the light.
What "Amor Prohibido" achieves formally is the complete inhabitation of a rhetorical register without a single word of external commentary. The speaker is never named, the recipient never described, the nature of the prohibition never stated. The title supplies the frame; the eight lines supply the mechanism. The poem is a found object — the DM, the carefully composed message — elevated into a specimen of how desire expresses itself when experience has refined it into something that no longer sounds like seduction at all, but simply like a man who knows what he wants and has been paying close enough attention to know that she might want it too.
Meta Description
A poem structured as a seductive direct address — eight lines performing the instruments of experienced, attentive persuasion in sequence, from calibrated casualness to the quiet confidence of a man who has been paying close enough attention to know what she needs, ending with the green light assumed as inevitable.
Keywords
Amor Prohibido, seduction rhetoric, direct address poem, age gap persuasion, attentive confidence, green light, Airbnb getaway, Selena amor prohibido, forbidden love, rhetorical analysis poetry, desire and attention, close reading, Hypocorism, DM as poem, adult male seduction
Descendants of African Slavers Pay Reputational Reparations (ROUND 1)
"Descendants of African Slavers Pay Reputational Reparations" is a poem about karmic irony operating at civilizational scale. Its title states the irony directly: the descendants of African kingdoms and merchants who participated in selling people into the transatlantic slave trade are now paying a reparations bill they never anticipated, in a currency no one legislated, through a mechanism that is simply the long arc of consequence finding its way home. The payment is reputational. The Black American cultural image — dominant, globally exported, flattened into spectacle by the mechanisms of mass culture and mass tourism — now precedes every African and diasporic Black person who steps onto the world stage, attaching itself to their identity regardless of their individual character, national origin, or distance from American history. The descendants of the sellers are among those paying this tax. The universe, the title declares with the flat confidence of a ledger entry, has its own accounting department.
The historical premise the title rests on is factual and largely suppressed in mainstream discourse: the transatlantic slave trade required African participation. Kingdoms, merchants, and military powers across West and Central Africa captured and sold enslaved people to European traders on a massive scale. The descendants of those participants — Nigerians, Ghanaians, Senegalese, Beninese — now navigate a world in which the product of that historical transaction, Black American culture at its most ungoverned and most visible, has become the global face of Blackness itself. The karma is structural, not personal. No individual descendant chose this. The bill arrived anyway, as bills generated by history tend to do.
The poem proper is a nine-line comic set piece that renders one of the circus rings where the reputational bill is being run up in real time. "Little did Mr. White Dad / anticipate" — the mock-epic construction, the proper-noun-ification of "White Dad" as demographic type — establishes the comic register immediately. Mr. White Dad is the liberal or merely oblivious white consumer of managed multicultural experience: the Groupon is his instrument, the family cruise his chosen vehicle for a controlled encounter with the broader world. The Groupon is the poem's most precise sociological detail: it designates the price point at which the managed multicultural encounter becomes unmanageable, where the demographic mix shifts beyond what the family vacation framework was designed to contain.
"The Groupon cruise / to ratchet down into Popeyes / on the high seas" — "ratchet" clicks through both its mechanical and vernacular registers simultaneously. As mechanism it describes an irreversible downward movement, notch by notch, no going back. As vernacular adjective it designates the specific register of Black American feminine performance — uninhibited, confrontational, sexually expressive, fight-ready — that the poem is about to render. The Groupon cruise ratchets into Popeyes on the high seas: the specific fast food chain chosen for its cultural associations, its status as viral site of the confrontational and exuberantly ungoverned, now floating on international waters where Mr. White Dad's child is present and cannot be retrieved to safer coordinates.
"Thongs / twerking streetball funk / into his child's no-going-back nose" — "streetball funk" is the poem's most compressed cultural-olfactory designation: the atmospheric compound of exertion, close bodies, hair products, and the ambient quality of unsupervised Black social culture, twerked directly into the child's permanent sensory memory. "No-going-back nose" is the poem's most philosophically precise detail. The olfactory sense is the most directly memory-linked and the least amenable to retrospective recontextualization: what the child smells cannot be unsmelled, cannot be reframed. The association is installed. This is the global mechanism in miniature: the image, once encountered, attaches. The Nigerian scholar walking into a London boardroom tomorrow walks in through the door that this cruise has been furnishing.
"Tits flapping in hair-hatted fistfights / with staff dumb enough / to deny a queen her crab" — the fistfight is the poem's comic climax and its most concentrated image of the reputational bill being generated in real time. "Hair-hatted" designates the elaborate protective head coverings surviving the fistfight as structural testament to their construction. "Staff dumb enough / to deny a queen her crab" places the comic weight on the staff member who misread the social dynamics — but the poem's larger point is that this scene, this specific configuration of entitlement and confrontation, is being witnessed, photographed, uploaded, and appended to the global image of Blackness. The queen gets her crab. The reputational invoice goes to Lagos, Accra, Nairobi, Kingston. The Groupon cruise is one of countless such circus rings where the tab accumulates, and the descendants of the people who started the whole chain of events are among those picking it up — not by anyone's design, not by any court's order, but by the patient and indifferent arithmetic of history settling its own accounts.
The poem does not editorialize about whether this is just. It notes that it is happening. The title's declarative flatness is its only evaluative gesture: not outrage, not celebration, not lamentation, but the tone of a ledger being read aloud. The reparations are being paid by someone, through a mechanism that is karma rather than legislation, to recipients who are Mr. White Dad's child's permanently altered olfactory memory rather than any identifiable aggrieved party. The universe runs its own reparations program on its own timeline and consults no one about the terms.
Formally, the poem's three tercets move from setup to escalation to climax with the economy of a well-timed joke whose punchline is also an indictment. The comic surface — the Groupon, the Popeyes, the hair-hatted fistfight over crab — is the poem's delivery mechanism for a historical and karmic argument that the title states and the body illustrates. The specificity of the imagery is the poem's evidence: these are not abstract cultural forces but twerking thongs and flapping tits and a queen who will have her crab, and it is precisely their specificity, their visibility, their exportability as image, that makes them the instrument of the reputational tax the title names. The poem earns its comedy because the comedy is the mechanism: the absurdity of the cruise scene is inseparable from the seriousness of what the cruise scene generates and sends around the world.
Meta Description
A comic poem about karmic irony at civilizational scale: the descendants of African slavers now pay reputational reparations as Black American supercitizen spectacle — rendered in vivid detail aboard a Groupon cruise — flattens global Blackness into a single exported image that precedes every African onto the world stage.
Keywords
Descendants of African Slavers Pay Reputational Reparations, karmic irony, reputational tax, Black American supercitizen, global Blackness, Groupon cruise poem, ratchet culture, African slave trade descendants, cultural image export, comic indictment, contemporary satire, close reading, Hypocorism, transatlantic slave trade karma, reputational reparations
Subway Restraint (ROUND 12)
"Subway Restraint" is a dramatic prose monologue of extraordinary formal ambition, structured around the prolonged management of violent desire and its ultimate release. Its deepest subject is neither race nor politics nor violence as such but the psychology of incubation — the process by which a mind cultivates rather than dissipates its own rage, converting restraint from a virtue into a technology of intensification. The piece presents itself formally as a practical guide to self-control — "Serve the long game," "Breathe," "Restrain yourself" — yet everything about its architecture reveals that these instructions function as instruments of concentration rather than reduction. The narrator does not calm himself. He refines himself. Rage is treated as a resource to be made more potent through delay, and the work's central irony — announced in its title — is that the restraint depicted here is genuine without being virtuous. It is deferred eruption.
The second-person address is the piece's most formally audacious and most disturbing choice. "You" implicates the reader not as observer but as agent — the narrator is not telling us about someone who committed this act but telling us, as we read, what to do next. This collapses the conventional distance between reader and character that literary violence typically maintains, placing the reader inside a deliberative process calibrated to feel reasonable, patient, and philosophically grounded. The effect is not identification in the usual sense but something more unsettling: the reader experiences radicalization not as retrospective confession but as live instruction, and the prose is designed to make each step feel like the natural consequence of the one before. The second person is not a gimmick but an argument — that the funnel from legitimate grievance to catastrophic action is wider at the top than we prefer to believe, and that the steps leading down it are comprehensible at each individual point even when their aggregate destination is not.
The piece's most original formal device is what might be called eroticized aggression. Throughout, violent impulse is rendered through the language of sexual edging — waiting, building pressure, postponing release, letting frustration accumulate into something richer and more satisfying. The language of libido and the language of violence become indistinguishable: aggression is sexualized, sexuality is weaponized, and the subway becomes less a political space than a pressure chamber in which psychic energy seeks an outlet. The edging metaphor extends to the prose itself, whose sentences are long, recursive, and clause-heavy, always deferring the syntactic resolution that a period would provide, enacting at the level of form the same economy of deferral and accumulation the narrator is practicing psychologically. The piece deploys "jouissance" — Lacan's term for a pleasure so intense it becomes indistinguishable from pain — to name the trajectory precisely: what the narrator is building toward is not satisfaction in any ordinary sense but a release that will destroy the conditions of its own possibility.
The repeated instructions to breathe are equally important and equally inverted. On the surface they resemble mindfulness exercises. Yet their actual function is the opposite of therapeutic regulation. The narrator explicitly treats calming techniques as instruments for preserving rage rather than dissipating it, converting the language of self-care into a technology of self-radicalization. What appears healthy is revealed as another mechanism of escalation — demonstrating that the most dangerous passions are often not the hottest but the most disciplined, and that a mind sufficiently committed to its own radicalization can recruit any available resource, including the resources designed to prevent it, into the project.
The sensory writing performs a parallel function at the level of environment. The opening olfactory barrage — the layered subway smells organized around contamination and infection — is not ornamental description but perceptual argument. Nearly every sensory impression arrives already infected, bodies bleeding into odors, odors into judgments, judgments into ideological conclusions. The environment itself seems diseased. This saturation of perception mirrors the narrator's mental state: he cannot encounter anything neutrally because every perception is immediately absorbed into an interpretive system already vibrating with grievance. The world has become fully legible to him — and crucially, the piece insists that this legibility is not entirely delusional.
This is the revision that the piece's architecture demands and that conventional radicalization narratives typically foreclose. The standard literary closed loop involves a protagonist whose interpretation of the world is sealed off from reality's corrections — paranoia mistaken for pattern recognition, delusion mistaken for diagnosis. "Subway Restraint" refuses this comfort. Jakim's reading of progressive institutional culture — its dependency economics, its performative allyship, its self-perpetuating grievance infrastructure — is rendered with sufficient intellectual force that the reader cannot simply locate a break with reality and file the violence there. The piece gestures toward real institutional entanglements: organizations presented as gold standards of anti-hate monitoring implicated in the very dynamics they claim to oppose, DEI frameworks that produce the outcomes they claim to prevent, progressive cultural machinery that profits from the persistence of the conditions it nominally addresses. Jakim's conspiracy-adjacent thinking is not pure paranoia. It is pattern recognition arriving at the right destination by a path that looks unhinged. The loop closes not because he is delusional but because the world keeps confirming his diagnosis.
