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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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Tickle Theory Skepticism (ROUND 6)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Tickle Theory Skepticism (ROUND 6)

"Tickle Theory Skepticism" is a poem about the insufficiency of clean explanatory categories under conditions of sexual violation. Its subject is not the legal question of consent, nor even the familiar physiological claim that bodily arousal can occur without desire. Rather, the poem enters a more volatile psychic territory: the aftermath of a coerced encounter in which bodily response, erotic cognition, reflex, fear, humiliation, and apparent participation become so entangled that the violated subject can no longer secure a morally usable account of herself. The poem's terror lies in this collapse of interpretive refuge. It does not suggest that coercion becomes consent once desire appears. Instead, it asks what happens when desire itself becomes one of the instruments through which violation continues after the event.

The title establishes this argument with compressed philosophical force. "Tickle theory" refers to the reassuring analogy often used to separate bodily reaction from will: one may laugh when tickled without enjoying or consenting to being tickled; likewise, one may display arousal under assault without thereby wanting the assault. The poem's "skepticism," however, is not a denial of that principle. It is a critique of its limits. The poem accepts the moral necessity of distinguishing involuntary response from consent, but it refuses the consolation that this distinction can always rescue the subject from psychic self-implication. The poem's problem is not whether the body can betray the self. Its deeper problem is whether, under pressure, the self may begin to experience its own betrayal as more than bodily.

The opening line — "Her unwanted arousal soon jackknifed into wanted enough for her / commands" — is crucial because it refuses both simplification and absolution. "Jackknifed" conveys sudden, violent deformation: not a smooth conversion from refusal to desire, but a catastrophic folding of one state into another. "Wanted enough" is even more exact. It does not mean freely wanted, ethically wanted, or retrospectively consented to. It names a threshold of psychic participation sufficient to become unbearable later. The poem's catastrophe begins at that "enough": enough to speak, enough to move, enough to recognize oneself as involved in what one cannot morally own.

The commands themselves — "Get it! Get that shit! Get that fuckin shit!" — arrive in quotation marks that are immediately compromised by the gag that produces them. The panties "he drove down her throat (crotch first: blown-out, / glairy)" do not merely silence her. They produce a paradoxical mercy: she can be "loud — in it — yet not quotable." This is one of the poem's most incisive formulations. To be loud is to release pressure, to emit affect, to stop policing oneself into the strangled discipline of whispers. But to be "not quotable" is to be protected from the full social and semantic consequences of articulation. The gag allows expression without stable authorship. It permits sound to exist without becoming testimony.

That distinction between sound and testimony is the poem's ethical and psychological engine. The woman's vocalizations become "guttural groan" and "gagged gibberish," language degraded into noise before it can be entered into the "court of fetal-ball showers" — the judgment of loved ones gathered around the question of what her sounds meant. The word "inadmissible" gives the scene a forensic structure. Even during the assault, consciousness is already imagining a later tribunal. The gag therefore protects her not only from being heard by others, but from being hearable to herself. It interrupts the conversion of appetite into record.

This is why the poem's violence is hermeneutic as much as physical. The assault is not limited to what is done to the body; it includes the seizure of interpretive authority over the body's signs. The phrase "hindsight would readily neuter into 'No! No!'" is especially pointed: retrospective narration can sanitize the scene by translating illegible or compromised utterance into the morally intelligible language of refusal. But the poem refuses that retrospective comfort. It insists on the messier, more devastating possibility that the sounds cannot be fully purified after the fact — that the "incriminating marks against her champing flesh" remain as evidence in an internal case that her own consciousness cannot dismiss.

The second movement extends this evidentiary logic from voice to thought. Appetite becomes "hypercerebral." The danger is no longer merely that the body reacts; the danger is that consciousness begins generating associations, jokes, idioms, recognitions, and meanings from inside the coercive scene. "Balls to the wall" — its cervical origin striking her for the first time — is common speech turned incriminating. "Hips don't lie" reads "the squelching testimony of her gyrating gallop" as confession. The poem is staging popular cliché as hostile jurisprudence, and its intelligence lies in showing how such readings become psychologically irresistible even when they remain morally false. The woman has internalized the terms by which she can be made illegible to herself.

