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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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Sucia (ROUND 2)
“Sucia” is a poem about the psychic redistribution of contamination. While its immediate subject is incestuous abuse, the poem's deeper concern is the interpretive crisis that follows revelation: how a family system metabolizes an atrocity that threatens to destroy its organizing fictions. The poem is not interested in the perpetrator's psychology except insofar as it succeeds. Its focus falls instead upon a mother confronted with evidence so devastating that ordinary moral perception begins to buckle under the pressure. The result is a lyric of projection, displacement, and contaminated judgment in which the victim becomes burdened with the very stain that should belong to the abuser.
The title announces this concern before the poem even begins. “Sucia”—dirty, filthy, unclean—functions as both accusation and diagnosis. Yet the poem never specifies who is sucia. The daughter? The mother? The man? The household itself? This ambiguity is essential. Incest collapses ordinary boundaries of contamination. Dirt ceases to be a property of a single individual and instead becomes a psychic substance circulating through the family system. The title therefore hovers over the poem like a curse whose target remains unstable.
The opening lines establish this instability immediately:
After learning that your hombre
has reamed every socket
of your preteen into an agent
The phrase “into an agent” is the poem's conceptual center. The daughter is not merely abused; she is transformed within the mother's imagination. “Agent” is a term saturated with implications of intentionality, desire, and responsibility. Yet the word appears alongside “preteen,” producing a collision the poem refuses to resolve. The tension is immediate and unbearable. A preteen cannot meaningfully occupy the role implied by “agent” within the sexual economy being described. The very absurdity of the attribution exposes the defensive mechanism generating it.
Importantly, the daughter has not become an agent. She has been made into one. The grammar matters. The mother's perception has undergone a mutation. Faced with an intolerable reality, she unconsciously reconstructs the victim as participant. The poem thus dramatizes one of trauma's most devastating secondary injuries: not merely violation, but reinterpretation.
The phrase “reamed every socket” contributes to this process of symbolic deformation. “Socket” is a deliberately mechanical word. It reduces the body to openings and functions, stripping away individuality. The daughter's subjectivity disappears beneath the language used to describe what has happened to her. Yet the reduction is not merely descriptive. It reflects the logic of abuse itself. The body becomes fragmented into sites of use. The daughter's humanity is attacked first through violation and then through the explanatory framework imposed afterward.
The next lines complete the transformation:
ravenous and scheming
The choice of adjectives is remarkable. Both imply appetite and strategy. Both belong to the vocabulary of seduction rather than victimization. Applied to a preteen, they become grotesque. The poem's achievement lies in forcing the reader to inhabit this grotesquerie without endorsing it. The daughter is being imagined through categories fundamentally incapable of describing her situation. The resulting distortion reveals more about the psychological needs of the adults than about the child herself.
Psychoanalytically, the mechanism is recognizable. The mother's discovery confronts her with multiple unbearable truths simultaneously. The man she trusted has committed a monstrous act. Her daughter has suffered under her protection. Her judgment has failed. Her domestic reality has proven false. Such realizations threaten not merely emotional equilibrium but identity itself. Under such conditions, projection becomes attractive because it redistributes intolerable guilt. If the child can be imagined as possessing agency, then responsibility can be diluted. The asymmetry between predator and victim becomes less absolute.
The poem's central question emerges from this defensive landscape:
what
was worse: you beating her
(“¡Puta!”) or letting him, cock
The brilliance of this formulation lies in its refusal of simple moral sequencing. One form of violence is physical and immediate. The other is interpretive and enduring. The poem asks whether the slap or the story constitutes the deeper injury.
“¡Puta!” is particularly devastating because it represents the endpoint of the daughter's symbolic transformation. She is no longer perceived as a child. She has been relocated into an adult sexual category. The slur accomplishes in a single word what the preceding lines anatomize more gradually. It imposes sexual culpability upon someone who cannot meaningfully bear it.