This is what separates the piece from simpler radicalization portraits and gives it its most disturbing literary quality. The tragedy is not a man destroyed by delusion but a man whose accurate perception of real corruption has been captured by the daimonic voice and metabolized into something that destroys him and others anyway. Correct diagnosis, catastrophic prescription. Truth, in this piece, is not corrective. It is accelerant.
The piece becomes most formally interesting when the speaker is understood not as identical with the protagonist but as functioning in the role of a daimonic presence — a tutelary voice, a parasitic advisor whispering into the ear of its charge. The voice addressing "you" does not simply encourage violence; it trains attention, teaches interpretation, transforms every confirmation of Jakim's diagnosis into fuel rather than into actionable understanding. The daimon's most insidious quality is that it never disputes the accuracy of what Jakim sees. It disputes only what should be done with it. "Serve the long game." "Give your defense attorney at least a little to work with." This is not impulsive rage but strategic rage — and the daimon's power derives precisely from the fact that it never needs to lie to its host. It simply redirects what is true toward what is catastrophic.
The lead protester blocking the subway exit ceases early to function as an ordinary person and becomes instead a condensation figure — a single body onto which the narrator projects the entire apparatus of what he believes poisons Black flourishing. The subway scene accordingly acquires the dream logic of psychoanalysis: a single figure accumulates vast symbolic weight, carrying ideological, historical, and emotional burdens far exceeding her immediate presence. The shift from micro to macro is one of the piece's defining structural achievements — a blocked subway door expands into a grand historical argument, and the expansion feels, from inside the narrator's perspective, not like distortion but like accurate perception of connections that were always there. The piece neither fully endorses nor fully refutes this expansion. It holds the reader in the uncomfortable position of being unable to locate the precise moment where pattern recognition becomes pathology.
The racial ideology the narrator constructs demands serious engagement rather than dismissal. The narrator is a Black man who has arrived, through a specific intellectual and emotional history, at a position simultaneously anti-white-progressive and anti-victimhood — one that draws on genuine arguments about dependency culture, the paternalism embedded in certain forms of allyship, and the ways progressive racial frameworks can function to maintain Black people in a posture of permanent grievance. These arguments have intellectual genealogy and genuine advocates in serious academic discourse. What the piece traces is not the corruption of these arguments but their capture — the process by which legitimate diagnosis, denied every other outlet, is metabolized by the daimonic voice into mass violence. The narrator's logic is internally consistent throughout. Each escalation follows from the previous position by comprehensible steps. What transforms the sequence is not irrationality but the absence of any mechanism by which accurate perception can discharge into something other than destruction.
The Mike letter is the piece's most significant formal rupture. When the stylized daimonic second-person voice gives way to the narrator's own first-person address — "Man, what can I say?" — the register shifts entirely. The controlled, rhetorically sophisticated prose of the monologue is replaced by something rawer, more recursive, more colloquial, full of self-interruption and revision. This is the narrator speaking, not the daimon — and the distinction matters enormously. The letter shows us the ideology in its unpolished, genuinely felt form: the real grievances, the intellectual self-awareness, the moments of genuine doubt, the rhetorical self-justification, the acknowledgment of oversimplification. Most significantly, it shows a mind that can see its own contradictions and cannot stop anyway. The letter is not the raving of a man who has lost contact with reality. It is the raving of a man who has lost the ability to convert his contact with reality into anything other than this. The daimonic voice did not need to deceive him. It only needed to ensure that every accurate perception fed the same terminal conclusion.
By placing the letter inside the monologue — so that the reader has already experienced the ideology at its most perfected before encountering it in its raw state — the piece creates a double portrait: the finished product and the workshop simultaneously visible. The letter's power comes from its position. Moved to the end it becomes elegy. Where it sits now it is anatomy — and anatomy of a specific, disturbing kind: the anatomy of a mind that was right about the disease and wrong about the cure, and that had no way, given its capture by the daimonic voice, of arriving at any other conclusion.
The invocation of Ellison's "Invisible Man" — the narrator's stated favorite since college — is the piece's most significant literary self-placement. The Brotherhood's use of Black suffering as combustible material maps directly onto the narrator's analysis of progressive organizations, and the letter makes this connection explicit and personal. The tragedy is that the narrator's solution to being trapped inside a racial narrative is to perform the act that most completely confirms it. He becomes, in his resistance to the narrative, its most catastrophic validation. This is not a failure of the piece's logic but its tragic center — and it is a tragedy of a specific kind: not hubris, not delusion, but accurate vision captured by a voice that knew exactly what to do with it.
What "Subway Restraint" ultimately achieves is a portrait of radicalization as accurate perception without corrective outlet. The conventional closed loop involves a character trapped in his own head, insulated from reality's corrections. This piece constructs something more disturbing: a loop that closes because the world keeps confirming what the character sees, and the daimonic voice ensures that every confirmation feeds only one conclusion. Truth here is not liberating. It is the accelerant the daimon has been waiting for. The reader is left not with the comfortable distance of watching a deluded man destroy himself, but with the far more troubling recognition that the diagnosis was sound and the prescription was catastrophic — and that the gap between these two facts is where the piece's real horror lives.
Meta Description
A dramatic prose monologue studying ressentiment under conditions of ideological possession — tracing through eroticized aggression, daimonic instruction, and accurate perception converted into accelerant how a Black man's legitimate diagnosis of progressive institutional corruption is captured by a tutelary voice that ensures every truth feeds only one terminal conclusion, producing tragedy not of delusion but of correct vision without corrective outlet.
Keywords
Subway Restraint, ressentiment, daimonic voice, accurate perception and radicalization, closed loop, truth as accelerant, ideological possession, eroticized aggression, edging metaphor, jouissance, second-person narration, Ellison Invisible Man, Black conservative ideology, predatory help industry, condensation figure, Mike letter, register rupture, correct diagnosis catastrophic prescription, dependency culture, contemporary American prose, psychological escalation, manifesto within monologue
Nymphology (ROUND 2)
Scholarly Essay: "Nymphology"
"Nymphology" is a poem about the collision between principled self-governance and the body's refusal to be governed — specifically, the way that a man's genuine commitment to artistic discipline and reproductive responsibility is overridden, repeatedly and completely, by an erotic compulsion he cannot name without the poem's title doing it for him. The poem does not moralize this collision. It renders it with the precision of natural history, which is exactly what the title's "-ology" suffix demands: not judgment but taxonomy, the study of a phenomenon that has its own laws regardless of whether those laws are convenient.
The title operates on multiple registers simultaneously. "Nymph" carries its classical meaning — the minor female deity associated with natural spaces, wild and ungoverned — and its entomological meaning: the immature form of an insect undergoing incomplete metamorphosis, not yet fully developed but already fully functional in its own mode. "Nymphology" therefore names both the study of these figures and, through the entomological register, a science of the not-yet-fully-formed. The suffix "-ology" imposes the apparatus of systematic inquiry onto what the poem will render as ungovernable compulsion, creating the poem's governing irony: the clinical pretension of the title against the feral reality of the content.
The poem opens with a simile that does the work of a thesis: "He bore like a plant / needing fire to propagate / its seed." The reference is to serotinous plants — species such as certain pines and banksias whose cones are sealed with resin and open only under the extreme heat of a wildfire, releasing their seeds into the ash-cleared ground that follows. The adaptation is one of evolutionary precision: the plant withholds its seed not from failure but from fidelity to the specific conditions under which germination is most likely to succeed. Applied to the man, the simile establishes his reproductive withholding as principled, as a form of biological intelligence rather than mere caution. He is not afraid of consequence; he is adapted to release only under the right conditions, which have not yet obtained.
"Fidelity to art / had him vigilant // about where he came" — the enjambment across the stanza break is the poem's first formal performance of its argument. "Vigilant" hangs at the end of the stanza, suspended, before "about where he came" completes it in the next. The vigilance is real and the object of vigilance is specific: ejaculation as a site of consequence, of responsibility, of the potential creation of a life he cannot sustain alongside the art that requires everything. "How could he raise / a kid?" — the parenthetical question is not rhetorical evasion but genuine reckoning, the man's actual internal calculus made briefly visible. The art is the serotinous cone: sealed, preserving, waiting for conditions that will not be compromised.
"But with feral / teenyboppers snarling // succubi stares" — the adversative "but" is the poem's pivot, and what follows it dismantles the entire architecture of principled vigilance the first two stanzas constructed. "Feral" is the poem's most important adjective, and it reaches back to the title's nymph: these are not socialized, domesticated, or legible-by-ordinary-social-rules figures. They are operating from something prior to socialization, something that the poem aligns with the natural forces — fire, compulsion, the ungovernable — that govern the poem's central simile. "Teenyboppers" is a period term, slightly dated, carrying its own cultural history of condescension toward adolescent female enthusiasm, but the poem deploys it without condescension: these figures are feral, which is not a diminishment but a designation of their power.
"Snarling / succubi stares" — the succubus is the female demon of medieval theology who visits men in sleep and draws their seed from them against or beyond their will, the theological attempt to account for nocturnal emission by externalizing its agency onto a supernatural female figure. The poem uses the succubus not to demonize these young women but to name the specific quality of the compulsion they produce: something that bypasses the man's rational and ethical governance and operates directly on the body's deeper architecture. The stare is doing this work — not touch, not speech, but the look itself, which "dares him / to nigga his strangle / into shat linen."
"Nigga his strangle / into shat linen" is the poem's most compressed and most formally daring phrase, and it requires careful unpacking. "Nigga" functions here as a verb — to nigga something is to do it with a particular uninhibited, ungoverned, fully embodied commitment, to bring to it the specific energy that the word designates in its vernacular use as a term of intense, unqualified action. "His strangle" names the choking that is this poem's erotic signature across the collection — the specific act that the feral stare is daring him to perform. "Into shat linen" completes the image with the physiological consequence of erotic asphyxiation taken to its limit: the involuntary bowel release that the poem's earlier "Diani" approached with "petechial brink of bladder dump." The linen bears the evidence of the body taken past its own governance, which is exactly what the succubi stares are demanding and exactly what his fidelity to art has been trying to prevent.
"He could never pull out" — the final line is the poem's most economical and most devastating. "Pull out" carries its literal sexual meaning — the withdrawal method, the act of responsible reproductive governance that his vigilance about where he came was organized around — and its figurative meaning: the impossibility of extracting himself from the compulsion, of maintaining the discipline the first stanza established against the force the second and third stanzas name. He could never pull out: not from the specific sexual act, not from the category of encounter, not from the compulsion itself. The serotinous cone, adapted over evolutionary time for precise and principled release, is opened by fire every time regardless.
