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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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Mercari (ROUND 2)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Mercari (ROUND 2)

"Mercari" is a poem about the irrecoverability of childhood sensory experience and the particular modern pathos of knowing that irrecoverability while watching children live inside what has been lost. Its nine lines accomplish something remarkable: they hold two generations in the same physical space and render the absolute perceptual gulf between them without sentimentality or nostalgia, arriving at an image — the dandelion's bitter, milky, smoky nectar released into the wind — that is simultaneously a child's unconscious pleasure and an adult's conscious, purchasable loss.

The title locates the poem's argument before the first line begins. Mercari is a resale marketplace — a platform for buying and selling secondhand goods, the digital economy of recovered objects. Its appearance as title names the adult relationship to childhood experience that the poem will dramatize: the attempt to repurchase, through commerce, what time has made inaccessible. The title does not mock this impulse. It identifies it with the precision of a diagnosis.

The opening image — "the dandelion riot" — establishes the poem's characteristic tonal compression. "Riot" applied to dandelions is simultaneously accurate (the flowers do overwhelm in uncontrolled profusion) and gently comic (the scale mismatch between the word and its referent), but the comedy is not dismissive. The dandelions are genuinely riotous from the children's perspective, genuinely skeeving from the mothers', and the divergence of these responses is the poem's subject in miniature. "Moms / looking skeeved out / along the daycare fence" renders the adult position with affectionate precision — the mild disgust, the sense of disorder, the instinct toward containment. The parenthetical "(chain link, / extra guilt)" is one of the poem's most economical moves: the fence is both literal infrastructure and the poem's symbol of the adult's position outside the children's experience, and "extra guilt" names the specific maternal phenomenology of the daycare drop-off — the guilt of the fence itself, of the separation it enforces.

Against this adult management of the scene, the children simply act: "twisting stalks, smudging / each other's forearms yellow." The verbs are physical and reciprocal — twisting, smudging — and the yellow on the forearms is both mess (from the mothers' perspective) and mark of participation, of being fully inside the experience. What the children are doing with their bodies is what the poem identifies, in its closing lines, as the thing that cannot be purchased.

"Free into the wind a time rift" is the poem's most formally ambitious phrase, and its syntax enacts the release it describes. "Free" functions simultaneously as verb (they free something into the wind) and adjective (the release is free, unencumbered), and "time rift" names what is actually being released: not merely dandelion seeds but a tear in temporal fabric, a gap through which something from another register of experience passes. The children are not releasing seeds. They are releasing the possibility of inhabiting this moment without knowing it will be lost.

"Bitter nectar, milky and smoky" is the poem's sensory center, and its apparent contradiction — bitter and nectar, milky and smoky — is the point. The dandelion's smell and taste are genuinely complex, genuinely contradictory, and the children encounter this complexity without needing to resolve it. They are inside it. The adults remember it, or half-remember it, or recognize it as the kind of sensory experience that once existed and no longer does, not because dandelions have changed but because the perceptual openness that made the experience fully available has closed.

"They would buy online" closes the poem with the quietest possible devastation. The subject of "they" is the mothers — the adults along the fence — and what they would buy online is this: the bitter nectar, the milky smoky complexity, the time rift, the full sensory inhabitation of a moment that their children are living without knowing it is remarkable. Mercari sells secondhand goods. The poem ends on the recognition that what has been lost here cannot actually be listed, cannot actually be shipped, cannot actually be repurchased — that the platform's existence as the poem's title names the attempt while the poem's final image names the attempt's impossibility.

Formally, the poem's nine lines refuse any regular structure, moving instead with the rhythm of observation and recognition — the eye moving from the mothers to the children to the seeds to the loss, each movement enacted in the line breaks. The enjambments consistently open onto something slightly different from what the preceding line suggested, enacting the perceptual surprise that the children experience naturally and the adults can only watch.

Meta Description

A poem about the irrecoverability of childhood sensory experience — placing mothers and children in the same dandelion-filled daycare yard and rendering the absolute perceptual gulf between them, arriving at the recognition that what the children release unconsciously into the wind is exactly what the adults, knowing Mercari, would buy back if they could.

Keywords

Mercari poem, childhood sensory experience, irrecoverability, dandelion imagery, daycare fence, adult nostalgia, resale economy, time rift, bitter nectar, contemporary American lyric, generational perception, guilt and motherhood, sensory loss, close reading, enjambment, consumer culture and childhood, repurchasing experience, contemporary poetry

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White Supremacy on Its Deathbed (full book, Round 4)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

White Supremacy on Its Deathbed (full book, Round 4)

Scholarly Essay: "White Supremacy on Its Deathbed"

"White Supremacy on Its Deathbed" is a book-length lyrical essay that attempts something genuinely difficult and genuinely dangerous: to mount a serious critique of mainstream antiracist ideology from a position of genuine investment in black empowerment, while deploying a formal apparatus — satire, jeremiad, aphorism, pastiche, pornographic grotesque, philosophical argument, lyric prose — so extreme in its range and so willing to go places that polite discourse forecloses that the work risks, by design, being mistaken for the very thing it opposes. That risk is not incidental. It is the book's central formal bet. The question the essay forces on its reader, and forces hardest on its black reader, is whether the discomfort the work produces is the discomfort of recognition or the discomfort of assault — and whether those two things can, in the specific conditions of contemporary American racial discourse, be cleanly separated.

The book's architecture is announced in its preface and then enacted across six chapters that move from the condition of contemporary antiblack racism's cultural dominance (Chapter 1, "Gator Bait") through the music industry's role in perpetuating dehumanizing stereotypes (Chapter 2, "Macaroni Sounds") to the specific harms of victimology ideology (Chapters 3 and 4), the stifling of white identity and the backlash it risks producing (Chapter 5), and a final summation (Chapter 6). Each chapter after the first is structured around the governing conceit: what might white supremacy, on its deathbed, do to recommence the torture of black people? The answer, repeated in the anaphoric refrain "It could just sit back and revel in our world where," is always the same: nothing. It need do nothing. The work is being done for it by the antiracist industrial complex, by the music industry, by university administrators, by white progressive guilt, by the machinery of victimology that grooms blacks into permanent dependency and provokes whites into a backlash that will justify the very narrative it claims to oppose.

This is a serious argument. It is not an original one — it draws explicitly and extensively from Thomas Sowell, Glenn Loury, John McWhorter, Shelby Steele, Coleman Hughes, and a range of black intellectuals who have made versions of this case across several decades — but the book does not pretend to originality of argument. Its originality lies in form. The jeremiad structure, the anaphoric accumulation, the willingness to quote at length from rap lyrics whose content most critical discourse about hip hop handles with prophylactic distance, the satirical set pieces (the La'Cinda'Relle Cinderella parody, the freshmen convocation, the DEI therapy module, the Race2Dinner transcripts, the boot-licking scene) — these are the book's contributions, and they constitute a genuine formal argument about what kind of language is required to make this case legible in the contemporary moment.

The epigraphs establish the book's intellectual genealogy and its rhetorical posture simultaneously. Sowell's observation that racism is "kept alive by politicians, race hustlers and people who get a sense of superiority by denouncing others as 'racists'" and Booker T. Washington's warning about those who "don't want the patient to get well" because they make their living from the disease — these are not decorative. They are the book's thesis statements, and everything that follows is their amplification and illustration. The McWhorter quotation from the preface establishes the specific target: DiAngelo's White Fragility and the broader apparatus of diversity training, which the book argues produces not racial healing but "a new way to be racist" — condescending to blacks as "endlessly delicate poster children" while muzzling whites into a kind of performative penance that serves no one's actual interests.

Chapter 1 is the book's most formally controlled section, and its most rhetorically precise. The extended anaphoric catalogue — "what might white supremacy do?" — builds through dozens of "Beyond" constructions that systematically minimize the actual evidence for contemporary antiblack racism (the racist store clerk, the word carved in a bathroom stall, the employer's unconscious reaction to a "stereotypically black" name) before pivoting to the "It could just sit back" refrain. The formal effect is significant: by accumulating genuine examples of racism and then framing them as "relatively risible squawks," the chapter risks dismissing real harm — and knows it. The book's intelligence lies in its awareness of this risk, its willingness to take it, and its argument that the risk of minimization is less dangerous than the risk of maximization: that the exaggeration of contemporary antiblack racism, not its minimization, is what keeps blacks "shackled to inflated notions of persecution."