Yet the poem does not stop there. The alternative possibility—“or letting him”—shifts attention away from overt violence and toward complicity. The mother may strike her daughter in a moment of rage, but what happens when she adopts his interpretation of events? What happens when she permits his narrative to reorganize reality itself?
The image that follows is among the poem's most horrifying:
cock
still tasting of her
The line eliminates all distance between act and aftermath. The abuse is not a distant memory. It remains materially present. The man appears carrying evidence of what has occurred upon his own body. The grotesque intimacy of the image performs an important function. It prevents abstraction. The mother's acceptance of his story cannot be attributed to ignorance. The poem insists upon proximity. She chooses belief in the immediate shadow of undeniable violation.
This proximity intensifies the poem's psychological inquiry. The question becomes not whether evidence is available but whether evidence is sufficient. The poem suggests that under conditions of extreme psychic threat, interpretation follows emotional necessity rather than empirical fact. Belief becomes a survival mechanism.
The phrase “swallowing it all” deepens this insight. On the most obvious level, it refers to accepting his explanation. Yet the line's placement after the image of his body generates additional meanings. The mother does not simply swallow a story. She swallows an entire framework of understanding. She internalizes the logic required to preserve a world that would otherwise collapse.
The final lines reveal the consequence:
that it would be
cruel to kick her out?
This may be the poem's most disturbing inversion. “Cruel” is ordinarily reserved for acts committed against the vulnerable. Here, however, cruelty has been redefined. The daughter has become the apparent source of disruption. The victim has become the problem requiring management.
The line exposes how thoroughly moral language can be commandeered by psychic defense. The vocabulary of care becomes indistinguishable from the vocabulary of abandonment. Expulsion can now masquerade as compassion. The daughter's removal appears not as punishment but as a regrettable necessity.
The poem's final question mark is crucial. It prevents closure. The speaker does not adjudicate between the mother's violence and her complicity. Instead, the reader is left confronting a system in which both emerge from the same poisoned source. The beating and the believing are not separate phenomena. They are different expressions of a single interpretive catastrophe.
Formally, “Sucia” derives much of its force from compression. The poem contains no exposition, no backstory, and no psychological explanation. It proceeds through concentrated fragments that require the reader to reconstruct an entire familial drama from a handful of details. This compression mirrors the structure of traumatic knowledge itself. Vast realities become condensed into a few unforgettable images.
The diction contributes significantly to this effect. The coexistence of English and Spanish creates a domestic intimacy resistant to sociological distance. “Hombre” and “¡Puta!” do not function as decorative markers of ethnicity. They feel spoken, inherited, lived. They belong to the emotional architecture of the scene itself.
What ultimately makes “Sucia” so disturbing is its refusal to locate incest solely within the act of abuse. The poem suggests that violation continues through interpretation. The predator's most enduring victory lies not merely in harming the child but in successfully relocating shame onto her. The abuse becomes a mechanism for rewriting perception itself. The daughter suffers not only because she was violated but because she is made to occupy the symbolic position of violator.
The poem therefore concerns a form of violence that is simultaneously sexual, familial, and hermeneutic. It is about what happens when a child's innocence becomes incompatible with the psychic survival of the adults around her. Faced with that incompatibility, the family does not merely fail to recognize the truth. It manufactures a substitute truth capable of preserving itself. “Sucia” inhabits the moment of that manufacture with extraordinary economy and ferocity.
Meta Description
A lyric examining incest, maternal complicity, projected guilt, victim-blaming, and the psychic redistribution of shame through which an abused child becomes recast as sexually culpable within a damaged family system.