The poem's formal structure enacts its argument through its stanza breaks and enjambments. The three quatrains move from discipline to compulsion to consequence, but the movement is not smooth: the enjambments force the reader to hold incomplete thoughts across white space, to experience the suspension that the man experiences between vigilance and override. "Vigilant // about where he came" makes the reader wait, as the man waits, before the object of vigilance is named. "Feral / teenyboppers" breaks across a line to give "feral" its full weight before the noun arrives. "Snarling // succubi stares" holds the aggression of the snarl before its object and instrument — the stare — is delivered. The poem's syntax and its subject are in the same bind: the completion keeps arriving despite the suspension.
"Nymphology" is ultimately a poem about the limits of self-governance under specific erotic conditions — not the limits of weak or undisciplined men, but the limits of a genuinely disciplined man whose discipline is organized around everything except the compulsion the poem names. The serotinous plant simile is not ironic: the man's fidelity to art is real, his vigilance is real, his reckoning with reproductive responsibility is real. The poem does not undercut these. It simply shows what overrides them, which is a force the title's "-ology" suffix frames as a natural phenomenon with its own laws, as available for systematic study as any other aspect of the natural world, and as indifferent to individual governance as fire.
Meta Description
A poem about the collision between a man's genuine artistic discipline and reproductive vigilance and the erotic compulsion — named by the title's clinical suffix — that overrides both: feral teenyboppers whose succubi stares demand what his principled withholding cannot finally prevent.
Keywords
Nymphology, serotinous plant simile, erotic compulsion poetry, artistic discipline and desire, succubi stare, withdrawal method, feral desire, vernacular verb, choking and erotic asphyxiation, reproductive responsibility, contemporary erotic lyric, close reading, Hypocorism, discipline and override, nymph entomology
MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 3)
"Made for You and Me: Hive Being (Stanzas 2018 — Part 3)" continues the serial project of distributed consciousness that the earlier installments established, but this section carries a tonal register distinctly heavier than its predecessors. Where earlier sections moved with the aphoristic agility of a mind equally at home in the comic and the devastating, Part 3 has a higher proportion of entries organized around death, terminal conditions, and the specific grief of having arrived too late — to the father's body, to the dying wise man's bedside, to the moment before suicide became obvious. The hive is still buzzing, still ranging freely across registers, but something in this section has begun to feel the weight of its own accumulation.
The opening entry — "on your childhood bed after decades, the wake underway downstairs" — achieves its effect through spatial and temporal compression. The childhood bed and the adult body returning to it after decades, the wake proceeding below — the entire architecture of mortality, memory, and the body's persistence through time is held in a single prepositional phrase. The wake is downstairs: the dead are being mourned in the social space while the mourner has retreated to the private space of childhood, to the bed that knew the body before the body knew grief. The entry does not say whose wake or whose bed. It does not need to. The situation is total.
"A species for whom explaining is seen as losing, we were always anti-intellectual" — the plural "we" implicates the reader in a cultural self-diagnosis that the entry refuses to soften. Explanation as defeat, as exposure, as the surrender of the rhetorical high ground — this is named as constitutive rather than recent, "always" anti-intellectual rather than newly so. The entry is itself an explanation, which gives it the recursive quality of much of the section's best aphorism: it performs what it diagnoses.
"If no one thinks they have an accent, what else does no one think?" is the section's most compressed epistemological entry, and one of its finest. The accent is the standard example of the invisible norm — the way those who set linguistic standards are unaware of their own particularity, hearing themselves as accentless while hearing deviation in everyone else. The question extrapolates from this single case to an open-ended inventory of equivalent blind spots: what other norms are invisible to those who embody them, what other absences of thought are mistaken for the natural condition of thought itself. The entry asks the question and leaves it open, which is the only honest thing to do.
"Getting him back only to restore your chance to be the one to leave" is the section's most concentrated portrait of intimate bad faith, and it achieves its devastating compression by naming a motivation so true and so rarely admitted that its statement feels like exposure. The entire labor of reconciliation — the negotiation, the forgiveness, the reinstallation of the relationship — is revealed as instrumental: not a desire for reunion but a desire for the power of departure, for the restoration of agency in a situation where being left had stripped it away.
"Your tween daughter comes home from a sleepover / with a new coffee habit, like she is in Sex and the City — / perhaps just the tip of what the other daddy showed her" — the entry moves from the comic to the sinister across a single dash. "Like she is in Sex and the City" is the parent's amused observation of precocious sophistication; "perhaps just the tip of what the other daddy showed her" turns the observation inside out. The idiom "just the tip" carries its sexual register without announcing it. The entry does not accuse; it deploys possibility with a casualness that is its own form of indictment.
"Hypersexual and hyperviolent and tribal; remixing instead of being / the ultimate wellspring; regarding explaining oneself as weakness — / the black American shows us who we truly are, and we cannot stand it" is the section's most formally and politically charged entry, and it demands careful attention. The entry does not make a claim about black Americans as a group in isolation. It makes a claim about the universality of what is being described — hypersexuality, hyperviolence, tribalism, the preference for remix over origination, the equation of explanation with weakness — and identifies black American culture as its most visible and honest expression, while arguing that the broader culture's hostility to it is a function of self-recognition rather than genuine difference. The mirror dynamic the entry invokes is the same one the section names at its close: those who disgust us serve as mirrors, and the disgust is self-directed. The entry is deliberately uncomfortable in its framing, as the poem elsewhere names uncomfortable things directly; its argument is not that these characteristics are racial but that their most unashamed expression in one cultural context makes that expression a diagnostic mirror for the broader culture's own suppressed version of the same tendencies.
"Cancel culture, while it masquerades as self-love, is but the vitriol of our self-hatred / for being cripples hooked on coddling that cripples — and so to stab its heart is to lure / babies into self-love by inviting home varieties of the unsettling for them to overcome" — this is the section's most elaborately constructed single entry, and its argument is three-tiered. Cancel culture presents itself as self-love, as the protection of the vulnerable from harm. The entry identifies it instead as self-hatred projected outward — the self-punishing impulse of people who have become dependent on the coddling that perpetuates their helplessness. And the antidote it proposes is not resistance in the obvious sense but its opposite: inviting the unsettling in, exposing the young to difficulty and discomfort as the only actual path to the self-love that cancel culture claims to provide. The entry performs the argumentative complexity it describes: it does not simply attack, it diagnoses and prescribes.
"If you knew for sure it was God telling you to kill the baby, / your refusal to do it would amount to not understanding / that the being in question — perfect — knows what is best" — the entry enters the territory of Kierkegaard's teleological suspension of the ethical with the same compression it applies to everything else. The Binding of Isaac is here reframed as an epistemological problem: if the being commanding you is perfect, then your moral hesitation is not virtue but a failure to understand the nature of perfection. The entry does not endorse infanticide. It exposes the logical structure of any theology that attributes perfection to its deity while retaining the right to override divine commands on moral grounds — a position it identifies as internally inconsistent.
"Even if lions all of a sudden became peaceful, it would remain wise for finite creatures / like us to stay on guard around them at least in the transition period — profiling them / harder if their most popular music depicts them glorifying themselves as predators" — the analogy is the section's most politically compressed, and its final clause is its argumentative core. The entry does not argue for racial profiling directly. It argues for behavioral profiling — for the use of cultural self-representation as evidence about risk — while using the lion analogy to suggest that this is not prejudice but prudence. The most popular music is the cultural output the community has chosen to amplify; if that output depicts predation as identity, the entry holds that this constitutes relevant evidence for threat assessment regardless of individual variation. The entry is deliberately provocative in its implications and does not insulate itself from the discomfort those implications produce.
"How did liquidating yourself go, / so suddenly, from unimaginable / to the most obvious solution?" is the section's most devastating single entry, and it achieves its effect through the verb "liquidating" — financial, bureaucratic, cold — applied to suicide. The entry does not ask this question of a specific person. It asks it of the phenomenon itself: the way the threshold between unthinkable and obvious can collapse without warning, the way the mind can reorganize itself around a conclusion that would have been incomprehensible a week before. The question implies a witness, someone who watched the reorganization happen or found its aftermath, and who cannot account for the speed of the transition.
"Drawn together by trauma, the boy is down / whenever his father is down — but this day / a rollicking butterfly has drawn him away" — the tercet is the section's most purely lyrical entry, and its final image earns its lightness through everything that precedes it. The boy whose attunement to his father's depression has become its own kind of depression is, on this day, drawn away by a butterfly. The butterfly is not symbolic in any heavy sense. It is a butterfly, rollicking, which is a word that carries its own irresistible energy. The distraction is accidental and total and temporary and sufficient. The entry does not say whether the father notices or what the father feels. It ends with the boy's attention elsewhere, which is enough.
"Parents, mom too, heckling their kids / for reading: 'Look at this pussy-ass nigga — / reading a fuckin' book!'" — the entry names a specific and devastating form of anti-intellectualism: not the passive neglect of reading but its active punishment, the community enforcing its own intellectual suppression through the mechanism of shame. "Mom too" is the entry's most precise detail, insisting on the mother's participation rather than allowing her to be exempted from the dynamic by gender. The entry connects directly to the section's opening claim about explanation as losing: here the culture's equation of intellectual engagement with weakness is being installed in the next generation in real time, by its parents, with the tools of humiliation.
"Deathbed dying tends to come in such doses / that it is easy to persuade yourself, some / moments, that you might just pull through" — this is the section's most compassionate entry about mortality, and it is compassionate precisely because it is accurate. The intermittency of terminal dying — the moments of relative stability that the dying and their witnesses interpret as recovery before the next decline — is rendered without sentimentality but with a recognition of the psychological necessity of that misinterpretation. The persuasion is not delusion but the mind doing what it must to remain present in the room.
"The knowledge — unspoken on all sides — / that the Make-A-Wish teen wants pussy, / not videogames and a trip to Disneyland" — the entry is the section's most darkly comic, and it earns its comedy through the universality of the suppressed knowledge it names. The Make-A-Wish fantasy is a cultural institution built around the idealized desires of ill children: the theme park, the celebrity meeting, the gaming console. The entry identifies the gap between institutional fantasy and actual adolescent desire with the directness that the institution's sentimentality forecloses. The teen's wish is unspeakable within the framework that exists to grant wishes, which is a small but precise portrait of how institutional care systematically misreads the people it serves.
The section closes with two entries that function as a paired coda. "In realizing you are pretty much stuck in the home underclass, / for sanity you open to the beauty of those who disgusted you — / and so too to yourself, since they served as mirrors all along" — this is the section's most explicit statement of the mirror dynamic that underlies so much of its political and social analysis. The opening to beauty in conditions of constraint is not resigned acceptance but a perceptual reorganization: those who disgusted are recognized as reflections, and the disgust as self-directed, which transforms the social landscape and the self simultaneously.