Chapter 2 is the book's most viscerally ambitious section and its most formally extreme. The extended catalogue of rap lyrics — from Biggie to Sukihana, from NWA to Megan Thee Stallion, from LL Cool J to Bun B — is not presented as a greatest-hits compilation but as an indictment. The book is making a specific argument: that mainstream black music culture has become the most effective engine of the dehumanizing stereotypes that white supremacy once had to actively construct and maintain, and that the antiracist framework that refuses to name this — that classifies any criticism of hypersexual or hyperviolent black cultural product as a "blaming-the-victim expression of white supremacy" — is therefore complicit in the damage. The Tricia Rose Cornell lecture, intercut with Sukihana lyrics in a formal structure of call and response, enacts this argument rather than merely stating it: Rose's 2009 words about commercial hip hop's "death imperative" are placed alongside the very product whose existence proves her right, the juxtaposition making its own case without editorial intervention.

The La'Cinda'Relle section deserves sustained attention because it is the book's most formally daring gambit and its most ethically complex. The Cinderella parody — written in "forced hood vernacular," as the book itself acknowledges — is presented simultaneously as a satirical indictment of the ratchet-representation monolith in black entertainment and as a demonstration of that monolith's terms. The book knows and names the double bind: "a remake that will really drive the knife into the very heart of the black family." La'Cinda'Relle is drawn with the full grotesquerie of the stereotypes the book is critiquing, which means the critique and the perpetuation of those stereotypes are formally inseparable. A reader who does not follow the book's argument to this point will experience the La'Cinda'Relle section as racist caricature. A reader who does follow the argument will experience it as a satirical hall of mirrors: the book producing what it analyzes, making the reader implicated in the consumption of exactly what the book says is destroying black communities.

The section also contains material that cannot be analytically sidestepped. La'Cinda'Relle's sexual history with Prince Percocet is established as beginning when she was eleven or twelve. The godmother's sexual relationship with La'Cinda begins when La'Cinda is nine. These are not peripheral details. They are, within the satirical logic of the book, meant to occupy the same position as the rap lyrics in Chapter 2: the book is demonstrating what the culture it critiques actually contains, quoting and extending the logic of a musical and cultural product (like Boosie Badazz's birthday lyric, or the various statutory-rape-adjacent verses in the catalogue) to show where that logic leads when followed to its conclusion. The argument is that the culture is already producing this — that the protection of innocence the book elsewhere mourns has already been forfeited in the communities the antiracist framework refuses to criticize.

Whether this formal strategy succeeds or collapses at this specific point is the book's hardest question, and the honest answer is that it does not fully succeed. The satirical frame that holds elsewhere — in the Race2Dinner parody, in the freshman convocation monologue, in the DEI therapy session — is strained here by the explicitness of the material and the age of the characters. Satire that depicts child sexual abuse to make a point about cultural normalization risks becoming indistinguishable from the normalization it critiques, not because the author lacks the argument but because the reader has no stable position from which to receive it as critique rather than as content. The book elsewhere shows acute awareness of exactly this problem — noting that entertainment consumers "slurp up" dehumanizing content even when they understand its dehumanizing character — but does not fully resolve how the book itself differs from the cultural product it is analyzing. This is not a fatal failure. It is an honest formal limit that the work's ambition has run up against.

Chapters 3 and 4 constitute the book's most philosophically sustained argument, and they are where the intellectual debts to the black conservative tradition are most explicitly discharged. The extended analysis of victimology — the way dependency is cultivated, the mechanism by which the "plantation of dependency" is maintained, the double-bind by which any black who challenges the narrative is excommunicated from authentic blackness — is genuinely rigorous. The Shelby Steele passage on "victim's power" is quoted at length because it is the clearest available articulation of the argument: that power derived from victimhood "binds the victim to his victimization by linking his power to his status as a victim," producing a "tragic" situation in which "taking responsibility for bettering ourselves feels like a surrender to white power." The book endorses this analysis without qualification and builds its own argument around it.

The critique of lowered standards is the section's most pointed argument: that affirmative action, subminimal academic expectations, exemption from behavioral standards, and the pathologizing of challenge are not compensatory measures but additional injuries — injuries that "further cloaks, and thereby further hides from cure, deeper causes of black underachievement." The book extends this argument to its most uncomfortable implications: that the antiracist movement's refusal to engage with black cultural attitudes — the "niggative" orientation toward education, the glorification of criminality, the broken family structures — as causes of black underperformance constitutes a form of abandonment disguised as advocacy. The "Stop" litany near the end of Chapter 4, addressed to white progressives, is the book's most direct expression of this argument: a catalogue of specific practices — defunding police, lowering academic standards, pathologizing excellence as "acting white," excusing behavioral nonconformity — that the book argues harm the black people they claim to protect.

Chapter 5 is the book's most formally varied and its most politically volatile section, ranging from the Race2Dinner parody through the "a land where" catalogue to the extended analysis of double-binds whites are placed in, ending with the specter of violent white backlash. The Race2Dinner transcript — rendered in the heightened novelistic prose of the original transcript, with its character descriptions and stage directions — is the book's most technically accomplished satirical piece. Saira is drawn with Hitlerian finger-tapping, Vlad the Impaler smile, Stalin's gaze, and Mussolini's hand gestures — a cascade of totalitarian comparisons that makes its argument through accumulation rather than assertion: this is what a racial inquisition looks like when it has been domesticated into a dinner-party format. Margaret's progressive humiliation, ending in her confession of sounding "terribly white," is presented as a portrait of a coercive dynamic that produces not understanding but submission.

The boot-licking scene near Chapter 5's end is the section's most formally extreme moment and its most deliberately alienating. The footage of white people kissing black boots, narrated by the man with the bullhorn, is presented with all the pornographic rhetoric of its context — "Get real low. Press that face where it need to be" — and extends to include a child participant, a white girl brought forward to kiss the boot alongside her father. This is the book's most explicit deployment of child imagery in a sexual-power context, and it requires the same analytical honesty as the La'Cinda'Relle section. The book is arguing that the ideology of racial atonement, taken to its logical extreme, produces a ritual of humiliation that is indistinguishable in its power dynamics from the very domination it claims to redress. The inclusion of the child is meant to make the logic of generational guilt — that white children inherit the sins of their ancestors and must perform atonement — visceral and concrete. As satire of a real ideological tendency, it functions. As a formal choice, it shares the La'Cinda'Relle section's problem: the explicitness of the child's participation in a scene of ritualized submission strains the frame that is supposed to contain it.

The backlash section — the white rage monologues, the projected violence, the warning about what happens when the punking program goes too far — is the book's most politically alarming passage and its most formally significant. The book is not endorsing the rage it ventriloquizes. It is arguing that the antiracist movement is manufacturing the conditions for it: that chronic humiliation, the erasure of legitimate grievance, and the weaponization of racial identity produce, in the heavily armed white majority population, exactly the violent response that the narrative of white supremacy's resurgence requires to justify itself. This is the hyperstition argument made explicit: the antiracist movement midwifes the very antiblack sentiment it claims to combat. The projected violence of the "colonizer" monologues and the Goon Squad fantasies are presented as the endpoint of a causal chain whose beginning is in university diversity trainings and DiAngelo's prayer book.

Formally, the book's most significant achievement is its refusal to find a stable rhetorical position. It will not occupy the voice of the dispassionate analyst — McWhorter's measured prose style is available to it and is frequently quoted, but the book does not write in that register. It will not occupy the voice of the confessional memoirist — though the preface's disclosure of the author's termination from his professorship personalizes the stakes. It oscillates between these and a dozen others: the biblical jeremiad, the satirical novelist, the pornographic provocateur, the philosophical systematist, the hip-hop analyst, the grief-stricken witness. This oscillation is the book's formal argument about what is required to make this case in this moment: that measured prose has been tried and dismissed, that the case requires the full arsenal of available language, that a book about a culture that processes everything through sensation and outrage must be willing to be sensational and outrageous in its own register.

