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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Posts
The Art of Subtraction (ROUND 6)
“The Art of Subtraction” is a poem about the psychic crisis of succession. More specifically, it is about what happens when love for one's child collides with the recognition that the child's ascent necessarily coincides with one's own displacement. Countless works celebrate parenthood as continuity, legacy, or immortality through descendants. This poem is interested in a far more difficult question: how does one endure becoming secondary? How does one learn to welcome the flourishing of another person when that flourishing increasingly reveals that one's own season at the center of things is ending?
The title announces the poem's governing insight. Subtraction is not presented as catastrophe but as discipline. The speaker imagines the possibility that diminishment itself might be cultivated as an art. Yet the poem never romanticizes this prospect. The subtraction in question is not a serene spiritual exercise undertaken from a position of wisdom. It is experienced as resistance, shame, grief, and psychic strain. The poem's emotional power derives from the fact that the speaker understands what is being asked of him long before he knows whether he possesses the strength to comply.
The opening establishes this struggle through inheritance. The speaker's confession that it takes “everything inside me” to look directly at his son immediately links relational difficulty to his own father before him. This is one of the poem's first major insights: what is inherited is not merely temperament but posture toward intimacy itself. The father's “shifty eyes” become the son's shifty eyes. What once appeared from the perspective of childhood as indifference or evasiveness now appears as the visible symptom of a deeper burden. The speaker arrives at a painful sympathy for the dead. He discovers that the very behavior he once found frustrating may have emerged from pressures he only now understands.
That pressure centers on the child's gaze. The son appears throughout the poem as a figure of vitality, possibility, and presence. His eyes are “energized” and “hopeful.” His childhood eccentricities remain preserved in memory with extraordinary vividness. The little nose in the bathroom mirror, the “Bip it. Bop it.” refrain, the diapers whose numbered days seemed endless while they were occurring—all survive with greater intensity than entire years. The poem understands memory not as a rational archive but as a system governed by emotional force. What remains is often arbitrary, yet its persistence feels absolute.
Importantly, however, the speaker recognizes that nostalgia alone cannot explain his distress. The poem contains one of its most revealing moments when he acknowledges that reducing the problem to sentimental memories would constitute “vain evasion.” This self-correction is characteristic of the poem's intelligence. Again and again, it refuses explanations that are emotionally satisfying but incomplete. The son's childhood matters, but it is not the true source of the father's anguish.
The deeper source emerges as the son matures. One of the poem's most devastating observations concerns the child's gradual movement beyond self-absorption. The son's youthful “gab of vigor” has begun to soften into something “considerate.” He is becoming capable of empathy. Ordinarily such growth would be cause for celebration. Here it becomes painful. The speaker realizes that the child is approaching the age at which he will begin to see his father not as a center of gravity but as a vulnerable human being. The phrase “mercy for Dad” carries tremendous psychological weight. Rebellion would preserve hierarchy. Compassion reverses it. To be pitied by one's child is to confront the erosion of parental authority at its deepest level.
This is where the poem departs from more familiar narratives of aging. The crisis is not physical decline. Nor is it merely mortality. The true crisis is decentering. The son increasingly occupies the position once occupied by the father. What the speaker confronts is not death itself but the transfer of significance from one generation to another.
The bathroom mirror scene crystallizes this realization. Seeking a moment of solitude, the speaker looks at himself and experiences the act almost as a criminal arraignment. He appears “like an ankle-cuffed criminal ushered into court / for his disgrace.” The image is remarkable because it transforms self-awareness into self-prosecution. The speaker is not judged by society but by reality itself. Looking at his body becomes an encounter with evidence.
Yet the poem refuses simple self-loathing. What the speaker sees in the mirror is simultaneously degrading and exalted. He finds “Apollo's torso,” invoking Rilke's famous encounter with classical beauty and the imperative “You must change your life.” This allusion is central because the poem fundamentally revises Rilke's vision. In Rilke, transformation points toward expansion, growth, and greater realization of the self. Here the injunction is joined by a second command: “Face it. Your time is over.”
The genius of the poem lies in its recognition that both statements are true.
One must change one's life.
One's time is over.
The speaker discovers that genuine transformation at this stage of existence may consist not in becoming more but in learning how to become less. The traditional narrative of self-actualization reaches its limit. A new task emerges: the cultivation of graceful irrelevance.
The poem's final movement develops this insight into an ethical ideal. The speaker imagines becoming “he who can bear not being / the center,” and eventually “he who can sing / backstage.” These lines contain the poem's deepest wisdom. They propose a model of human flourishing radically opposed to contemporary assumptions. Modern life encourages endless self-expansion, visibility, and relevance. The poem suggests that maturity may instead require learning how to support the performance without demanding the spotlight.