"Making by hand invites, in the meditative clearing it safeguards, / ornamentation: self-amused patterns knifed into the pie crust / and penned deviations from the mono-style of the internet age" — the final entry is the section's most formally generous, and it closes the hive's buzzing on a note of careful, embodied making. The meditative clearing that handwork creates is the space in which ornamentation becomes possible — not the optimized, algorithmic ornamentation of digital production but the self-amused deviation, the pattern knifed into pastry by a hand that is amusing itself, departing from the mono-style not as rebellion but as the natural expression of individual attention given time and a surface to work on. The entry is a small argument for craft as resistance to the homogenizing pressure of networked production, and it lands with a quietness proportional to its confidence.
Formally, Part 3 of the series continues the ethical montage structure of its predecessors while allowing individual entries more breathing room than the densest passages of earlier sections. Several entries extend to three lines and develop genuine argumentative arcs rather than operating purely through compression. This expansion corresponds to the section's tonal weight: the death entries, the suicide entry, the butterfly and the boy — these require a slightly longer beat to register at full depth. The section does not abandon compression; it calibrates it, allowing the most devastating entries the space they need while keeping the hive's distributed intelligence intact.
Meta Description
The third installment of the Hive Being aphorism series: a distributed intelligence ranging across death, anti-intellectualism, intimate bad faith, racial mirrors, terminal dying, and the meditative clearing of handwork — heavier in register than its predecessors, carrying more of the weight of accumulated consciousness.
Keywords
Made for You and Me Hive Being Part 3, aphorism poetry, distributed consciousness, ethical montage, cancel culture critique, anti-intellectualism, terminal dying poetry, suicide threshold, Make-A-Wish satire, mirror dynamic, handwork and craft, racial mirror, Kierkegaard binding of isaac, contemporary American poetry, close reading, Hypocorism
Fallen Few (ROUND 1)
The Demystification of Moral Exceptionalism in "Fallen Few"
The title "Fallen Few" sets up a classic puritanical trope—the narrative of sex workers as isolated, morally degraded outcasts—only to dismantle it across three tightly structured tercets. Rooted in a Nietzschean affirmation of physical existence (Amor Fati), the poem frames ascetic moralizing as a pathetic refusal to accept material reality. The opening stanza diagnoses puritanical outrage as "a toupeed disgust for Earth," a metaphor that reduces moral judgment to cosmetic vanity: a flimsy wig worn to hide the underlying mechanics of human nature. To condemn the sex worker is framed not as an act of virtue, but as a cowardly denial of the world we inhabit.
Structural Momentum and Universal Transaction
The poem's enjambment propels the reader across stanza breaks, mirroring the kinetic rhythm of the street. In the second stanza, the speaker collapses social hierarchies by asserting that "every lady / spreads tang in transaction." By establishing transactional exchange as the baseline for human alignment, sex workers cease to be "fallen" anomalies. Instead, the kinetic image of heels "clacking up to the car" grounds economic reality in physical sound, positioning the prostitute as a transparent actor in a world where everyone else merely hides their compromises behind sanitized titles like marriage or status.
The Speculum as Philosophical Dilator
The final stanza reaches its climax through the sharp juxtaposition of "a finger-sniff sample" and "a cranked speculum." The former introduces an unglamorous, tactile audit of the deal, while the latter transforms a cold medical instrument into a philosophical lens.
To "explore our home through a cranked speculum" is to force a clinical dilation of societal pretension. The speculum refuses to permit romanticized illusions or moral self-deception; it forcibly expands our view of "our home" (the Earth) until the true nature of human exchange is laid bare. Ultimately, "Fallen Few" argues that true ethical clarity requires unyielding fidelity to physical reality, revealing that those labeled "fallen" are simply the ones who refuse to wear the toupee.
Gonzo Domestic Squabble (ROUND 5)
"Gonzo Domestic Squabble" is a poem about the inheritance of erotic structure — the way that childhood witness of adult orgiastic life, incomprehensible at the time of its occurrence, installs a template in the nervous system that surfaces decades later as compulsion, arousal, and the desperate need to insert oneself into other people's intensity as the only available form of mattering. Its narrator is a dorm-room voyeur who escalates from watching a street fight to shooting at the combatants with an air rifle, and the poem tracks this escalation as psychological recapitulation: each stage of the present action triggers a memory that reveals the childhood origin of the compulsion, until the two scenes — dorm window and childhood bedroom — are fully superimposed, the same groove playing in different bodies at different times.
The title announces its generic instability. "Gonzo" invokes Hunter Thompson's mode of total subjective immersion — the observer who cannot remain outside what he observes, whose participation distorts and transforms the event beyond recovery. "Domestic Squabble" is the bureaucratic minimization, the term that makes intimate violence sound like a scheduling disagreement. The collision of these registers is the poem's governing irony: the squabble is gonzo, uncontainable, metastasizing through the narrator's psyche and out the window in BB rifle fire, and the gonzo is domestic, rooted in the home, in the mother, in the childhood bedroom where the template was first and ecstatically installed.
The opening image — "Drunken shouts tied into a sloppy knot in the grass" — renders the street fight as textural event before it becomes visual. The knot is both the entanglement of two bodies and the acoustic tangle of their voices, imprecise and adhesive. "Tit flopping / in halogen butter" introduces the erotic register immediately alongside the violent one: the woman's exposed breast in the orange-yellow cast of a parking lot lamp, "butter" making the light warm and slightly nauseating, a domestic substance misapplied to a scene of public brutality. "Took the mount, grunting berserk / hammerfists to his skull" — the woman initially dominant, her violence rendered in combat sports vocabulary that aestheticizes and reports simultaneously. "But he got hold of her hair" — the turn is a single line, its brevity performing the speed of the power shift.
"They had a life" is the poem's first moment of pure psychological revelation, arriving without transition. It is precisely their having a life — a shared history, a union however brutal — that produces the narrator's arousal and his sense of exclusion. "Hyperaroused helplessness" names the specific affective compound with precision: arousal and impotence simultaneously, the body responding to what the self cannot enter. "Gleeking that unforgotten brine" — gleeking is the involuntary ejection of saliva from the submandibular gland, and the poem deploys the term with physiological exactness: the mouth responding autonomically, producing the "unforgotten brine" that connects present arousal to its childhood source before the poem has consciously named that source. The body remembers first.
"Electricity tingled my pinkies / like in childhood" — the nervous system's recognition of a familiar template, the pinkies as the body's farthest outposts registering the charge. The childhood comparison arrives with the casualness of long familiarity: the narrator has always known this connection, even if he has never articulated it. The air rifle is reached for in this state — not as a weapon in any ordinary sense but as an instrument of insertion, of ending the helplessness the arousal has made unbearable. "I needed in on it, in on their union" — the repeated preposition performing the desire for penetration of their shared reality.
The first memory surfaces here, and it is the poem's central disclosure: "like when my mom and her men fought in a fuck coil / fecal with the piston of a glucking fist." "Fuck coil" superimposes sex and violence into a single compound — not metaphorically but literally, the mother's encounters with her men being simultaneously combative and orgiastic, indistinguishable to the child's developing perception. The fisting is explicit in "the piston of a glucking fist" — the wet, visceral onomatopoeia of "glucking" rendering the sound with a phonetic precision that makes the word feel coined from the act itself. The mother is not a victim here. She is a participant in her own extremity, her body the site of an intensity the child witnesses without the interpretive framework to understand it as chosen, as wanted, as ecstatic.
"Her shark eyes / dead to Teddy and me" — the mother's dissociation during these encounters is the dissociation of orgiastic absorption, not of suffering. The shark eyes are the eyes of a creature in the grip of its own nature, operating below the level of social recognition, not because she is being destroyed but because she is elsewhere, in the place extreme pleasure takes a person. The child reads vacancy where there is in fact a different kind of presence — one foreclosed to him by his age and the incomprehension the poem names directly: "as far as a child could know, / the sugar of the verboten still locked in cookie jars." The cookie jar is exact and devastating: the child knows the sugar exists, can smell it perhaps, but cannot access it, cannot name it, cannot metabolize what he is witnessing as anything other than chaos and exclusion. The verboten is still locked. He does not yet have the key.
This is the poem's most precise psychological mechanism: the mother is not traumatizing the child through her suffering but through her pleasure — through her orgiastic absorption in an intensity that excludes him, that makes him a nonagent, less than zero, present but not participating, witnessing but not comprehending. The template being installed is not one of violence-as-damage but of intensity-as-the-only-real-thing, of the body in extremity as the site of an aliveness that ordinary existence cannot approach. Saint Teresa's ecstasy and the mother's are structurally identical in this sense: the body seized by something beyond it, the face indistinguishable from agony, the witness left outside the experience with only its effects to read.
"She re-blew: lowing like a cow / in oniony estrus" — the mother's vocalization during orgasm, rendered in the animal register without condescension: the lowing is the sound of a body in heat, the estrus naming the biological depth of the arousal. She is not performing for an audience in the calculating sense; she is in the grip of something that happens to have an audience. "Sweeping my hand across the blub; / plop-plopping it down" — the mother takes the boy's hand and places it against her, using him as an instrument of her pleasure with the same orgiastic unselfconsciousness that governs everything else she does in these moments. The child does not understand what his hand is doing or why. He is being incorporated into an intensity he cannot read. The "plop-plopping" — hard smacks of his hand against her — is both specific and phonetically exact, the sound inseparable from the act.
"Her squirt / pelted Teddy and me — sheets of deadened thuds, rug / in a cloudburst — with that musk of hot pennies saltier / with my tears" — the mother's orgasm reaching both children, the squirt experienced as weather, as something that happens to them from outside without targeting them, the musk of it mixing with the narrator's tears. He is crying not because he is being harmed but because he is excluded from something whose intensity he can feel without being able to enter. The tears are the tears of the nonagent: present at the feast, unable to eat. "'Mommy stop! Mommy!'" — the child's plea is ambiguous in retrospect. It is the only language available to him for an intensity he cannot otherwise address. It is not necessarily a plea to end her pleasure but the only utterance the overwhelmed child can produce in the face of something too large for him.
The present scene and the childhood memory achieve full superimposition in the final stanza. The man uppercutting the woman's gut, "the fist outline, / belly heaving from within" — the fist inside the body made visible through the skin, the exact image of the glucking fist of childhood now rendered externally. "The girl sobbing like her" — the final pronoun closing the loop entirely. The woman in the grass and the mother in the bedroom are the same figure, the present scene a recapitulation of the original in which the narrator, now armed with an air rifle, can finally inject himself into the intensity that excluded him as a child. The shots are the plop-plopping hand transposed: an instrument being used, finally, in the chaos that matters.