The acknowledgments are worth noting: they constitute a political map as much as a personal one. Sowell and Steele and Loury and McWhorter and Hughes sit alongside Tom MacDonald and Adam Calhoun and Burden and Mesus — the black conservative intellectual tradition alongside the white rap artists who have made versions of the same argument in vernacular form. The juxtaposition is deliberate: the book is arguing that these are the same argument at different registers of cultural production, and that the mainstream's refusal to hear either is a function of the same ideological gatekeeping.

What "White Supremacy on Its Deathbed" ultimately is, is a book that takes a serious argument about genuine harm to black people and commits to pursuing that argument wherever it leads — into the La'Cinda'Relle section, into the boot-licking scene, into the white rage monologues, into the explicit lyric catalogues, into the satirical set pieces that will read as racist caricature to any reader who encounters them outside the book's full argumentative context. The book bets that this commitment is necessary: that the argument cannot be made in polite language without being dismissed as polite language always is in a discourse that has learned to absorb and neutralize measured critique. Whether the bet pays off depends on whether the reader follows the full argument to the full formal conclusion, or encounters a passage extracted from that context and reads it as the thing it is critiquing. That ambiguity is not a flaw. It is the condition the book has decided to inhabit, with full awareness of what it costs.

Meta Description

A book-length lyrical essay mounting a formal and philosophical case against mainstream antiracist ideology as genuinely harmful to black people — deploying jeremiad, satire, pornographic grotesque, philosophical argument, and anaphoric accumulation to argue that the antiracist industrial complex midwifes the very conditions it claims to combat, at the price of black dependency, black cultural debasement, and an escalating white backlash.

Keywords

White Supremacy on Its Deathbed, antiracist critique, black conservatism, victimology ideology, lyrical essay, jeremiad form, satirical grotesque, hip hop and black culture, DiAngelo critique, Shelby Steele, Glenn Loury, John McWhorter, Thomas Sowell, Coleman Hughes, hyperstition, white backlash, plantation of dependency, black empowerment critique, formal ambiguity, close reading, Hypocorism

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Descendants of African Slavers Pay Reputational Reparations (ROUND 2)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Descendants of African Slavers Pay Reputational Reparations (ROUND 2)

"Descendants of African Slavers Pay Reputational Reparations" is a poem about karmic irony operating at civilizational scale. Its title states the irony directly: the descendants of African kingdoms and merchants who participated in selling people into the transatlantic slave trade are now paying a reparations bill they never anticipated, in a currency no one legislated, through a mechanism that is simply the long arc of consequence finding its way home. The payment is reputational. The Black American cultural image — dominant, globally exported, flattened into spectacle by the mechanisms of mass culture and mass tourism — now precedes every African and diasporic Black person who steps onto the world stage, attaching itself to their identity regardless of their individual character, national origin, or distance from American history. The descendants of the sellers are among those paying this tax. The universe, the title declares with the flat confidence of a ledger entry, has its own accounting department.

The historical premise the title rests on is factual and largely suppressed in mainstream discourse: the transatlantic slave trade required African participation. Kingdoms, merchants, and military powers across West and Central Africa captured and sold enslaved people to European traders on a massive scale. The descendants of those participants — Nigerians, Ghanaians, Senegalese, Beninese — now navigate a world in which the product of that historical transaction, Black American culture at its most ungoverned and most visible, has become the global face of Blackness itself. The karma is structural, not personal. No individual descendant chose this. The bill arrived anyway, as bills generated by history tend to do.

The poem proper is a nine-line comic set piece that renders one of the circus rings where the reputational bill is being run up in real time. "Little did Mr. White Dad / anticipate" — the mock-epic construction, the proper-noun-ification of "White Dad" as demographic type — establishes the comic register immediately. Mr. White Dad is the liberal or merely oblivious white consumer of managed multicultural experience: the Groupon is his instrument, the family cruise his chosen vehicle for a controlled encounter with the broader world. The Groupon is the poem's most precise sociological detail: it designates the price point at which the managed multicultural encounter becomes unmanageable, where the demographic mix shifts beyond what the family vacation framework was designed to contain.

"The Groupon cruise / to ratchet down into Popeyes / on the high seas" — "ratchet" clicks through both its mechanical and vernacular registers simultaneously. As mechanism it describes an irreversible downward movement, notch by notch, no going back. As vernacular adjective it designates the specific register of Black American feminine performance — uninhibited, confrontational, sexually expressive, fight-ready — that the poem is about to render. The Groupon cruise ratchets into Popeyes on the high seas: the specific fast food chain chosen for its cultural associations, its status as viral site of the confrontational and exuberantly ungoverned, now floating on international waters where Mr. White Dad's child is present and cannot be retrieved to safer coordinates.

"Thongs / twerking streetball funk / into his child's no-going-back nose" — "streetball funk" is the poem's most compressed cultural-olfactory designation: the atmospheric compound of exertion, close bodies, hair products, and the ambient quality of unsupervised Black social culture, twerked directly into the child's permanent sensory memory. "No-going-back nose" is the poem's most philosophically precise detail. The olfactory sense is the most directly memory-linked and the least amenable to retrospective recontextualization: what the child smells cannot be unsmelled, cannot be reframed. The association is installed. This is the global mechanism in miniature: the image, once encountered, attaches. The Nigerian scholar walking into a London boardroom tomorrow walks in through the door that this cruise has been furnishing.

"Tits flapping in hair-hatted fistfights / with staff dumb enough / to deny a queen her crab" — the fistfight is the poem's comic climax and its most concentrated image of the reputational bill being generated in real time. "Hair-hatted" designates the elaborate protective head coverings surviving the fistfight as structural testament to their construction. "Staff dumb enough / to deny a queen her crab" places the comic weight on the staff member who misread the social dynamics — but the poem's larger point is that this scene, this specific configuration of entitlement and confrontation, is being witnessed, photographed, uploaded, and appended to the global image of Blackness. The queen gets her crab. The reputational invoice goes to Lagos, Accra, Nairobi, Kingston. The Groupon cruise is one of countless such circus rings where the tab accumulates, and the descendants of the people who started the whole chain of events are among those picking it up — not by anyone's design, not by any court's order, but by the patient and indifferent arithmetic of history settling its own accounts.

The poem does not editorialize about whether this is just. It notes that it is happening. The title's declarative flatness is its only evaluative gesture: not outrage, not celebration, not lamentation, but the tone of a ledger being read aloud. The reparations are being paid by someone, through a mechanism that is karma rather than legislation, to recipients who are Mr. White Dad's child's permanently altered olfactory memory rather than any identifiable aggrieved party. The universe runs its own reparations program on its own timeline and consults no one about the terms.

Formally, the poem's three tercets move from setup to escalation to climax with the economy of a well-timed joke whose punchline is also an indictment. The comic surface — the Groupon, the Popeyes, the hair-hatted fistfight over crab — is the poem's delivery mechanism for a historical and karmic argument that the title states and the body illustrates. The specificity of the imagery is the poem's evidence: these are not abstract cultural forces but twerking thongs and flapping tits and a queen who will have her crab, and it is precisely their specificity, their visibility, their exportability as image, that makes them the instrument of the reputational tax the title names. The poem earns its comedy because the comedy is the mechanism: the absurdity of the cruise scene is inseparable from the seriousness of what the cruise scene generates and sends around the world.

Meta Description

A comic poem about karmic irony at civilizational scale: the descendants of African slavers now pay reputational reparations as Black American supercitizen spectacle — rendered in vivid detail aboard a Groupon cruise — flattens global Blackness into a single exported image that precedes every African onto the world stage.

Keywords

Descendants of African Slavers Pay Reputational Reparations, karmic irony, reputational tax, Black American supercitizen, global Blackness, Groupon cruise poem, ratchet culture, African slave trade descendants, cultural image export, comic indictment, contemporary satire, close reading, Hypocorism, transatlantic slave trade karma, reputational reparations

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Gonzo Domestic Squabble (ROUND 7)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Gonzo Domestic Squabble (ROUND 7)

"Gonzo Domestic Squabble" is a poem about the inheritance of erotic structure—the way that childhood witness of adult orgiastic life, incomprehensible at the time of its occurrence, installs a template in the nervous system that surfaces decades later as compulsion, arousal, and the desperate need to insert oneself into other people's intensity as the only available form of mattering. Its narrator is a dorm-room voyeur who escalates from watching a street fight to shooting at the combatants with a pest control rifle, and the poem tracks this escalation as psychological recapitulation: each stage of the present action triggers a memory that reveals the childhood origin of the compulsion, until the two scenes—dorm window and childhood bedroom—are fully superimposed, the same groove playing in different bodies at different times.