The metaphor of apprenticeship is especially important. The speaker imagines training himself for erasure. Erasure is not avoided, denied, or conquered. It is practiced. The phrase “art of subtraction” therefore names a discipline of preparing oneself for the reality that awaits all living things. The poem does not seek immortality. It seeks dignity within impermanence.
Yet the poem remains psychologically honest enough to acknowledge how difficult this project is. The figure of the speaker's father returns near the end, head bowed over stacked beer cans, diminished beneath the brightness of youth. This image represents one possible response to succession: retreat, bitterness, and defeat. The speaker understands the appeal of that road because it preserves identification with the father. It offers continuity. To follow the father's path would be, in a sense, to remain connected to him.
This recognition gives the final lines their extraordinary emotional complexity. The speaker admits that if he fails, “at least I walk beside him.” The statement is neither surrender nor triumph. It is an acknowledgment that transcendence of inherited patterns is never complete. Love pulls in multiple directions at once. One wishes to surpass one's father, yet one also wishes to remain loyal to him. One wishes to celebrate the son's future, yet one mourns one's own fading centrality.
Ultimately, “The Art of Subtraction” is a poem about a transformation more difficult than self-improvement. It is about learning to inhabit a world in which one is no longer the protagonist. The speaker does not arrive at mastery. What he achieves instead is clarity. He recognizes that the highest demand placed upon him is not success, wisdom, or even happiness, but the ability to love another person enough to survive becoming secondary to them. The poem's greatness lies in its willingness to admit how painful—and how beautiful—that task can be.
Meta Description
A philosophical and psychoanalytic meditation on fatherhood, aging, succession, inherited masculine retreat, and the difficult art of surrendering centrality without surrendering love.
Keywords
The Art of Subtraction, fatherhood, generational succession, paternal psychology, aging and identity, Rilke, Apollo's Torso, ego decentering, narcissism and parenthood, masculine inheritance, father-son relationship, memory and aging, psychoanalytic poetry, mortality, self-erasure, humility, relational identity, contemporary poetry analysis, existential maturity, philosophical poetry criticism.
The Art of Subtraction (ROUND 5)
“The Art of Subtraction” is a poem about ego erosion under the pressure of paternity, memory, and inherited masculine failure. At its surface it reads as a meditation on parenting and generational continuity, but at a deeper psychoanalytic level it stages a confrontation between the narcissistic structure of the self and the destabilizing presence of the child as both mirror and future. The poem is not simply about a father observing his son; it is about a father discovering that the act of observation itself is a form of disintegration. To look at the child is to encounter both one’s origin and one’s obsolescence at once.
The title, “The Art of Subtraction,” frames this process in explicitly aesthetic and ethical terms. Subtraction is not loss but discipline: a cultivated reduction of self-importance, a trained withdrawal from centrality. Yet the poem immediately destabilizes the idea that this subtraction is voluntary or serene. Instead, it emerges as something closer to psychic attrition. The speaker does not gracefully renounce the self; he is worn down by the unbearable visibility of his son.
The opening declaration is crucial:
I isolate. Like my own father before me, it takes
everything inside me—no longer promising—
to look straight at my son.
The syntax already enacts strain. The phrase “I isolate” is blunt, almost clinical, but it is immediately followed by genealogical recursion: “Like my own father before me.” Isolation is not merely a personal disposition but an inherited pattern. This inheritance is not neutral; it is transmitted as affective damage. The father cannot simply see his son; he must overcome an internalized aversion to direct relational presence.
The phrase “no longer promising” is especially significant. It suggests the collapse of an earlier self-image in which paternal relation may have been imagined as generative, hopeful, or affirming. That promise has been withdrawn. What remains is effort without reward, attention without consolation.
From the beginning, then, the poem frames fatherhood as an encounter with difficulty in perception itself. The son is not only seen; he is almost too much to be seen.
The next movement introduces a key psychoanalytic motif: avoidance as inherited gesture.
I have inherited the need to twist talk away
from dreams, the shifty eyes that would bug me
enough to keep leaping into their line.
Here, avoidance is not simply behavioral but somatic: “shifty eyes,” bodily evasions, micro-gestures of disconnection. The father recognizes in himself the repetition of his own father’s evasiveness. What is inherited is not authority but incapacity for directness.
This produces a paradoxical structure: the speaker is hyper-aware of relational failure precisely at the moment he attempts relational presence. The more he tries to “look straight,” the more he experiences inherited distortion.