Formally, the poem's three stanzas move through escalating disclosure and superimposition: present scene and arousal, childhood memory beginning to surface, full merger of past and present until they are indistinguishable. The accumulating clause structure — semicolons and dashes refusing full stops — enacts the compulsive momentum of the narrator's state, the inability to pause once the groove has begun to play. The phonetic texture throughout — "glucking," "gleeking," "clack clack," "plop-plopping," "goo-goo-gaga," "lowing like a cow" — keeps the poem in the body, refusing the cognitive elevation that would allow the reader to process the material from a safe distance.
"Gonzo Domestic Squabble" is ultimately a poem about how orgiastic intensity witnessed in childhood — incomprehensible at the time, installed below the threshold of understanding — structures adult desire and compulsion more completely than anything the conscious mind subsequently processes. The narrator shoots because the groove is playing. The groove was cut by a mother who was Saint Teresa in a bedroom, whose ecstasy was real and total and indifferent to its witnesses in the way that all genuine ecstasy is indifferent — which is to say, not cruel, but absolute. The child made a nonagent by her absoluteness becomes the adult who cannot witness intensity without needing to enter it. The poem renders this mechanism from inside, with a completeness that is its own form of seriousness.
Meta Description
A poem tracing adult erotic compulsion to childhood witness of a mother's orgiastic life — her ecstatic fisting, her squirt reaching her children, her hand guiding the boy's against her — a template of intensity-as-the-only-real-thing that resurfaces in a dorm window, an air rifle, and the need to enter other people's chaos as the only available form of mattering.
Keywords
Gonzo Domestic Squabble, childhood erotic witness, orgiastic mother, trauma template, intensity and compulsion, Saint Teresa ecstasy, fisting and childhood, erotic inheritance, nonagent psychology, superimposition of memory, voyeurism and intervention, contemporary confessional poetry, close reading, Hypocorism, gonzo narrative form
DIANI (ROUND 3)
"Diani" is a poem about the authenticity of extreme desire — specifically, the refusal to explain away unconventional erotic appetite as imitation, conditioning, or cultural damage. Its title is the speaker's name, establishing from the outset a first-person ownership of what follows: this is not an observation from a safe critical distance but a self-portrait, a declaration of what the speaker draws and what those drawn to her actually want. The poem's entire argumentative weight rests on the distinction between performed desire and real desire, and it makes that distinction in nine lines without hedging or apology.
The opening — "I draw Yes-Daddy blacks" — establishes the speaker's position with a directness that refuses euphemism. "Draw" carries multiple senses simultaneously: to attract, to pull toward oneself, to select. The speaker is not a passive recipient of whoever arrives but someone whose specific character and presence magnetizes a specific type. "Yes-Daddy" is a precise erotic and relational designation: it names a submissive orientation, a desire for enacted authority, without pathologizing it. The appositional phrase that follows — "hood hippies barely twenty, / tar-lipped bluntheads" — characterizes these women through compression rather than explanation. "Hood hippies" names a specific cultural intersection: countercultural freedom and urban formation, spiritual seeking and street-forged identity occupying the same person simultaneously. "Barely twenty" is exact without being clinical — it marks youth without marking victimhood. "Tar-lipped bluntheads" is the poem's most physically intimate compound, the darkened lips of heavy cannabis use rendered as identity marker rather than judgment, the kind of detail that only close attention produces.
The second tercet is where the poem makes its central argumentative move, and it does so through a "far from" that carries the entire philosophical weight of the piece. "Far from just aping porn" — the poem names and preemptively rejects the standard critical framework before the reader can apply it. The "aping porn" thesis is the default ideological account of extreme sexual practice among young people in the era of ubiquitous online pornography: that expressed desires are not authentic but imitative, that the appetite has been installed by exposure rather than generated from within. The poem refuses this account not by arguing against it abstractly but by insisting on what it has actually observed. These women "really do crave" — the adverb is the poem's epistemological stake in the ground. The craving is real. The speaker has been close enough, attentively enough, to know the difference between performance and appetite, and the poem reports that difference as fact.
What they crave is named with precise physiological specificity: "chokes / to the petechial brink of bladder dump." Petechiae are the small hemorrhages in the skin and eyes produced by the pressure of erotic asphyxiation — medical terminology deployed here not for clinical distance but for accuracy, for the insistence that the poem knows exactly what it is describing and will name it exactly. "Bladder dump" extends this precision into territory most erotic discourse declines to enter: the body at the outer limit of consciousness, where voluntary control begins to dissolve. The phrase "petechial brink" names a threshold — not the crossing of it but the approach, the craving for proximity to that edge. The desire is for a specific physiological state, known and sought, not stumbled into.
The final tercet renders that state in purely imagistic terms, and it is the poem's most formally accomplished passage. "Orgiastic irises rolled / into secret spheres" — the eyes turning back in the skull, visible only as white, the iris retreating into a privacy the observer cannot follow. "Secret spheres" is exact: the rolled eye is both a physiological event and a withdrawal into an interior space inaccessible to anyone outside the body experiencing it. "Bullring nostrils / flaring in the closure of light" completes the portrait: the flared nostril of physical extremity, and then "the closure of light" — consciousness narrowing, the visual field compressing as oxygen decreases, the approach to the threshold the second tercet named. The poem ends at the edge of that closure, holding the image without crossing into it.
Formally, the three tercets move from the speaker's self-identification, to the central argumentative claim, to pure image — from the declarative to the philosophical to the phenomenological. The movement enacts the poem's own epistemological confidence: it knows what it draws, it knows the difference between real and performed craving, and it can render the reality of that craving in images precise enough to constitute evidence. The poem does not argue for the legitimacy of this desire. It simply describes it with enough specificity that the question of legitimacy becomes secondary to the question of reality. The desire is real. The poem shows it. That is sufficient.
Meta Description
A self-portrait poem insisting on the authenticity of extreme erotic appetite — against the framework that would reduce choking and erotic asphyxiation to porn imitation — rendered through precise physiological imagery of the body at the threshold of consciousness.
Keywords
Diani, erotic asphyxiation poetry, authentic desire, hood hippies, Yes-Daddy, petechiae, choking and consent, first-person erotic lyric, desire and authenticity, porn imitation thesis, contemporary erotic poetry, close reading, Hypocorism, physiological precision, extreme desire and agency
That Fun Auntie (Round 3)
Digital Surveillance and Carnal Surrender: The Architecture of Desire in "That Fun Auntie"
Introduction
In contemporary digital culture, intimacy is frequently mediated, quantified, and delayed by the very tools designed to connect us. Platforms like Substack and Instagram transform human longing into data points—open rates, view timestamps, and story viewer lists. In the prose narrative "That Fun Auntie," the author constructs a daring literary space that interrogates this modern paradox. By juxtaposing the sterile, corporate architecture of digital analytics with an overwhelmingly visceral, primal erotica, the text presents a meditation on parasocial obsession. Through its relentless use of the conditional tense and a shift from algorithmic tracking to somatic realism, the narrative posits that contemporary fantasy is often more structurally intoxicating than physical reality—until reality violently shatters and consumes it.
The Architecture of Anticipation: The Conditional Mode
The most striking formal characteristic of "That Fun Auntie" is its sustained reliance on the conditional mood. Operating almost entirely through an extended sequence of "Would we..." and "Say I flew..." clauses, the narrative mimics the psychological architecture of rumination. The narrator is not recounting a memory, nor is he merely plotting a future; he is simulating an entire first encounter in real-time within the theater of his own mind.
This sustained hypothesis creates a hypnotic cadence. By keeping the reader suspended in a speculative state across paragraphs of detailed interaction—from the gate at LAX to the eclectic kitchen filled with frankincense—the text mirrors the condition of modern longing. Modern digital desire is, by definition, conditional: it exists in the space between a sent message and a read receipt, between a published poem and its consumption. The narrator’s speculative flight turns this technological distance into a poetic engine, proving that the anticipation of touch can be more thoroughly mapped than touch itself.
The Friction of the Digital and the Carnal
A central tension in the text arises from the collision between high-tech surveillance and raw, unpolished human presence. The modern romance is traditionally stripped of its administrative realities, but "That Fun Auntie" aggressively incorporates them. The narrator notes the contrast between his corporate "newsletter analytics" and her behavioral footprints—his "fat-finger likes" and silent tracking of her Instagram stories.
However, this digital tracking does not remain cold; it is immediately humanized by heavy sensory anchors. The sterile glow of a screen gives way to the vintage, olfactory weight of Joy, Jean Patou, the smell of potted plants, and the low-volume rap heard from the passenger seat. This transition exposes a cultural commentary: technology offers a false sense of ownership over another person through data metrics, yet true possession requires the messy, unquantifiable friction of physical bodies. The digital ciphers—the blog posts and keystroked flight numbers—are merely the scaffolding designed to support an eventual, violent collapse into the physical world.
Somatic Realism and the Subversion of Domesticity
As the narrative progresses, it deliberately sheds its domestic veneer, moving from a whimsical depiction of a "fun auntie" into an ancient, ritualistic space of surrender. The transition is marked by a shift in language from intellectualized literary longing ("loins trying to crack each line") to aggressive, somatic realism ("nutty sebum and yeasty musk," "carotid blood").
This escalation is crucial to the story's thematic weight. The character of the "fun auntie" represents a safe, socially legible domestic archetype—benign, approachable, and contained. The narrative systematically strips away this sanitization. Through the "unconscious grammar of flesh," the encounter transcends polite boundaries, reframing intimacy not as a gentle exchange of affection, but as a mutual obliteration of safety ("protection would amount to blasphemy"). The final image—wrenching her away from the mundane archetype of the auntie into something "more radiant"—completes the thematic arc: the digital fantasy was never about comfort; it was a crucible designed to forge a raw, unsparing truth.
Conclusion
"That Fun Auntie" succeeds because it refuses to separate the digital vectors of modern life from our deepest, most uncensored animal drives. By treating blog posts as ciphers and open rates as modern telemetry, the text maps how contemporary loneliness seeks out its own cure through obsessive projection. Through its daring vocabulary, unyielding structural cadence, and unflinching psychological honesty, the narrative elevates the tension between screen-based longing and physical reality into a striking piece of modern literature.
Wonkyland Muzzle (ROUND 1)
"Wonkyland Muzzle" is a poem about the rhetorical mechanics of ideological self-protection — specifically, the way entrenched cultural power insulates itself from scrutiny by classifying ordinary inquiry as violence. Its subject is not homosexuality per se, nor even the question of its causes, but the epistemological regime that has placed certain questions beyond the boundary of permissible thought by attaching to them a cascade of escalating moral condemnations. The poem traces that cascade with forensic precision, showing how a neutral empirical question becomes, through a sequence of analogical substitutions, an act of evil — and how each substitution in the chain depends on a suppressed premise that the poem's italics hold up for inspection.