The title announces its generic instability. "Gonzo" invokes Hunter Thompson's mode of total subjective immersion—the observer who cannot remain outside what he observes, whose participation distorts and transforms the event beyond recovery. "Domestic Squabble" is the bureaucratic minimization, the term that makes intimate violence sound like a scheduling disagreement. The collision of these registers is the poem's governing irony: the squabble is gonzo, uncontainable, metastasizing through the narrator's psyche and out the window in pellet fire, and the gonzo is domestic, rooted in the home, in the mother, in the childhood bedroom where the template was first and ecstatically installed.


The opening image—"Drunken shouts tied into a sloppy knot in the grass"—renders the street fight as textural event before it becomes visual. The knot is both the entanglement of two bodies and the acoustic tangle of their voices, imprecise and adhesive. "Tit flopping / in halogen butter" introduces the erotic register immediately alongside the violent one: the woman's exposed breast in the orange-yellow cast of a parking lot lamp, "butter" making the light warm and slightly nauseating, a domestic substance misapplied to a scene of public brutality. "Took the mount, grunting berserk / hammerfists to his skull"—the woman initially dominant, her violence rendered in combat sports vocabulary that aestheticizes and reports simultaneously. "But he got hold of her hair"—the turn is a single line, its brevity performing the speed of the power shift.


"They had a life" is the poem's first moment of pure psychological revelation, arriving without transition. It is precisely their having a life—a shared history, a union however brutal—that produces the narrator's arousal and his sense of exclusion. "Hyperaroused helplessness" names the specific affective compound with precision: arousal and impotence simultaneously, the body responding to what the self cannot enter. "Gleeking that unforgotten brine"—gleeking is the involuntary ejection of saliva from the submandibular gland, and the poem deploys the term with physiological exactness: the mouth responding autonomically, producing the "unforgotten brine" that connects present arousal to its childhood source before the poem has consciously named that source. The body remembers first.


"Electricity prickled my pinkies / like in childhood"—the nervous system's recognition of a familiar template, the pinkies as the body's farthest outposts registering the charge. The childhood comparison arrives with the casualness of long familiarity: the narrator has always known this connection, even if he has never articulated it. The pest control rifle is reached for in this state—not as a weapon in any ordinary sense but as an instrument of insertion, of ending the helplessness the arousal has made unbearable. "I needed in on it, in on their fusion"—the repeated preposition performing the desire for penetration of their shared reality.


The first memory surfaces here, and it is the poem's central disclosure: "like when my mom and her men fought in a fuck coil / fecal with the piston of a glucking fist."


"Fuck coil" superimposes sex and violence into a single compound—not metaphorically but literally, the mother's encounters with her men being simultaneously combative and orgiastic, indistinguishable to the child's developing perception. The fisting is explicit in "the piston of a glucking fist"—the wet, visceral onomatopoeia of "glucking" rendering the sound with a phonetic precision that makes the word feel coined from the act itself. The mother is not a victim here. She is a participant in her own extremity, her body the site of an intensity the child witnesses without the interpretive framework to understand it as chosen, as wanted, as ecstatic.


"Her shark eyes / dead to Teddy and me"—the mother's dissociation during these encounters is the dissociation of orgiastic absorption, not of suffering. The shark eyes are the eyes of a creature in the grip of its own nature, operating below the level of social recognition, not because she is being destroyed but because she is elsewhere, in the place extreme pleasure takes a person. The child reads vacancy where there is in fact a different kind of presence—one foreclosed to him by his age and the incomprehension the poem names directly: "as far as a child could know, / the sugar of the verboten still latched inside cookie jars." The cookie jar is exact and devastating: the child knows the sugar exists, can smell it perhaps, but cannot access it, cannot name it, cannot metabolize what he is witnessing as anything other than chaos and exclusion. The verboten is still latched inside. He does not yet have the key.


This is the poem's most precise psychological mechanism: the mother is not traumatizing the child through her suffering but through her pleasure—through her orgiastic absorption in an intensity that excludes him, that makes him a nonagent, less than zero, present but not participating, witnessing but not comprehending. The template being installed is not one of violence-as-damage but of intensity-as-the-only-real-thing, of the body in extremity as the site of an aliveness that ordinary existence cannot approach. Saint Teresa's ecstasy and the mother's are structurally identical in this sense: the body seized by something beyond it, the face indistinguishable from agony, the witness left outside the experience with only its effects to read.


"She re-blew: lowing like a cow / in oniony estrus"—the mother's vocalization during orgasm, rendered in the animal register without condescension: the lowing is the sound of a body in heat, the estrus naming the biological depth of the arousal. She is not performing for an audience in the calculating sense; she is in the grip of something that happens to have an audience. "Sweeping my hand across the blub; / plop-plopping it down like puddle boots"—the mother takes the boy's hand and places it against her, using him as an instrument of her pleasure with the same orgiastic unselfconsciousness that governs everything else she does in these moments. The child does not understand what his hand is doing or why. He is being incorporated into an intensity he cannot read. The "plop-plopping" is both specific and phonetically exact, the sound inseparable from the act.


"Her squirt / pelted Teddy and me—sheets of deadened thuds, rug / in a cloudburst—with that musk of hot pennies saltier / with my tears"—the mother's orgasm reaching both children, the squirt experienced as weather, as something that happens to them from outside without targeting them, the musk of it mixing with the narrator's tears. He is crying not because he is being harmed but because he is excluded from something whose intensity he can feel without being able to enter. The tears are the tears of the nonagent: present at the feast, unable to eat. "'Mommy stop! Mommy!'"—the child's plea is ambiguous in retrospect. It is the only language available to him for an intensity he cannot otherwise address. It is not necessarily a plea to end her pleasure but the only utterance the overwhelmed child can produce in the face of something too large for him.


The present scene and the childhood memory achieve full superimposition in the final stanza. The speaker's voyeuristic stance collapses into absolute optical and psychological consumption: "I kept feasting, drowned in flesh, and uppercuts kept boring. I could see / the belly heaving from within—the girl sobbing like her." This climactic phrasing bridges the adult's visual gluttony back to the infant's oral fixation in the flashback—the child sucking the nipple in goo-goo-gaga translated into an adult psychological devouring of the spectacle. By stripping away redundant descriptors, the text leaves "the belly heaving from within" stark and cinematic. "The girl sobbing like her" closes the loop entirely. The woman in the grass and the mother in the bedroom are the same figure, the present scene a recapitulation of the original in which the narrator, now armed with a pest control rifle, can finally inject himself into the intensity that excluded him as a child. The shots are the plop-plopping hand transposed: an instrument being used, finally, in the chaos that matters.


Formally, the poem's three stanzas move through escalating disclosure and superimposition: present scene and arousal, childhood memory beginning to surface, full merger of past and present until they are indistinguishable. The accumulating clause structure—semicolons and dashes refusing full stops—enacts the compulsive momentum of the narrator's state, the inability to pause once the groove has begun to play. The phonetic texture throughout—"glucking," "gleeking," "sclack, sclack," "plop-plopping," "goo-goo-gaga," "lowing like a cow"—keeps the poem in the body, refusing the cognitive elevation that would allow the reader to process the material from a safe distance.


"Gonzo Domestic Squabble" is ultimately a poem about how orgiastic intensity witnessed in childhood—incomprehensible at the time, installed below the threshold of understanding—structures adult desire and compulsion more completely than anything the conscious mind subsequently processes. The narrator shoots because the groove is playing. The groove was cut by a mother who was Saint Teresa in a bedroom, whose ecstasy was real and total and indifferent to its witnesses in the way that all genuine ecstasy is indifferent—which is to say, not cruel, but absolute. The child made a nonagent by her absoluteness becomes the adult who cannot witness intensity without needing to enter it. The poem renders this mechanism from inside, with a completeness that is its own form of seriousness.