Keywords
Sucia, incest trauma, victim-blaming, psychoanalytic criticism, projective identification, family systems, maternal complicity, contamination, shame displacement, traumatic interpretation, incest literature, hermeneutic violence, sexual abuse, moral inversion, family pathology, symbolic guilt, trauma poetics, contemporary poetry, psychic defense mechanisms, violence and meaning
Sucia (ROUND 1)
“Sucia” is a compact poem about the aftermath of sexual abuse and the catastrophic way it can reorganize a child’s body, behavior, and family life. Its central claim is not that the mother merely misperceives the girl as sexualized, but that the boyfriend’s abuse has in fact made the preteen hypersexual—has turned “every hole” into “an agent / ravenous and scheming.” The poem’s language is deliberately harsh because it is trying to name one of abuse’s ugliest consequences: the child’s body and desire have been distorted by violation, trained into compulsive erotic responsiveness before she has the maturity to understand or govern it.
That opening image is crucial. The boyfriend has “turned every hole of your preteen / into an agent,” meaning the child has been altered at the level of instinct and embodiment. The word “agent” matters because it suggests activity, appetite, and strategy. The abuse has not left her inert; it has made her body hungry, manipulative even, not by nature but by conditioning. The poem is therefore confronting a truth that is morally difficult but psychologically recognizable: sexual abuse can produce hypersexual behavior in the child who has been abused. The girl is not thereby culpable, but neither is she untouched. The poem refuses the easier language of passive innocence only because it is interested in the damage as it actually unfolds.
This is what makes the mother’s position so terrible. After learning what her boyfriend has done, “it was hard to tell what was worse”: slapping the girl and calling her “Dirty slut!” or continuing to let the man persuade her that kicking the girl out would be cruel. The force of the poem lies in this impossible bind. The mother is not simply projecting fantasy onto an innocent child; she is reacting to a real transformation in the girl, one induced by the man’s abuse. The girl’s emerging sexualized behavior now tears through the household, and the mother responds in two equally disastrous ways. One is direct violence and shaming. The other is sentimental paralysis, allowing the abuser to remain and to keep defining the situation.
The title, “Sucia,” intensifies that tragedy. The slur does not tell us what the girl is in any deep moral sense; it tells us how the damage appears within the family. She has become “dirty” not because she chose corruption, but because corruption has been worked into her. The mother’s slap and insult are thus acts of secondary violence, punishing the child for what was made of her. At the same time, the poem does not spare the girl’s altered sexuality its full ugliness. It insists that the abuse has made her bodily and psychically dangerous within the domestic space—not dangerous in the sense of blameworthiness, but dangerous in the sense that the abuse now reproduces itself through her changed appetites and behaviors.
The line “leaking him that night” is especially devastating. It shows the mother still sleeping with the boyfriend, still physically bound to him, even after discovering what he has done. This is not incidental hypocrisy. It reveals how abuse persists inside systems of dependency and desire. The man remains erotically and emotionally central enough that the mother continues to take him in, literally and bodily, while trying to decide what to do about the daughter he has transformed. The poem’s horror is that the mother’s two options are both betrayals: strike the girl as if she were the author of the problem, or keep the man and call expulsion “cruel.” In both cases, the child remains trapped inside the consequences of what he has done to her.
What makes “Sucia” so strong is its compression. It does not explain the whole history of the household or moralize from above. Instead, it isolates the instant in which revelation, rage, desire, and complicity collide. The poem’s insight is that abuse does not only injure the child once; it can reshape the child into someone whose sexuality has been prematurely and monstrously awakened, forcing everyone around her to respond to a condition they helped create or failed to stop. “Sucia” is unsparing because it wants to show that the real obscenity is not a mother’s false perception, but the fact that the abuse has made the girl genuinely hypersexual before her time—and then left the adults to punish her for it.
Meta Description:
“Sucia” is a stark poem about a preteen girl made hypersexual by her mother’s boyfriend’s abuse, and the mother’s catastrophic response of both shaming the child and remaining bound to the abuser. The poem examines sexual conditioning, secondary violence, and family collapse in the wake of abuse.
Keywords:
child sexual abuse, hypersexuality after abuse, maternal betrayal, secondary trauma, victim shaming, family violence, grooming consequences, abuse and conditioning, domestic collapse, poetic compression, altered childhood sexuality
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FAQ
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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