The title operates on two registers simultaneously. "Wonkyland" invokes a terrain of policy discourse, academic expertise, and progressive institutional management — the world of the professionally enlightened, where certain questions have been administratively settled and their reopening signals bad faith or worse. "Muzzle" names what this terrain installs: not argument, not refutation, but suppression. The title does not say whose muzzle or who is muzzled. It simply names the device and its location, leaving the reader to recognize both.
The poem's structure is a single extended conditional argument rendered in fragments, its logical connectives — "and so," "and so" — creating a chain of escalating condemnation whose individual links the poem isolates and interrogates through italics. The opening move is the identification of the question itself: "To ask here 'What causes gayness?' threatens / homosexuality's status / as natural." This is the first premise of the ideological argument the poem is anatomizing: that the question of causation implies unnaturalness, that curiosity about etiology is equivalent to pathologizing. The poem does not endorse this equivalence. It states it as the operative assumption of a particular rhetorical regime and then immediately turns to examine what that assumption requires us to believe.
The first italicized parenthetical — "lightning is unnatural" — is the poem's initial reductio. If asking what causes something threatens its status as natural, then asking what causes lightning would threaten lightning's naturalness. The absurdity is immediate and clean. The causal question is ontologically neutral; it applies equally to phenomena no one disputes as natural. The implicit premise — that natural things have no causes, or that seeking causes implies artificiality — is exposed as philosophically untenable the moment it is extended beyond its protected application. The parenthetical does not argue this at length. It simply names the consequence and moves on, trusting the reader to register the reductio.
The second movement escalates: the question is not merely threatening to naturalness but "violent." Here the poem's italics do their most important work: "speech / is a fisty gang rape." The analogy being anatomized is the one that underlies the contemporary equation of harmful speech with physical violence — the claim, increasingly institutionalized in academic and corporate settings, that certain utterances constitute assault rather than expression. The poem's chosen analogy is deliberately extreme: not merely assault but gang rape, and not merely gang rape but "fisty" — a term carrying its own register of graphic sexual violence. The extremity is the point. The poem is not selecting a marginal or uncharitable version of the speech-as-violence claim; it is identifying what the logical structure of that claim actually licenses when its premises are followed to their conclusion. If speech is violence, then asking a question is assault; if asking a question is assault, then the specific character of the assault can be calibrated to the perceived severity of the question — and the poem names the calibration the regime has applied.
The third escalation — from violent to "evil" — completes the chain and introduces the poem's final and most philosophically charged italicized term: "reflection, revealing who we are / even if it offends who / we wish to be, / is Hannible Lecter." The Hannibal Lecter reference is exact. Lecter is not merely a villain but a specific cultural figure of sophisticated, penetrating, almost aestheticized evil — a psychiatrist whose gift for seeing through people to what they actually are is precisely what makes him monstrous in the popular imagination. The analogy the poem is anatomizing holds that reflection — the Socratic activity of examining what we are rather than what we wish to be — is not merely uncomfortable or impolite but evil in this specific, cultivated, predatory sense. To ask the question is to be Lecter: brilliant, penetrating, and wicked for the very penetration.
The italics throughout are the poem's formal argument. They mark the suppressed premises — the claims that must be true for each escalation in the chain to hold — and by marking them, by giving them their own typographic register, the poem separates the ideological argument from its hidden foundations and holds those foundations up for inspection. The reader is being shown the machinery rather than experiencing its effects. This is the poem as epistemological intervention: it does not refute the ideological chain by arguing against it directly but by making visible the analogies it depends on, which refute themselves once stated plainly.
"Wonkyland Muzzle" does not take a position on the causes of homosexuality, nor does it suggest that the question is simple or that its answers would be ideologically neutral. What it argues is prior to and independent of any such position: that the regime of suppression operating around the question is philosophically incoherent, that its incoherence can be demonstrated by following its premises into the territory of lightning and Hannibal Lecter, and that the muzzle it installs is not the product of rigorous argument but of a cascade of analogical substitutions whose hidden premises cannot survive scrutiny. The poem's title names the muzzle and its homeland. The poem's body shows how the muzzle was constructed and what it is made of.
Meta Description
A poem anatomizing the rhetorical chain by which ordinary empirical inquiry is classified as threat, then violence, then evil — isolating through italics the suppressed analogical premises that make each escalation possible, from lightning's naturalness to Hannibal Lecter's penetrating wickedness.
Keywords
Wonkyland Muzzle, speech as violence, ideological suppression, epistemological poetry, rhetorical chain analysis, cancel culture poetry, Hannibal Lecter analogy, homosexuality and causation, free inquiry poetry, institutional muzzling, italics as argument, contemporary political poetry, close reading, Hypocorism, anti-intellectualism critique
Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters (ROUND 2)
"Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters" is a poem about the persistence of rational order beneath apparent ontological chaos. Its subject is the philosophical principle of sufficient reason — the claim, associated most forcefully with Leibniz, that nothing happens without a reason adequate to explain it — and its argument is that quantum indeterminacy, far from refuting this principle, actually demonstrates it at a deeper level. In nine lines and three tercets, the poem performs a philosophical rescue operation: it takes the most destabilizing finding of twentieth-century physics and shows that the destabilization is local rather than global, and that the very rule governing the instability is itself an expression of the order it appears to threaten.
The title establishes the poem's philosophical coordinates immediately. "Sufficient Reason" names the Leibnizian principle directly — nothing is without a reason sufficient to account for it, including existence itself — and places it in relation to "the Stutters." The plural is significant. Where a single stutter might suggest an anomaly, a glitch in an otherwise continuous system, stutters designates a recurring condition, a structural feature of reality at a particular scale. The quantum foam does not stutter once; it stutters constitutively, perpetually, as its normal mode of operation. The title's spatial claim is therefore more ambitious than it might initially appear: sufficient reason is not merely surviving one exception but persisting beneath a condition of chronic, systemic apparent lawlessness.
The opening tercet establishes the concession the poem is willing to make: "Even if some particles / materialize from and vanish into / literal nothing." The "even if" is the poem's logical hinge. It does not deny the quantum finding; it grants it full force. The particles materialize from literal nothing — not from some pre-existing substrate, not from a field in a different state, but from nothing in the strongest ontological sense the physics warrants. And they vanish back into the same nothing. "Literal" is doing precise philosophical work here: it forecloses the interpretive escape of treating "nothing" as a loose colloquialism for some attenuated form of something. The poem insists on the full ontological weight of the claim before proceeding to complicate it.
The second tercet introduces the poem's crucial qualification through a single word: "seems." Where the opening concedes that space is quantum-frothy at the Planck scale, the second tercet frames this as appearance rather than ultimate ontological description — "seems quantum-frothy rather than / Einstein-smooth." The shift from the first tercet's ontological directness to the second's epistemic qualification is the poem's most compressed philosophical gesture. The quantum foam is real; the indeterminacy is real; but the conclusion that this foam constitutes a fundamental violation of rational order is a matter of interpretation, of how deeply one looks. "Seems" opens the space the poem needs to make its argument: beneath the appearance of smoothlessness, something else is operative.
"Quantum-frothy" and "Einstein-smooth" are the poem's most compressed technical achievements. "Frothy" carries the physical image of the quantum foam — John Wheeler's term for the turbulent, indeterminate structure of spacetime at the Planck scale — while also suggesting the insubstantial and quickly dissipated. "Einstein-smooth" invokes the spacetime of general relativity: continuous, differentiable, deterministic at the macro scale, the universe as a four-dimensional manifold without gaps or discontinuities. The poem places these two descriptions in opposition but does not treat the opposition as absolute. It is scale-dependent: the universe appears frothy at one level of description and smooth at another, and the poem's argument depends on this layering.
"Still / a panoptic smoothness remains" completes the second tercet and delivers the poem's pivot. "Still" performs its characteristic double function: it means nevertheless, and it means motionless, undisturbed — the smoothness is calm in both senses, persisting without agitation through the foam above it. "Panoptic" is exact: all-seeing, all-encompassing, operating across every scale and every instance without exception. The smoothness is total rather than approximate or local. The enjambment across the tercet boundary — "remains / tacit" — is the poem's most formally significant line break. By carrying "tacit" into the final tercet alone, the poem isolates and emphasizes the word: the smoothness does not announce itself, does not surface through the foam to declare its presence. It is operative without being visible, foundational without being conspicuous. The sufficient reason beneath the stutters is tacit in precisely the way that the deepest structural principles always are.
The final tercet delivers the evidence: "in the rule that the greater / the materialized particle's energy / the faster it vanishes." This is the Heisenberg energy-time uncertainty relation — the principle that the more energy a virtual particle borrows from the quantum vacuum, the less time it can exist before that energy must be returned. The rule is a conservation principle, an expression of the universe's fundamental bookkeeping: nothing is gotten for nothing, even at the scale where particles flicker in and out of literal nothing. The higher the loan, the faster the repayment. Existence at the most fundamental level is governed by a principle of strict proportionality — a ratio, a reason, a sufficient reason — that is itself the panoptic smoothness the second tercet announced.
The philosophical force of the final tercet lies in what kind of thing the rule is. It is not indeterminate. It is not itself subject to the foam. It governs the foam with a consistency that no individual particle's behavior exhibits but that the totality of such behavior expresses. This is the poem's Leibnizian move: the sufficient reason is not visible in any single stutter but is tacit in the pattern across all of them. The principle does not operate at the level of the individual particle's appearance or disappearance — those events retain their quantum character, their apparent lawlessness — but at the level of the relationship between energy and duration, which remains fixed, proportional, smooth. The stutters are real; the smoothness beneath them is equally real; and the poem holds both without collapsing one into the other.
Formally, the three tercets correspond to three logical movements: concession, qualification and pivot, evidence. The enjambments are philosophical throughout — "such that space / seems," "still / a panoptic smoothness remains," "tacit in the rule that the greater / the materialized particle's energy" — each line break occurring at a point of maximum logical pressure, where the sentence has committed to a direction but not yet delivered its consequence. The syntax withholds resolution until the final line, which arrives with the flatness of a demonstrated proof rather than a rhetorical flourish: "the faster it vanishes." The poem ends where the argument ends, in the rule itself — plain, proportional, sufficient.
What "Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters" refuses is both the naive determinist comfort that quantum mechanics poses no genuine challenge to rational order and the fashionable conclusion that quantum indeterminacy licenses ontological chaos or the abandonment of rational explanation altogether. Its position is more exacting: the stutters are real, chronic, and constitutive of space at the quantum scale; and the sufficient reason for all of it is tacit in the very rule that governs how the stuttering proceeds. Order does not require smoothness at every scale or at every level of description. It requires only that the principle of proportionality — the ratio of energy to duration, the bookkeeping of existence — hold without exception. And it does.