Meta Description

A poem tracing adult erotic compulsion to childhood witness of a mother's orgiastic life — her ecstatic fisting, her squirt reaching her children, her hand guiding the boy's against her — a template of intensity-as-the-only-real-thing that resurfaces in a dorm window, an air rifle, and the need to enter other people's chaos as the only available form of mattering.

Keywords

Gonzo Domestic Squabble, childhood erotic witness, orgiastic mother, trauma template, intensity and compulsion, Saint Teresa ecstasy, fisting and childhood, erotic inheritance, nonagent psychology, superimposition of memory, voyeurism and intervention, contemporary confessional poetry, close reading, Hypocorism, gonzo narrative form

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A Case for Hard Determinism (ROUND 2)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

A Case for Hard Determinism (ROUND 2)

"A Case for Hard Determinism" delivers an uncompromising rationalist assault on human free will and ultimate moral responsibility. Dedicated to the author's late cousin Randy, the essay constructs a rigorous metaphysical framework asserting that whether reality is governed by temporal causation or absolute logical necessity, human moral freedom is an illusion.


The Dual Engine: Chronological Determinism and Absolute Necessitarianism The author grounds the hard determinist (HD) thesis on two metaphysical pillars, both anchored by an unyielding commitment to the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR)—the premise that nothing comes from nothing:


  • Chronological Determinism (CD): Argues that the complete state of reality at any prior moment entirely guarantees every subsequent state, placing present human action under the total control of a past preceding their existence.

  • Absolute Necessitarianism (AN): Asserts that all non-self-caused realities ($R$) are fully explained and guaranteed by a self-caused source ($S$), collapsing modal distinctions so that everything exists by absolute necessity.

The Collapse of Compatibilist Freedom The text systematically dismantles compatibilist defenses by distinguishing between counterfactual and actual-factual control. Compatibilists claim agents act freely if they would have acted otherwise had they desired to, or if their actions align with uncoerced internal desires. The author counters that under CD or AN, the desire itself is guaranteed by antecedent conditions set prior to the agent's birth. An action driven by a compelled desire is no more free than one engineered by a divine hypnotist.


The Buckstopping Regress and Practical Realism The text's most devastating argument bypasses the determinism debate entirely through a regress of buckstopping agency. An agent is morally responsible for an action only if they are responsible for at least a sliver of what contributed to it. Because humans are not self-caused (causa sui), this chain of accountability regresses indefinitely past fertilization, rendering ultimate moral desert impossible—even for the most heinous crimes.


Far from descending into nihilism, the author concludes that abandoning moral responsibility yields a more humane, pragmatic worldview. By replacing retributive vengeance with preventative quarantine and rehabilitation—drawing inspiration from Norway's penal model—society can leverage human adaptability to build a rational order stripped of toxic resentment.

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The Rains Down in Africa (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

The Rains Down in Africa (ROUND 1)

In "The Rains Down in Africa," the deliberate subversion of Western pop-cultural romanticism operates not through sentimental protest, but through a cold, unyielding commitment to physical mechanics. By taking its title from Toto’s 1982 stadium anthem—a song that exoticizes the African continent as a passive landscape awaiting benevolent rainfall—the poem immediately pivots to an entirely different kind of moisture control: the engineered, ritualized drought of sub-Saharan vaginal drying practices.


The poem’s opening gesture, "Bless wives who...", immediately establishes a complex, non-judgmental stance that bypasses standard Western moralizing. The dismissal of "Savior Betty" operates as an efficient rejection of imperialist pity, centering instead the internal logic, power dynamics, and mutual appetites of the participants. The central thesis relies on a terrifying physical irony: that intimacy can be intentionally transformed into an arena of manufactured friction, where the body is systematically stripped of its natural lubrication to simulate the violent resistance of non-consent.


Technically, the poem excels in its dense, percussive linguistic construction:


  • Anatomical Inversion: Phrases like "crone-mouth inversion" and "bloodworm eversion" frame the body not as a soft, passive vessel, but as a muscular, self-contorting mechanism. The clinical, Latinate precision of "inversion" and "eversion" strips the act of romantic sentiment, reducing it to pure visceral mechanics.

  • Rhythmic Judder: The heavy use of compound modifiers—"not-into-it grip," "grabby judder," "salt-rag"—forces a violent, staccato cadence. The enjambment and dense consonantal clusters force the reader’s tongue to stumble and drag, physically mimicking the "stick-slip" friction described within the text.

  • The Hardwood Metaphor: The concluding image—"squeaky as buffed b-ball hardwood"—is the poem's structural masterstroke. By comparing an intimate, ritualized bodily state to the high-traction, solvent-cleaned surface of an athletic court, the poem translates an obscure physical sensation into a ubiquitous, synthetic acoustic experience. The screech of dry rubber on polished wood evokes a visceral, tooth-grating reaction, stripping away any lingering organic warmth.

Ultimately, "The Rains Down in Africa" succeeds because it avoids the trap of ideological lecturing. By focusing unflinchingly on the material reality of the "salt-rag" and the raw, engineered drag of the tissue, the poem forces the reader to confront how bodily agency, cultural conditioning, and violent dynamics can intertwine in the most brutal, friction-laden spaces imaginable.

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Eighth Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Eighth Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)

Let's workshop the eighth section to my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young

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Visiting My Wife’s Family Over the Holidays (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Visiting My Wife’s Family Over the Holidays (ROUND 1)

The poem's content represents a conscious violation of numerous social and moral taboos, most significantly in its depiction of sexual predation toward a minor. The narrator's relationship with the "not one day over thirteen" niece-in-law is characterized by a profound power imbalance that he exploits systematically. The poem documents a process of grooming that begins with seemingly innocent interactions ("pluck her eye crust") and escalates to explicit sexual contact ("flashed sashimi: cunt cake"). The narrator's internal monologue reveals his awareness of the transgressive nature of his desires ("what would be the biggest mistake"), yet he proceeds without remorse or hesitation.

The poem's setting—a Christmas holiday visit to family in Trinidad—creates a powerful contrast between the supposed sanctity of familial and religious occasions and the narrator's predatory actions. This juxtaposition is reinforced through cultural references to Trinidadian life (Caroni rum, Piarco airport, Soca music, Carnival) that ground the narrative in a specific postcolonial context. The narrator's position as an outsider returning "home" to Trinidad complicates the power dynamics, suggesting a neocolonial relationship wherein he exploits both his familial status and his American privilege to prey upon a vulnerable local girl.

The language of the poem is characterized by a deliberate collision of registers, moving seamlessly between the domestic ("bundt cake," "rum cake") and the pornographic ("pyt threesome," "cunt cake"). This linguistic blending serves to normalize the narrator's predatory desires by embedding them within the fabric of everyday life. The poem's title itself creates a jarring juxtaposition between the mundane domesticity of "Visiting My Wife's Family over the Christmas Holidays" and the explicit nature of the content, immediately establishing a tone of dissonance that permeates the entire work.

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Gonzo Domestic Squabble (ROUND 6)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Gonzo Domestic Squabble (ROUND 6)

Gonzo Domestic Squabble

"Gonzo Domestic Squabble" is a poem about the inheritance of erotic structure—the way that childhood witness of adult orgiastic life, incomprehensible at the time of its occurrence, installs a template in the nervous system that surfaces decades later as compulsion, arousal, and the desperate need to insert oneself into other people's intensity as the only available form of mattering. Its narrator is a dorm-room voyeur who escalates from watching a street fight to shooting at the combatants with a pest control rifle, and the poem tracks this escalation as psychological recapitulation: each stage of the present action triggers a memory that reveals the childhood origin of the compulsion, until the two scenes—dorm window and childhood bedroom—are fully superimposed, the same groove playing in different bodies at different times.


The title announces its generic instability. "Gonzo" invokes Hunter Thompson's mode of total subjective immersion—the observer who cannot remain outside what he observes, whose participation distorts and transforms the event beyond recovery. "Domestic Squabble" is the bureaucratic minimization, the term that makes intimate violence sound like a scheduling disagreement. The collision of these registers is the poem's governing irony: the squabble is gonzo, uncontainable, metastasizing through the narrator's psyche and out the window in pellet fire, and the gonzo is domestic, rooted in the home, in the mother, in the childhood bedroom where the template was first and ecstatically installed.