The child, meanwhile, appears as both vivid presence and destabilizing force:
From within
I see—in belated empathy for the dead—how
hard it is to face the gaze: energized, hopeful.
The gaze of the child is not neutral. It is “energized, hopeful”—qualities that are not merely emotional but existentially accusatory. The child’s vitality becomes a mirror that exposes the father’s depletion. This is where the poem begins to articulate its central psychic tension: the child is both object of love and agent of destabilization.
Memory intrudes in fragmented, sensory form:
How strange what persists in memory: my boy,
his little nose (“Bip it. Bop it.”) in the bathroom
mirror…
The detail is disarmingly domestic, almost comic in its specificity. Yet its affective function is complex. The child’s speech is not fully linguistic; it is playful distortion, pre-symbolic sound. The mirror introduces doubling, self-recognition, and developmental threshold. The bathroom—site of bodily maintenance—becomes the space where identity formation is observed in miniature.
The poem repeatedly insists that memory does not organize itself according to significance. Instead, it preserves arbitrary intensity. The father cannot control what remains vivid; the child’s presence persists as involuntary imprint.
This leads to one of the poem’s most important philosophical gestures:
To call that the full story—
that, if I am honest, would be more vain evasion.
Here, narrative itself is treated as a form of defense. To construct coherence would be to evade the truth of psychic fragmentation. The poem resists totalizing interpretation because totalization would falsify experience.
The second movement deepens the psychological entanglement by collapsing developmental time:
His claustrophobic gab of vigor, a wormhole back
to myself young…
The child is not only son but temporal conduit. The speaker experiences regression through observation. Fatherhood becomes a structure of recursive self-recovery: the child reactivates the father’s own childhood while simultaneously marking its irreversibility.
The phrase “wormhole” is particularly revealing. It suggests non-linear time, collapse of spatial-temporal separation, and involuntary transit between selves. Yet the movement is not liberating. It is claustrophobic. The past does not open; it closes in.
This culminates in the bathroom mirror scene, where the self becomes juridical object:
I look down, look at me,
like an ankle-cuffed criminal ushered into court
for his disgrace.
The mirror no longer reflects identity but judgment. The father becomes both defendant and witness. The body is no longer neutral; it is evidence.
The introduction of Apollo is the poem’s metaphysical pivot:
carved
there… is Apollo’s torso, marble and mirror,
hurling even more dazzle: “You must change your life”
The invocation of Rilke’s famous injunction transforms the bathroom into an aesthetic-theological space. Apollo represents idealized form, beauty, transcendence, and the demand for transformation. Yet the poem immediately fractures this authority:
“Face it. Your time is over.”
The Apollo image thus becomes double-edged: simultaneously exhortation and annihilation. Beauty demands transformation, but also declares obsolescence. The self is summoned toward improvement while being dismissed as structurally finished.
The poem’s central philosophical tension emerges here: is self-overcoming a form of liberation or a recognition of terminal decline?
The final movement resolves this tension not through synthesis but through ethical resignation:
“Become he who can bear not being
the center…”
This is the explicit formulation of subtraction. Ego is not abolished but decentered. The self is re-educated into marginality. Importantly, this is not presented as punishment but as apprenticeship: “train the spirit,” “apprentice oneself.”
The influence of Rilke is explicit, but the poem’s tone is more psychologically ambivalent than mystical. Subtraction is not transcendence; it is adaptation to diminished centrality.
The father’s own father returns as final haunting figure:
his head bowed
over beer cans stacked high…
Here inheritance becomes visual and affective rather than conceptual. Masculine failure is embodied in posture, accumulation, and exhaustion. The speaker recognizes continuity not only of behavior but of limitation.
The poem ends in a paradox:
if I fail, at least I walk beside him.
This final line refuses resolution between anxiety and consolation. Failure is not overcome. Instead, it is transformed into relational proximity. The father-child bond persists not through success but through shared vulnerability.
The deepest psychoanalytic insight of the poem is therefore this: subtraction of ego does not eliminate suffering, but it may redistribute it away from isolation. The self does not become smaller in a purely liberating sense; it becomes less defended. And in that reduction of defense, relational presence—however fragile—becomes possible.
“The Art of Subtraction” thus stages a transformation of subjectivity from centered authority to decentered accompaniment. It is not a poem about becoming less, but about becoming less alone in the experience of not being central.
Meta Description
A psychoanalytic and philosophical reading of paternal ego dissolution, generational inheritance, narcissistic decentering, and the tension between self-erasure and relational presence in father–son consciousness.