Meta Description
A nine-line philosophical poem arguing that quantum indeterminacy — virtual particles materializing from and vanishing into literal nothing — does not refute the Leibnizian principle of sufficient reason but demonstrates it at a deeper level, the energy-time uncertainty relation constituting the panoptic smoothness tacit beneath the chronic stutters of the quantum foam.
Keywords
Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters, Leibniz sufficient reason, quantum indeterminacy poetry, virtual particles, Heisenberg uncertainty principle, quantum foam, Einstein smooth spacetime, philosophical poetry, panoptic smoothness, energy-time uncertainty, contemporary metaphysical verse, close reading, determinism and quantum mechanics, Hypocorism, philosophical lyric
Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters (ROUND 1)
Scholarly Essay: "Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutter"
"Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutter" is a poem about the persistence of rational order beneath apparent ontological chaos. Its subject is the philosophical principle of sufficient reason — the claim, associated most forcefully with Leibniz, that nothing happens without a reason adequate to explain it — and its argument is that quantum indeterminacy, far from refuting this principle, actually demonstrates it at a deeper level. In nine lines and three tercets, the poem performs a philosophical rescue operation: it takes the most destabilizing finding of twentieth-century physics and shows that the destabilization is local, not global, and that the very rule governing the instability is itself an expression of the order it appears to threaten.
The title establishes the poem's philosophical coordinates before the first line. "Sufficient Reason" names the Leibnizian principle directly — nothing is without a reason sufficient to account for it, including existence itself — and places it in immediate relation to "the Stutter." The stutter is quantum indeterminacy: the apparently lawless materialization and dematerialization of virtual particles in the quantum vacuum, the foam of existence and non-existence at the Planck scale that seems to violate the smooth determinism of classical and relativistic physics. The title's claim is spatial and hierarchical: sufficient reason is not abolished by the stutter but is beneath it, foundational to it, operating at a level the stutter cannot reach.
The opening tercet establishes the concession the poem is willing to make: "Even if some particles / materialize from and vanish into / literal nothing." The "even if" is the poem's logical hinge. It does not deny the quantum finding; it grants it full force. The particles materialize from literal nothing — not from some pre-existing substrate, not from a field in a different state, but from nothing in the strongest ontological sense the physics warrants. And they vanish back into the same nothing. This is the stutter of the title: existence flickering at the boundary of non-existence, the universe quantum-frothy rather than Einstein-smooth.
"Quantum-frothy" and "Einstein-smooth" are the poem's most compressed technical achievements. "Frothy" carries the physical image of the quantum foam — John Wheeler's term for the turbulent, indeterminate structure of spacetime at the Planck scale — while also carrying the suggestion of the insubstantial, the effervescent, the quickly dissipated. "Einstein-smooth" invokes the spacetime of general relativity: continuous, differentiable, deterministic at the macro scale, the universe as a four-dimensional manifold without gaps or discontinuities. The poem places these two descriptions in opposition — "quantum-frothy rather than / Einstein-smooth" — but the "rather than" is not a simple replacement. It is a scale-dependent description: the universe is frothy at one scale and smooth at another. The poem knows this, and its argument depends on it.
"Still / a panoptic smoothness remains tacit" is the poem's pivot and its central philosophical claim. "Still" does double work: it means nevertheless, despite the quantum foam, and it means motionless, calm, undisturbed — the smoothness is still in both senses. "Panoptic" is precise: all-seeing, all-encompassing, operating across every scale and every instance. The smoothness is not local or approximate; it is total. And it is "tacit" — implicit, unstated, operative without being announced. The sufficient reason beneath the stutter does not proclaim itself. It manifests as the rule that governs even the stutter's apparent lawlessness.
The final tercet delivers that rule: "in the very rule that the greater / the materialized particle's energy / the faster it vanishes." This is the Heisenberg uncertainty principle in one of its formulations — specifically the energy-time uncertainty relation, which holds that the more energy a virtual particle borrows from the vacuum, the less time it can exist before returning that energy. The rule is a conservation principle, an expression of the universe's bookkeeping: nothing is gotten for nothing, even at the quantum scale. The higher the loan, the faster the repayment. Existence at the most fundamental level is governed by a principle of proportionality — a ratio, a reason, a sufficient reason — that is itself the panoptic smoothness the poem has been claiming.
The philosophical force of this observation is considerable. The standard presentation of quantum indeterminacy emphasizes the violation of classical causality: particles appear from nothing, the vacuum seethes, determinism breaks down. The poem does not dispute any of this but identifies what remains constant across the indeterminacy: the rule governing the relationship between energy and duration. This rule is not itself indeterminate. It is, in the poem's terms, an expression of sufficient reason operating beneath the stutter — a logos that the foam cannot dissolve because the foam is itself subject to it. The Leibnizian principle is not refuted by quantum mechanics; it is driven deeper, to a level more fundamental than classical causality, where it manifests as the conservation law that governs even virtual existence.
The poem's formal structure enacts its argument. The three tercets correspond to three logical movements: concession, pivot, evidence. The enjambments are philosophical rather than musical — "such that space / is quantum-frothy," "still / a panoptic smoothness," "the greater / the materialized particle's energy" — each line break occurring at a point of maximum logical tension, where the sentence has committed to a direction but not yet delivered its qualification or consequence. The syntax withholds resolution until the final line, which lands with the flatness of a demonstrated proof: "the faster it vanishes." There is no rhetorical inflation at the close, no reaching for sublimity. The poem ends where the argument ends, which is in the rule itself — plain, sufficient, smooth beneath the stutter.
What "Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutter" refuses is both the naive determinist comfort that quantum mechanics never happened and the fashionable conclusion that quantum indeterminacy licenses wholesale ontological chaos or the abandonment of rational explanation. Its position is more precise and more demanding: the stutter is real, the foam is real, the particles materialize from literal nothing and vanish back into it, and the sufficient reason for all of this is tacit in the very rule that governs how they do so. Order does not require smoothness at every scale. It requires only that the principle of proportionality — the ratio of energy to duration, the bookkeeping of existence — remain intact. And it does.
Meta Description
A nine-line philosophical poem arguing that quantum indeterminacy — virtual particles materializing from and vanishing into literal nothing — does not refute the Leibnizian principle of sufficient reason but demonstrates it at a deeper level, the energy-time uncertainty relation itself constituting the panoptic smoothness beneath the quantum foam.
Keywords
Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutter, Leibniz sufficient reason, quantum indeterminacy poetry, virtual particles, Heisenberg uncertainty principle, quantum foam, Einstein smooth spacetime, philosophical poetry, panoptic smoothness, energy-time uncertainty, contemporary metaphysical verse, close reading, determinism and quantum mechanics, Hypocorism, philosophical lyric
He Sang Beyond the Genius of the Honeywell (ROUND 1)
"He Sang Beyond the Genius of the Honeywell" investigates the phenomenology of hypnagogic perception—the fragile, liminal state between wakefulness and sleep where the brain generates complex internal auditory hallucinations. In nine lines and three tercets, the poem maps how an internal experience takes shape against the steady, physical drone of a box fan, capturing a man lying relaxed on his back in bed at night as his mind constructs an entire phantom broadcast from within.
The title announces its argument before the first line, adapting Wallace Stevens’s masterwork "The Idea of Order at Key West," which famously opens with the line, "She sang beyond the genius of the sea." In Stevens, the singer creates something the sea itself could not produce, exceeding the generative capacity of her raw environment. To substitute "the Genius of the Honeywell"—a brand of household box fan—is not a deflationary joke; it is a precise relocation of Stevens's metaphysical claim to a domestic interior. The box fan provides the real, physical acoustic ground: a continuous, unyielding white noise that acts as a neutral backdrop. The opening lines—"A song crept alive, chorus / and verse, against the box fan's blank / canvas"—establish how the hallucination emerges incrementally. The song "crept alive," slipping into consciousness before it is fully recognized, using the fan's ambient sound as the surface upon which it projects.
Crucially, the radio elements are not external transmissions being listened to from across the room; the airbreak and the broadcast are entirely internal to the hallucination itself. When the text turns to the "broadcast host / airbreak unchanged in volume / when he put the alarm clock / to his ear," it captures a stunningly accurate feature of hypnagogic perception. There is no actual radio broadcast playing and no real talk show host; rather, the mind projects the phantom transmission onto the acoustic screen of the room. Because the voice, the airbreak, and the song are generated entirely within the speaker's own mind, bringing the clock-radio to his ear changes nothing about the volume or clarity. It does not behave like a real radio wave obeying distance or tuner frequencies, but instead possesses an unyielding, internal immediacy. The fan is the only external reality in the room—a blank physical canvas. Everything else is a seamless, involuntary construction of a brain sliding into sleep.
The final tercet brings this psychological phenomenon into sharp philosophical focus: "a taste of what / the greats mean when they insist / the music, the idea, the image / was just given to them." The poem grounds the mystical idea of artistic "givenness" in concrete neurology. Great art often feels like it arrived from outside the self because the human brain is entirely capable of generating complex, fully formed audio structures—chorus, verse, and broadcast—completely divorced from conscious construction right on the threshold of sleep. By anchoring this insight to the humble hum of a Honeywell, the poem demonstrates from the inside how the mind can author an entire experience and receive it as a gift.
Meta Description: A nine-line poem locating the phenomenology of artistic reception—the experience of a work arriving as a gift rather than conscious construction—in a hypnagogic state against the acoustic texture of a box fan and a phantom radio broadcast.
Keywords: He Sang Beyond the Genius of the Honeywell, Wallace Stevens Idea of Order at Key West allusion, creative reception poetry, phenomenology of inspiration, box fan white noise, artistic givenness, hypnagogic hallucination, phantom radio broadcast, domestic sublime, ambient sound poetry, tercet form, enjambment and meaning, contemporary lyric poetry, close reading
MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 2)
"Made for You and Me 3: Hive Being (Stanzas 2018 — Part 2)" is a poem that operates as a collective nervous system — a distributed, non-hierarchical intelligence registering the full frequency range of contemporary experience simultaneously, without the consolation of narrative sequence or thematic resolution. Its form is the aphorism pushed past the point of wisdom into something more volatile: observations that begin in wit and end in vertigo, ethical provocations that implicate the reader before they have finished processing the sentence, juxtapositions whose violence is structural rather than rhetorical. The poem does not argue. It accumulates. And what accumulates is a portrait of a civilization that has lost the capacity to integrate its own contradictions — not because the contradictions are new, but because the mechanisms for managing them (narrative, ideology, sentiment, humor, religion, theory) have been simultaneously exposed and retained, emptied and still in use.