The opening image—"Drunken shouts tied into a sloppy knot in the grass"—renders the street fight as textural event before it becomes visual. The knot is both the entanglement of two bodies and the acoustic tangle of their voices, imprecise and adhesive. "Tit flopping / in halogen butter" introduces the erotic register immediately alongside the violent one: the woman's exposed breast in the orange-yellow cast of a parking lot lamp, "butter" making the light warm and slightly nauseating, a domestic substance misapplied to a scene of public brutality. "Took the mount, grunting berserk / hammerfists to his skull"—the woman initially dominant, her violence rendered in combat sports vocabulary that aestheticizes and reports simultaneously. "But he got hold of her hair"—the turn is a single line, its brevity performing the speed of the power shift.


"They had a life" is the poem's first moment of pure psychological revelation, arriving without transition. It is precisely their having a life—a shared history, a union however brutal—that produces the narrator's arousal and his sense of exclusion. "Hyperaroused helplessness" names the specific affective compound with precision: arousal and impotence simultaneously, the body responding to what the self cannot enter. "Gleeking that unforgotten brine"—gleeking is the involuntary ejection of saliva from the submandibular gland, and the poem deploys the term with physiological exactness: the mouth responding autonomically, producing the "unforgotten brine" that connects present arousal to its childhood source before the poem has consciously named that source. The body remembers first.


"Electricity prickled my pinkies / like in childhood"—the nervous system's recognition of a familiar template, the pinkies as the body's farthest outposts registering the charge. The childhood comparison arrives with the casualness of long familiarity: the narrator has always known this connection, even if he has never articulated it. The pest control rifle is reached for in this state—not as a weapon in any ordinary sense but as an instrument of insertion, of ending the helplessness the arousal has made unbearable. "I needed in on it, in on their fusion"—the repeated preposition performing the desire for penetration of their shared reality.


The first memory surfaces here, and it is the poem's central disclosure: "like when my mom and her men fought in a fuck coil / fecal with the piston of a glucking fist."


"Fuck coil" superimposes sex and violence into a single compound—not metaphorically but literally, the mother's encounters with her men being simultaneously combative and orgiastic, indistinguishable to the child's developing perception. The fisting is explicit in "the piston of a glucking fist"—the wet, visceral onomatopoeia of "glucking" rendering the sound with a phonetic precision that makes the word feel coined from the act itself. The mother is not a victim here. She is a participant in her own extremity, her body the site of an intensity the child witnesses without the interpretive framework to understand it as chosen, as wanted, as ecstatic.


"Her shark eyes / dead to Teddy and me"—the mother's dissociation during these encounters is the dissociation of orgiastic absorption, not of suffering. The shark eyes are the eyes of a creature in the grip of its own nature, operating below the level of social recognition, not because she is being destroyed but because she is elsewhere, in the place extreme pleasure takes a person. The child reads vacancy where there is in fact a different kind of presence—one foreclosed to him by his age and the incomprehension the poem names directly: "as far as a child could know, / the sugar of the verboten still latched inside cookie jars." The cookie jar is exact and devastating: the child knows the sugar exists, can smell it perhaps, but cannot access it, cannot name it, cannot metabolize what he is witnessing as anything other than chaos and exclusion. The verboten is still latched inside. He does not yet have the key.


This is the poem's most precise psychological mechanism: the mother is not traumatizing the child through her suffering but through her pleasure—through her orgiastic absorption in an intensity that excludes him, that makes him a nonagent, less than zero, present but not participating, witnessing but not comprehending. The template being installed is not one of violence-as-damage but of intensity-as-the-only-real-thing, of the body in extremity as the site of an aliveness that ordinary existence cannot approach. Saint Teresa's ecstasy and the mother's are structurally identical in this sense: the body seized by something beyond it, the face indistinguishable from agony, the witness left outside the experience with only its effects to read.


"She re-blew: lowing like a cow / in oniony estrus"—the mother's vocalization during orgasm, rendered in the animal register without condescension: the lowing is the sound of a body in heat, the estrus naming the biological depth of the arousal. She is not performing for an audience in the calculating sense; she is in the grip of something that happens to have an audience. "Sweeping my hand across the blub; / plop-plopping it down like puddle boots"—the mother takes the boy's hand and places it against her, using him as an instrument of her pleasure with the same orgiastic unselfconsciousness that governs everything else she does in these moments. The child does not understand what his hand is doing or why. He is being incorporated into an intensity he cannot read. The "plop-plopping" is both specific and phonetically exact, the sound inseparable from the act.


"Her squirt / pelted Teddy and me—sheets of deadened thuds, rug / in a cloudburst—with that musk of hot pennies saltier / with my tears"—the mother's orgasm reaching both children, the squirt experienced as weather, as something that happens to them from outside without targeting them, the musk of it mixing with the narrator's tears. He is crying not because he is being harmed but because he is excluded from something whose intensity he can feel without being able to enter. The tears are the tears of the nonagent: present at the feast, unable to eat. "'Mommy stop! Mommy!'"—the child's plea is ambiguous in retrospect. It is the only language available to him for an intensity he cannot otherwise address. It is not necessarily a plea to end her pleasure but the only utterance the overwhelmed child can produce in the face of something too large for him.


The present scene and the childhood memory achieve full superimposition in the final stanza. The speaker's voyeuristic stance collapses into absolute optical and psychological consumption: "I kept feasting, drowned in flesh, and uppercuts kept boring. I could see / the belly heaving from within—the girl sobbing like her." This climactic phrasing bridges the adult's visual gluttony back to the infant's oral fixation in the flashback—the child sucking the nipple in goo-goo-gaga translated into an adult psychological devouring of the spectacle. By stripping away redundant descriptors, the text leaves "the belly heaving from within" stark and cinematic. "The girl sobbing like her" closes the loop entirely. The woman in the grass and the mother in the bedroom are the same figure, the present scene a recapitulation of the original in which the narrator, now armed with a pest control rifle, can finally inject himself into the intensity that excluded him as a child. The shots are the plop-plopping hand transposed: an instrument being used, finally, in the chaos that matters.


Formally, the poem's three stanzas move through escalating disclosure and superimposition: present scene and arousal, childhood memory beginning to surface, full merger of past and present until they are indistinguishable. The accumulating clause structure—semicolons and dashes refusing full stops—enacts the compulsive momentum of the narrator's state, the inability to pause once the groove has begun to play. The phonetic texture throughout—"glucking," "gleeking," "sclack, sclack," "plop-plopping," "goo-goo-gaga," "lowing like a cow"—keeps the poem in the body, refusing the cognitive elevation that would allow the reader to process the material from a safe distance.


"Gonzo Domestic Squabble" is ultimately a poem about how orgiastic intensity witnessed in childhood—incomprehensible at the time, installed below the threshold of understanding—structures adult desire and compulsion more completely than anything the conscious mind subsequently processes. The narrator shoots because the groove is playing. The groove was cut by a mother who was Saint Teresa in a bedroom, whose ecstasy was real and total and indifferent to its witnesses in the way that all genuine ecstasy is indifferent—which is to say, not cruel, but absolute. The child made a nonagent by her absoluteness becomes the adult who cannot witness intensity without needing to enter it. The poem renders this mechanism from inside, with a completeness that is its own form of seriousness.

Meta Description

A poem tracing adult erotic compulsion to childhood witness of a mother's orgiastic life — her ecstatic fisting, her squirt reaching her children, her hand guiding the boy's against her — a template of intensity-as-the-only-real-thing that resurfaces in a dorm window, an air rifle, and the need to enter other people's chaos as the only available form of mattering.