Keywords
paternal psychology, ego subtraction, Rilke influence, psychoanalytic poetry, generational inheritance, narcissism and decentering, father-son relationship, mirror stage, memory fragmentation, existential decline, subjectivity and authority, relational ontology, trauma and masculinity, contemporary lyric analysis, philosophical poetry criticism, identity dissolution, developmental temporality
The Art of Subtraction (ROUND 4)
“The Art of Subtraction” is a deeply reflective and formally restrained poem that grapples with generational inheritance, masculinity, self-erasure, and the redemptive potential of surrender. At its core, the poem is an ars poetica not only of fatherhood but of human aging and spiritual maturation. Drawing on Rilke’s Archaic Torso of Apollo (“You must change your life”) while invoking six unnamed “Mikes”—potentially avatars of the everyman—the speaker meditates on the slow, humbling art of stepping aside, of making peace with no longer being central.
The poem opens with a blunt declaration: “I isolate.” This staccato phrase establishes both tone and theme. From the outset, the speaker identifies emotional withdrawal as not merely a habit but a familial legacy: “Like my own father / before me.” In naming this inheritance, the poem locates isolation not as an anomaly but as a masculine inheritance—genetic, perhaps, but more likely cultural and behavioral. The lines “it takes everything in me / to look straight at my son” encapsulate the core crisis: the inability to meet the child’s gaze becomes emblematic of the broader struggle to remain open, vulnerable, and emotionally available.
The poem’s middle section unfolds as a meditation on memory and shame. There is a near-cinematic recall of the son’s “little nose” in the mirror, the “Pee-yew” diapers—quotidian moments rendered luminous and almost unbearable in retrospect. These are not sentimental flourishes, but evidentiary fragments that intrude with psychic force, making the speaker’s current estrangement from his son even harder to bear. The line “foregrounding too much for me / to fathom the man he is becoming” is crucial: it positions fatherhood as a state of emotional overload, where proximity to one’s child does not guarantee comprehension or comfort.
The poem resists resolution. Even as the son matures into a more “considerate” presence, the father’s shame persists. His response to his son’s enthusiasm is not ease but guilt—“I look down, look / at me, like a cuffed criminal ushered / into court for his disgrace.” This simile enacts a reversal: the child is now the figure of moral authority, the judge, while the father stands condemned—not for any crime of abuse or abandonment, but for the more ordinary, more devastating failure of presence. The father cannot be fully there. And this insufficiency is seen.
The allusion to Rilke enters here with pointed irony. Where Rilke’s Apollo commands the viewer to transformation—“You must change your life”—the speaker reads in the same mirrored image not only exhortation but doom: “Your time has come to an end.” The body—“the carved torso of Apollo”—becomes a site of both awe and accusation, beauty and judgment. It is this ambivalence that carries the poem forward: the speaker does not reject the command, but he also does not fantasize a grand self-overhaul. Instead, he moves toward something quieter, harder: “to apprentice oneself into erasure.”
This phrase, perhaps the poem’s most resonant, encapsulates the philosophical core. “Erasure” is not death, but a practice. It is the father’s task to disappear not violently or with resentment, but gracefully and deliberately—to become “he who can bear not being / the center.” In this, the poem affirms that real maturity lies not in assertion but in relinquishment. It is not a poem of self-loathing or tragic loss, but of moral discipline, humility, and love.
The final image—of the speaker’s own father “bowed over beer bottles towering / in a bravado beaten by my own blaze”—completes the generational circle. The speaker has become what his father was: vulnerable, diminished, aware. But he chooses a different form of strength. “I doubt my strength for the other road… / What I do know… is this: / if I cannot muster the strength, / at least I will walk beside him.” The poem ends not in transcendence but in solidarity. If the speaker cannot be perfect, he can be present. If he cannot be central, he can still accompany.
Stylistically, the poem is marked by enjambed free verse, syntactic hesitations, and an austerity that mirrors its subject matter. The diction is plain, at times blunt, but haunted by philosophical precision. There are no rhetorical flourishes, only slow, earned insights. Like the best of late-style poetry (one hears echoes of Donald Hall, Jack Gilbert, and of course Rilke), “The Art of Subtraction” practices its theme formally as well as thematically: it subtracts excess in favor of clarity, revelation, and the hard grace of living with oneself in the shadow of one’s children.
Meta Description:
A restrained and elegiac poem, “The Art of Subtraction” explores the quiet struggle of fatherhood, aging, and spiritual humility. Through inherited shame, Rilkean self-reckoning, and the metaphor of erasure, the poem stages maturity as a surrender of centrality in favor of presence and love.