The title's three-part structure encodes the poem's central tension. "Made for You and Me" is the language of romantic inclusion, of popular song, of the American folk promise — Woody Guthrie's land made for you and me, the domestic idyll, the shared inheritance. "Hive Being" immediately complicates this by dissolving the dyadic "you and me" into collective organism: not two individuals who belong together but a swarm intelligence in which individual identity is a functional illusion. The parenthetical "Stanzas 2018" grounds the hive's buzzing in historical specificity — 2018 is a particular moment of American and global political fracture — while "part 2" signals that this is not a complete argument but a fragment of an ongoing, perhaps uncompletable, inventory. The title is itself a small aphorism: togetherness as both promise and dissolution of self.
The opening entry — "that cuck chair in the motel corner" — arrives with maximum compression and minimum explanation. "Cuck chair" imports the full toxic freight of contemporary internet culture's most weaponized sexual insult: the cuckold, the man who watches while another takes what is his, now evolved into a term of political emasculation applied to any perceived capitulation or weakness. In a motel corner it becomes furniture — ordinary, specific, slightly melancholy — the way ideology always eventually becomes decor. The chair is "that" chair: definitively known, perhaps frequently encountered, its presence unremarkable to those who furnish such rooms. The poem opens by naming an object that contains an entire theory of masculinity, sexual anxiety, political resentment, and cheap accommodation without explaining any of it. This is the poem's fundamental method: the named thing is already saturated; the poem relies on that saturation rather than producing it.
"Nostalgic about the way the place used to be as soon as they migrate there" is the poem's first sustained aphorism and one of its most precise sociological observations. The sentence identifies a temporal paradox at the heart of gentrification, displacement, and cultural colonization: the newcomer's nostalgia is not for a personal past but for an imagined prior state of the place they have just entered and begun to transform. The nostalgia is produced by arrival, not by departure. It precedes any actual attachment. And yet it functions as attachment — as entitlement, as grievance, as the emotional basis for further transformation. The sentence says nothing about race or class explicitly, but its implications extend through both. It is the mechanism by which every encroachment justifies itself as preservation.
"The preferred weed sack; the preferred woman: fat, pungent, no seeds" performs its equation with deliberate crudeness. The parallelism — sack/woman, fat/pungent/no seeds — is the poem's most openly provocative yoking, and it refuses to signal whether it is endorsing the equivalence, reporting it, or both. What it does is name a set of preferences that exist in the same consciousness, organized by the same aesthetic logic, without the usual separation of registers that allows people to maintain contradictory self-images. The connoisseur of quality marijuana and the man who prefers large, aromatic women without complications (no seeds: no reproductive consequence, no entanglement) are not being contrasted. They are the same person applying the same criteria. The crudeness is the point: the poem denies the dignity of separate categories.
"Medical test results in a river" is the poem's most compressed tragedy. Five words contain an entire biography of poverty, shame, fear, and magical thinking — the refusal of diagnosis, the literal disposal of knowledge that cannot be afforded or survived psychologically. The river is both specific (Southern, gothic, American) and mythological (Lethe, the river of forgetting). The person who throws their test results in a river is not ignorant; they are making a rational choice within an irrational system, choosing the uncertainty they can live with over the certainty they cannot.
"The inhumanity of not letting strangers hold your baby" is the poem at its most mischievous. It reframes a contemporary bourgeois norm — the protective anxiety around infant contact, the sanitized stranger-danger that has replaced village-level communal child-rearing — as inhumanity rather than care. The entry doesn't argue this at length. It simply names it and moves on, leaving the reader to sit with the possibility that the gesture of protection is also a gesture of severance, of anti-communal privatization of new life.
The entry immediately following — "but wait, are we not nothing more than avatars of our race and gender identities?" — performs a mock interruption, a satirical voice-from-the-theory-room objecting to the implied humanism of the previous observation. The "but wait" mimics the rhetorical move of progressive discourse that would dissolve the "stranger" and the "mother" and the "baby" into subject positions determined by identity categories, making the spontaneous human impulse to hold and be held legible only as the reproduction of structural power. The poem does not reject this analysis. It places it next to the baby and lets the discomfort accumulate.
"Enemies invented to sell weapons" is the poem's most direct political aphorism, and its brevity is its argument: the sentence is short because the mechanism is simple, and the mechanism's simplicity is the scandal. Adjacent to it, "gas station libido packets" drops into the register of the bathetic and the commercial — the blister-packed aphrodisiacs, the rhino pills, the desperate late-night purchases — with a deflation that is itself a kind of commentary on what becomes of desire in a militarized consumer economy. The juxtaposition is not explained. It doesn't need to be.
"What in her he so needed to kill was the only thing keeping him with her" is the poem's most devastating single observation, and it stands as its own complete psychological novel. The sentence describes the mechanism of intimate destruction with a precision that neither condemns nor excuses: the thing targeted for elimination in the beloved is simultaneously the thing that produced and sustains the attachment. Destroy it and you are free; destroy it and you have nothing. The sentence does not specify gender but its grammar — "in her," "him" — deploys the conventional pronoun assignment of heterosexual destruction, while remaining open to other configurations. It is the most purely literary entry in the poem.
The coitus-in-front-of-children entry is the poem's most deliberately outrageous philosophical proposition, and it earns its outrageousness through the precision of its argument. The claim is not simple provocation: it holds that exposing children to parental sexuality is in some pure, anthropological sense an act of life-affirmation — the opposite of the bloodbath gaming and cinema that the same culture accepts without comment. The qualifier "in our anti-life land" is the key: the proposition does not advocate but diagnoses. The culture that traumatizes children with graphic death while protecting them from consensual adult sexuality has arranged its taboos around the suppression of life and the normalization of violence. This is a genuine argument, made in three lines, surrounded by forty-eight other arguments.
"'I won't make you promises' / is not a true deconstruction if the subtext / is 'I won't after this one, of course'" performs a philosophical and emotional operation simultaneously. It identifies the self-exempting clause hidden inside the rhetoric of non-commitment — the performative contradiction of the person who promises not to promise. The word "deconstruction" is used precisely: not in its academic sense but in its popular appropriation as a term for dismantling convention, and the poem notes that this dismantling is always already re-conventionalizing itself through the exception it carves out for the present moment.
The placebo and color of Jesus entry — "since different color placebo pills / have different efficacy, might / different color Jesus's as well?" — is the poem's most compressed theological provocation. The empirical finding (that placebo effect varies by pill color, shape, and perceived authority) is extrapolated into comparative religion with the lightest possible touch. The question mark keeps the poem from settling into either mockery or mysticism. It is genuinely asking whether the cultural specificity of religious representation has measurable psychological efficacy — whether a Black Jesus or a Brown Jesus or a White Jesus works differently in the nervous system of the believer, and whether this would be an argument for or against the truth claims of any tradition.
"Hypersexualized bodies (blacks, say) are more easily raped in good conscience / animalized bodies (blacks, say) are more easily killed in good conscience" — these two parallel entries are the poem's political and historical spine made briefly visible. The parenthetical "blacks, say" is doing enormous work: it names without insisting on uniqueness, marks without reducing to a single case, acknowledges the pattern while leaving open its application to other bodies organized by similar logics of dehumanization. The entries do not editorialize. They state mechanisms. The horror is in the statement's accuracy, not in any rhetorical amplification.
"Remaining exploited because it frees you from having to care" names a genuine psychological economy of oppression: the way in which powerlessness can function as a form of exemption from moral responsibility, from the exhausting labor of agency. The entry does not moralize about this. It simply identifies it as a real structure of consciousness — one that is simultaneously understandable and, in its own way, a form of complicity with the conditions that produce it.
The poem's final entry — "with pathetic plosives, a young boy battles / plastic figurines from the film coming soon / as puff-eyed parents, bedside, pray for time" — arrives as a kind of negative epiphany, a closing image that refuses closure. The "pathetic plosives" are the child's sound-effects, his mouth-made explosions and crashes, "pathetic" in its root sense of pathos-laden rather than merely pitiable. The film coming soon has already colonized his imagination; he is playing inside a commercial fiction that will become a commercial reality. The parents, puff-eyed from crying or sleeplessness or both, pray "for time" — not for healing, not for miracle, but for time itself, which is to say they have already moved past hope into the more desperate prayer of postponement. The scene is rendered without sentiment, which is what makes it devastating. The poem ends not with aphorism but with image — with three people in a room, the child making the sounds of battle while his parents pray at the edge of something the poem will not name.
Formally, "Made for You and Me 3" operates through what might be called ethical montage: the juxtaposition of entries produces meaning that neither entry contains alone. The cuck chair and the nostalgia of gentrification illuminate each other across the white space between them. The preferred woman and the medical results thrown in the river share a logic of avoidance and appetite that becomes visible only in proximity. The poem's white space is not absence but pressure — the force of relation held open for the reader to complete or refuse. This is a poem that trusts, perhaps demands, an active reader: one willing to sit in the discomfort of adjacency, to make connections the poem refuses to make explicit, to be implicated by what they recognize.
What "Made for You and Me 3" ultimately refuses is the consolation of a position. It does not stand anywhere stable long enough to be located. It moves through registers — the sexual, the political, the philosophical, the domestic, the theological, the ecological — with an agility that prevents any single framework from organizing the whole. The hive being of the title is not a unity but a distributed intelligence, sensing everywhere at once, incapable of the kind of hierarchical meaning-making that would allow any entry to dominate or resolve the others. The poem is itself a hive: its individual observations are workers, each doing a specific function, and the queen — if there is one — is something like the pressure of living consciously in a civilization that has not yet found a way to integrate what it knows about itself.
Meta Description
A formally distributed poem of aphorism, provocation, and ethical montage — moving through sexuality, race, power, religion, grief, and consumer culture without hierarchy or resolution, building a portrait of collective consciousness that registers everything and metabolizes nothing.
Keywords
Made for You and Me 3, Hive Being, aphorism poetry, ethical montage, contemporary American poetry, race and sexuality, consumer culture critique, distributed consciousness poetry, placebo theology, gentrification nostalgia, intimate destruction, political aphorism, close reading contemporary verse, Hypocorism, fragmented form poetry
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
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Don’t let anyone tell you that real life is lacking in poetic interest. This is exactly what the poet is for: he has the mind and the imagination to find something of interest in everyday things. Real life supplies the motifs, the points that need to be said—the actual heart of the matter; but it is the poet’s job to fashion it all into a beautiful, animated whole. You are familiar with Fürnstein, the so-called “nature poet”? He has written a poem about growing hops, and you couldn’t imagine anything nicer. I have now asked him to write some poems celebrating the work of skilled artisans, in particular weavers, and I am quite sure he will succeed; he has lived among such people from an early age, he knows the subject inside out, and will be in full command of his material. That is the advantage of small works: you need only choose subjects that you know and have at your command. With a longer poetic work, however, this is not possible. There is no way around it: all the different threads that tie the whole thing together, and are woven into the design, have to be shown in accurate detail. Young people only have a one-sided view of things, whereas a longer work requires a multiplicity of viewpoints—and that’s where they come unstuck.—Goethe (Conversations with Eckermann)
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"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