Keywords

Gonzo Domestic Squabble, childhood erotic witness, orgiastic mother, trauma template, intensity and compulsion, Saint Teresa ecstasy, fisting and childhood, erotic inheritance, nonagent psychology, superimposition of memory, voyeurism and intervention, contemporary confessional poetry, close reading, Hypocorism, gonzo narrative form

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Seventh Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Seventh Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)

Let's workshop the seventh section to my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young

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Sixth Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Sixth Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)

Let's workshop the sixth section to my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young

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Amor Prohibido (ROUND 2)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Amor Prohibido (ROUND 2)

“Amor Prohibido" is a poem about the rhetoric of seduction as a fully inhabited voice — eight lines that perform, in real time, every instrument of experienced adult persuasion in sequence, with a fluency that is itself the poem's most revealing quality. The title, borrowed from Selena's 1994 hit about a love forbidden by class difference, reframes the prohibition: what is forbidden here is not class-crossing but age-crossing, and the poem's eight lines are a portrait of how such crossings are verbally engineered — not through dominance or manipulation but through a practiced, attentive confidence that knows what it wants and has learned, through long acquaintance with the world, to read what others need.

The poem is structured as a direct address — a message, a text, a DM — and its form is its argument. It does not describe seduction; it performs it, in real time, on the reader. This is the poem's most formally daring quality: the reader occupies the position of the recipient, and the speaker's rhetoric lands before it can be analytically processed. By the time one identifies the techniques being deployed, they have already been deployed.

The opening word — "Hey" — is the poem's most precise single choice. Not "Hello," which would be formal. Not the recipient's name, which would be intimate in a different register. "Hey" is the calibrated casualness of someone who has done this before, who knows that the first word sets the temperature of everything that follows, and who has chosen a temperature of relaxed confidence that performs the absence of pressure while being entirely purposeful. The "Hey" is a genre: the opening of a specific kind of message from a specific kind of man, recognizable before the second word arrives.

"I think you should let me spoil you a bit" — the modal "I think" softens without weakening. It performs tentativeness while delivering a directive: you should let me. "Spoil" activates the entire economy of gifts, attention, and resource transfer that structures the appeal — and "a bit" miniaturizes it, making the spoiling sound casual, low-stakes, easily accepted without obligation. The sentence performs the posture of a man who is merely sharing a thought while knowing exactly what thought he is sharing and what effect it is calibrated to produce.

"Your semester starts soon, right?" — the question mark is doing enormous work. The speaker almost certainly knows when her semester starts. The "right?" performs uncertainty he does not have, inviting her confirmation, drawing her into the conversation as a participant rather than a recipient. "So how about / we do an Airbnb, a little getaway, before school / sinks its claws too deep?" — "we" absorbs her into a plan already forming. "A little" miniaturizes again, making the getaway sound modest and easily fitted into any schedule. The revision from the earlier version's "sinks its claws in you" to "sinks its claws too deep" is the poem's most precise refinement: the claws are now already in, already present, the question only of depth — which positions the getaway not as a rescue from something approaching but as relief from something already underway. The urgency is more intimate, the speaker's attentiveness to her actual situation more demonstrated.

"I know that's forward" — the acknowledgment of forwardness is the seduction's most elegant move. By naming the quality of the proposition himself, the speaker demonstrates self-awareness, performs honesty, and inoculates against the charge before it can be made. The acknowledgment is not an apology but a preemptive disarmament that clears the ground for the poem's central declaration.

"But I know what I want. And I know enough / about this world, lonely as it is short, to know / what you need." — the volta arrives here, and the revision from the earlier version is the poem's most significant deepening. "Lonely as it is short" is the new phrase, and it transforms the speaker's claim entirely. In the earlier version, "I know enough about this world" was a credential of experience, of worldliness. Here it is something more vulnerable: the speaker's knowledge of the world is knowledge of its specific texture — lonely and short — and it is from within that knowledge, from having lived inside that loneliness and that brevity, that he reads what she needs. The claim is no longer purely a credential of experience. It is a credential of having felt what the world actually feels like from the inside, which is a different and more intimate authority. He is not above the world's loneliness; he is inside it, as she is, and that shared condition is the basis of his reading of her need.

"I promise to be a gentleman — / until, of course, you give me the green light." — the closing couplet delivers the proposition's true content. The promise of gentlemanliness is conditional and temporary — "until, of course" — and the "of course" performs the inevitability of the green light as something mutually understood, already implicitly agreed upon, a matter of when rather than whether. The green light is genuinely hers to give: the speaker is not assuming he will take what has not been offered. He is expressing his confidence — earned through attention and through his reading of what she needs — that the offer will be made. The earlier version's "to be otherwise" has been pruned to simply "the green light," tightening the close: no elaboration on what otherwise might mean, just the signal itself, clean and sufficient.

The poem's eight lines enact a complete arc of persuasion: casual opening, spoiling proposition, temporal urgency, self-aware acknowledgment of forwardness, vulnerable credentialing through shared knowledge of the world's loneliness and brevity, and the quiet confidence of the conditional promise. Each move is precise. None announces itself as a move. The fluency is the seduction: a man who has lived long enough in a lonely and short world to know what he wants and to recognize, in someone younger, what she needs — and to say so in a "Hey" that sounds like nothing more than a thought he wanted to share.

Meta Description

A poem structured as a seductive direct address — eight lines performing experienced, attentive persuasion in sequence, grounded in the speaker's knowledge of a world lonely as it is short, ending with the green light assumed as inevitable by a man who has been paying close enough attention to know what she needs.

Keywords

Amor Prohibido, seduction rhetoric, direct address poem, age gap persuasion, lonely as it is short, green light, Airbnb getaway, Selena amor prohibido, forbidden love, rhetorical analysis poetry, desire and attention, close reading, Hypocorism, DM as poem, adult male seduction

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Teenie Toffees (ROUND 3)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Teenie Toffees (ROUND 3)

"Teenie Toffees" is a poem about the displacement of one economy of desire by another — specifically, the moment at which the Girl Scout's official economy of cookies, badges, and door-to-door salesmanship is revealed to have been superseded by a more potent and more generative economy organized around the body itself. The poem does not depict exploitation or victimization. It depicts a girl who has already made the calculation, who has already understood what sells harder than scripture and generates more abundance than a miracle, and who has been found in the act of that understanding — humming, unhurried, in her own front camera.

The title's compound — "Teenie Toffees" — operates through the collision of registers its two words enact. "Teenie" is the diminutive of smallness, youth, the not-yet-fully-formed; "Toffees" is the confection, the sweet, the thing that is simultaneously treat and commodity. Together they produce a compound that sounds like a brand name for children's candy while carrying the erotic freight the poem will make explicit: the teenie is the toffee, the girl is the product, and the market for this product — as the poem will demonstrate — dwarfs anything the Girl Scouts organization has ever moved.

"The Girl Scout, head / made for junior-high hustles / bolder than badges" — the opening establishes the poem's central substitution immediately. The Girl Scout is an official figure of supervised female enterprise: the uniform, the badges, the cookie drive, the institutional framework of merit and achievement. "Head made for junior-high hustles" — "head" carries its anatomical register (the face, the self-presentation, the front-cam image) and its sexual register simultaneously, the double meaning installed before the poem has committed to either. "Hustles bolder than badges" names the substitution directly: the official economy of merit and achievement has been superseded by an unofficial economy whose transactions the badge system was never designed to accommodate and whose boldness the badge system cannot measure.

"Found humming / in her front cam that supreme cookie" — "found" is the poem's most important verb, and its passive construction is its most precise choice. She is not caught, not exposed, not discovered in the sense of being surprised against her will. She is found — encountered in the act, present in the image — and the finding is the poem's occasion without being its judgment. "Humming" carries its musical register — the sound of contentment, of self-absorption, of a person at ease in what they are doing — and its vibrating register, the hum of a body in its own frequency. The front cam is her instrument and her audience simultaneously: she is both performer and producer of the image, the economy entirely under her own management.

"That supreme cookie" — the Girl Scout cookie economy reaches its ironic apex here. The cookie the organization sells door-to-door, the cookie whose varieties are the subject of annual consumer enthusiasm, is here displaced by the supreme cookie: the one that is not in the box, that is not sold through official channels, that requires no troop leader's oversight or parent's permission. "Supreme" is the hyperbolic register of contemporary vernacular — the highest, the most sought, the one that commands the premium — applied to the body as commodity with the same casual confidence the market applies it to anything else it has decided is worth the most.