The Hitachi detail sharpens this collapse of categories. The object reached for in resistance — the nightstand — produces not a weapon but the vibrator they had used together in "armistice turns, tender transfers." The gesture of defense cannot remain clean because the available instruments are already saturated with shared erotic history. Even resistance risks being misread as participation. Even an attempted weapon can become, in memory, another exhibit against the self.

"He stole back even this dangled grace: psychic deniability" marks the poem's conceptual center. The fragile space created by gagged speech — the possibility that what occurred inside her need not become fully legible, either to him or to herself — is destroyed not by revealing her but by interpreting her. He drives the obstruction deeper and then, "eye to eye," cuts "straight to decrypting that soul-tribe communiqué / frothing — like her — beneath the torn dress of all that blubbering." He names something she fears may be partly true. That partial possibility is enough to make the wound metastasize inward. His taunt — "Knew you was a mahfuckin nasty pig!" — is a form of epistemic violence: a meaning she cannot wholly disprove to herself, imposed at the moment of maximum vulnerability.

The final movement shifts from the event itself to the retrospective ordeal of self-seeing. "To see herself shift like this — right to bald grind work — after strokes / too few — too flaccid — for the alibi of orgasm" is one of the poem's most severe psychological turns. If climax had overtaken her, she might attribute participation to involuntary bodily seizure. But the poem emphasizes premature, active, almost procedural participation — a shift occurring too early, too awkwardly, too consciously to be filed away as mere reflex. The "pardon-window" is therefore not legal but internal: the interval in which the self might still pardon itself by appealing to panic or physiological inevitability. The catastrophe is that the speaker perceives this window as having closed.

The domestic comparison deepens this self-revulsion. The reference to "pill-hardened cock-ringed overtime" introduces a devastating asymmetry between consensual marital sex and coerced arousal. The shame does not arise because the coercive scene reveals some simple "truth" of desire. Rather, trauma weaponizes comparison. It makes the subject ask why her body or psyche could respond here, under violation, when ordinary intimacy required such effort. The comparison is psychologically plausible precisely because it is morally misleading. Trauma often persuades by arranging facts into false but irresistible verdicts.

The "mom of two" detail introduces a social self — maternal, domestic, already embedded in ordinary structures of responsibility and recognition — whose identity cannot assimilate the self she believes emerged under coercion. The result is not simple shame but ontological estrangement. She does not merely think, "something happened to me." She thinks, more devastatingly, "something in me answered."

Formally, the poem's syntax enacts this psychic prosecution. Its sentences are long, recursive, clause-heavy, and relentlessly qualifying. Parentheses tighten rather than soften. Each aside becomes another exhibit, another correction, another refusal to let the self escape into a cleaner version of the event. The poem moves like cross-examination: premise, objection, revision, further evidence, renewed accusation. Its momentum is not narrative but forensic.

The diction works by collision. Legal language, erotic slang, theological vocabulary, domestic reference, and pop-cultural cliché are forced into the same field. No discourse remains pure. Law cannot fully adjudicate desire. Trauma theory cannot fully protect the subject from self-knowledge. Even metaphor becomes contaminated by the scene it attempts to clarify.

What makes "Tickle Theory Skepticism" so disturbing is that it refuses the reader's desire for a stable moral technology. It does not abandon the distinction between coercion and consent; that distinction remains ethically nonnegotiable. But it argues that the psyche may suffer precisely where public moral language is most confident. One can be innocent and still feel internally ruined by one's own responses. One can be violated and still experience desire. One can know that coercion nullifies consent and still be unable to forgive the part of oneself that seemed to participate.

The poem's ultimate subject is the afterlife of interpretation. It shows how violation continues as a struggle over meaning — who gets to say what the body meant, what the voice meant, what movement meant, what pleasure meant, what resistance meant. The assailant's final power lies not only in what he does, but in the fact that his reading survives inside her as a contaminant. The poem inhabits that contamination without resolving it. Its achievement is to make the reader feel the full violence of an experience in which even self-knowledge becomes unsafe.

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A poem about coerced desire, damaged speech, psychic deniability, hermeneutic violence, traumatic self-interpretation, and the collapse of clean distinctions between bodily response, appetite, resistance, and consent.

Keywords

Tickle Theory Skepticism, coerced desire, trauma poetics, psychic deniability, hermeneutic violence, sexual coercion, traumatic self-interpretation, arousal and consent, embodied testimony, forensic language, gagged speech, self-revulsion, erotic cognition, violation and desire, contemporary poetry analysis

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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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