Keywords:
fatherhood, Rilke, masculinity, aging, erasure, presence, intergenerational trauma, reflection, poetic restraint, selfhood, subtraction, memory, humility, the gaze, ars poetica, shame and redemption, modern lyric
The Art of Subtraction (ROUND 3)
“The Art of Subtraction” is a deeply reflective and formally restrained poem that grapples with generational inheritance, masculinity, self-erasure, and the redemptive potential of surrender. At its core, the poem is an ars poetica not only of fatherhood but of human aging and spiritual maturation. Drawing on Rilke’s Archaic Torso of Apollo (“You must change your life”) while invoking six unnamed “Mikes”—potentially avatars of the everyman—the speaker meditates on the slow, humbling art of stepping aside, of making peace with no longer being central.
The poem opens with a blunt declaration: “I isolate.” This staccato phrase establishes both tone and theme. From the outset, the speaker identifies emotional withdrawal as not merely a habit but a familial legacy: “Like my own father / before me.” In naming this inheritance, the poem locates isolation not as an anomaly but as a masculine inheritance—genetic, perhaps, but more likely cultural and behavioral. The lines “it takes everything in me / to look straight at my son” encapsulate the core crisis: the inability to meet the child’s gaze becomes emblematic of the broader struggle to remain open, vulnerable, and emotionally available.
The poem’s middle section unfolds as a meditation on memory and shame. There is a near-cinematic recall of the son’s “little nose” in the mirror, the “Pee-yew” diapers—quotidian moments rendered luminous and almost unbearable in retrospect. These are not sentimental flourishes, but evidentiary fragments that intrude with psychic force, making the speaker’s current estrangement from his son even harder to bear. The line “foregrounding too much for me / to fathom the man he is becoming” is crucial: it positions fatherhood as a state of emotional overload, where proximity to one’s child does not guarantee comprehension or comfort.
The poem resists resolution. Even as the son matures into a more “considerate” presence, the father’s shame persists. His response to his son’s enthusiasm is not ease but guilt—“I look down, look / at me, like a cuffed criminal ushered / into court for his disgrace.” This simile enacts a reversal: the child is now the figure of moral authority, the judge, while the father stands condemned—not for any crime of abuse or abandonment, but for the more ordinary, more devastating failure of presence. The father cannot be fully there. And this insufficiency is seen.
The allusion to Rilke enters here with pointed irony. Where Rilke’s Apollo commands the viewer to transformation—“You must change your life”—the speaker reads in the same mirrored image not only exhortation but doom: “Your time has come to an end.” The body—“the carved torso of Apollo”—becomes a site of both awe and accusation, beauty and judgment. It is this ambivalence that carries the poem forward: the speaker does not reject the command, but he also does not fantasize a grand self-overhaul. Instead, he moves toward something quieter, harder: “to apprentice oneself into erasure.”
This phrase, perhaps the poem’s most resonant, encapsulates the philosophical core. “Erasure” is not death, but a practice. It is the father’s task to disappear not violently or with resentment, but gracefully and deliberately—to become “he who can bear not being / the center.” In this, the poem affirms that real maturity lies not in assertion but in relinquishment. It is not a poem of self-loathing or tragic loss, but of moral discipline, humility, and love.
The final image—of the speaker’s own father “bowed over beer bottles towering / in a bravado beaten by my own blaze”—completes the generational circle. The speaker has become what his father was: vulnerable, diminished, aware. But he chooses a different form of strength. “I doubt my strength for the other road… / What I do know… is this: / if I cannot muster the strength, / at least I will walk beside him.” The poem ends not in transcendence but in solidarity. If the speaker cannot be perfect, he can be present. If he cannot be central, he can still accompany.
Stylistically, the poem is marked by enjambed free verse, syntactic hesitations, and an austerity that mirrors its subject matter. The diction is plain, at times blunt, but haunted by philosophical precision. There are no rhetorical flourishes, only slow, earned insights. Like the best of late-style poetry (one hears echoes of Donald Hall, Jack Gilbert, and of course Rilke), “The Art of Subtraction” practices its theme formally as well as thematically: it subtracts excess in favor of clarity, revelation, and the hard grace of living with oneself in the shadow of one’s children.
Meta Description:
A restrained and elegiac poem, “The Art of Subtraction” explores the quiet struggle of fatherhood, aging, and spiritual humility. Through inherited shame, Rilkean self-reckoning, and the metaphor of erasure, the poem stages maturity as a surrender of centrality in favor of presence and love.
Keywords:
fatherhood, Rilke, masculinity, aging, erasure, presence, intergenerational trauma, reflection, poetic restraint, selfhood, subtraction, memory, humility, the gaze, ars poetica, shame and redemption, modern lyric
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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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"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