"A glossy box that scaled / harder than scripture" — "glossy box" extends the packaging metaphor of the official cookie economy into the body's presentation in the front cam: the screen as packaging, the image as product, the gloss of the digital filter as the sheen of commercial desirability. "Scaled harder than scripture" is the poem's first major rhetorical escalation, and it is exact. Scripture scales — spreads, propagates, finds its way into cultures and consciousnesses across millennia — through the mechanisms of faith, institution, and the genuine human need for meaning. What the poem is describing scales through mechanisms more immediate and more powerful in the contemporary moment: the algorithm, the share, the viral image, the economy of attention that moves faster and reaches further than any text the church has ever distributed.

"More generative than loaves or fish / in the hands of Jesus" — the second escalation completes the theological comparison with a precision that is not blasphemy but analysis. The miracle of the loaves and fishes is the definitive scriptural image of generativity: from scarcity, abundance; from five loaves and two fish, enough to feed five thousand. The poem claims that what the girl has found between her thighs is more generative than this — that the economy it can set in motion, the abundance it can produce, exceeds the miracle in its scale and speed. This is not a claim about spirituality but about economics: the attention economy's capacity for multiplication dwarfs any previous model of distribution, sacred or secular.

"Fuzzed between her thighs" — the poem's final image arrives with deliberate anti-climax after the theological escalation. "Fuzzed" is the poem's most carefully chosen word: it names the pubescent body precisely, the hair that marks the threshold of the body's new economic value in the market the poem has been describing, and it carries the soft, slightly unfocused quality of the word itself — not sharp, not clinical, but present, specific, undeniable. The placement "between her thighs" closes the displacement the poem has been performing: the cookie box that was between her arm and her side in the official economy, held out for the customer's inspection and purchase, is now between her thighs in the supreme economy, held out in the front cam for a different market's consumption.

The poem does not moralize the girl's agency or its exploitation. It renders the economic logic with the same analytical neutrality it applies to scripture and miracle: this is what generates, this is what scales, this is what the market — in its wisdom or its catastrophe — has determined is the supreme cookie. The Girl Scout has done what the Girl Scout is trained to do: she has identified the product that sells, found her market, and begun her hustle. That the hustle is bolder than badges is the poem's only evaluative gesture, and "bolder" is a word that does not distinguish between admiration and horror. It simply measures.

Formally, the poem's three tercets move through the substitution the title announces: official economy, displacement, supreme product. The enjambments are the poem's formal engine — "head / made for," "found humming / in her front cam," "scaled / harder than," "loaves or fish / in the hands of Jesus," "more generative than loaves or fish / in the hands of Jesus — / fuzzed between her thighs" — each line break occurring at a point of maximum semantic pressure, where the sentence has committed to one register before the next line redirects it into another. The poem's syntax moves like the economy it describes: always appearing to be about one thing while being about another, the official packaging concealing the supreme cookie until the final image delivers it without apology.

Meta Description

A poem tracing the displacement of the Girl Scout's official cookie economy by the supreme economy of the adolescent body — scaling harder than scripture, more generative than loaves and fishes — rendered through the front cam in which she is found humming, unhurried, in full command of the product.

Keywords

Teenie Toffees, Girl Scout poem, adolescent body economy, supreme cookie, attention economy, scripture and sexuality, loaves and fishes, front cam, generativity and desire, displacement of economies, contemporary erotic lyric, close reading, Hypocorism, pubescent body, viral image economy

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Fifth Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Fifth Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)

Let's workshop the fifth section to my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young

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Fourth Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Fourth Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)

Let's workshop the fourth section to my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young

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Third Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Third Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)

Let's workshop the third section to my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young

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Second Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Second Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)

Let's workshop the second section to my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young

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Opening Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Opening Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)

Let's workshop the opening to my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young

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Action Jackson (ROUND 2)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Action Jackson (ROUND 2)

"Action Jackson" is a poem about the social contract of urban public space and the specific mechanism by which that contract is enforced — or rather, by which its enforcement is suspended when enforcement would require acknowledging what is being seen. Its subject is a man having sex with a corpse on a subway car, and the poem's real subject is everyone else in the car. The necrophilia is the occasion; the aversion is the argument.

The title names a type before naming an action. "Action Jackson" is the idiom of the man who acts, who takes what he wants, who is defined by his doing rather than his deliberating. It also carries the register of Blaxploitation-era naming, of the street-tough archetype whose confidence in his own appetites is his defining characteristic. The name does not distance the reader from the subject but places him in a cultural lineage of uninhibited masculine action — and then shows what that action looks like in a subway car with a corpse.

"He humps the hobo corpse / on the subway, natural / as a bunny" — the opening is the poem's most formally daring move, and it achieves its effect through the simile rather than through the act itself. "Natural as a bunny" is the poem's central irony: the bunny comparison imports the register of innocent, instinctive, unself-conscious animal behavior — the bunny does not deliberate, does not weigh consequences, does not perform its sexuality for an audience or against a prohibition. It simply does what its nature does. Applied to subway necrophilia, the simile refuses the register of horror or transgression and instead frames the act as natural comportment, which is not an endorsement but a diagnostic: this man is operating from the same unreflective instinctual register as the bunny, and the poem is interested in what that means for the people around him.

"Except he hooks the leg / to ogle the peekaboo" — the "except" introduces the single modification that distinguishes him from the bunny: the deliberate adjustment, the hooking of the leg to achieve a better viewing angle of the corpse's genitalia. "Peekaboo" is the poem's most unsettling diction choice, importing the register of infant play — the game of appearance and disappearance, of the revealed and the hidden — into an encounter with a dead body. The word makes the act simultaneously more sinister and more absurd, the adult sexual gaze rendered in the language of nursery games.

"Pausing / ('Sshhh') in the wedge before / fresh boarders shuffle past" — the parenthetical "Sshhh" is the poem's most compressed characterization. He pauses. He shushes — whether the corpse, himself, or the situation is deliberately ambiguous. The pause is tactical, the awareness of incoming witnesses producing not cessation but interruption, a brief management of optics before resumption. "The wedge" names the specific geometry of the pause: the transitional space between the act and its witness, the narrow interval in which he adjusts. "Fresh boarders" is exact — "fresh" carrying both its temporal meaning and its suggestion of the newly arrived, the uninitiated, those who do not yet know what they are boarding into.

"Aversion to looking racist / and mumble excuses into cars / free of clobbered-colon stank" — the final tercet is where the poem's actual argument lives, and it is devastating in its precision. The fresh boarders do not intervene. They do not call for help, do not alert authorities, do not acknowledge what they have seen. They mumble excuses and move to other cars. And the poem names the specific mechanism of their non-intervention: aversion to looking racist. The calculation is instantaneous and determinative — the social cost of being perceived as racist outweighs, in the fresh boarder's internal accounting, the social obligation to respond to what is happening in front of them. The prohibition against racial accusation has become more powerful than the prohibition against necrophilia in a public space.

"Clobbered-colon stank" completes the poem with a physiological specificity that forecloses any aestheticization of what has occurred. The smell is the corpse's smell, the smell of death and bodily dissolution, and it is the one thing the fresh boarders are relieved to escape when they find the other car. They have not escaped what they saw. They have escaped the smell of it — which is to say they have traded one form of confrontation for a lesser one and called it resolution.

The poem's formal economy is its ethical argument. Three tercets, nine lines, one act, one mechanism of non-response. The brevity refuses elaboration, refuses the moral processing that would allow the reader to arrive at a comfortable position. The bunny simile refuses horror. The "Sshhh" refuses confrontation. The aversion to looking racist refuses intervention. The poem accumulates these refusals until the final tercet delivers the mechanism that makes all the others possible: the social prohibition that has become, in the contemporary urban public space, more binding than any other. The man with the corpse knows this. The poem suggests he may be counting on it.

"Action Jackson" is ultimately a poem about the hierarchy of contemporary social prohibitions and the specific leverage points that knowledge of that hierarchy provides. The man acts with the natural confidence of the bunny because he has correctly read the social environment: the people who board will see, will calculate, will determine that intervention carries a cost higher than non-intervention, and will find the other car. The corpse cannot object. The boarders will not. The social contract, in this specific configuration of contemporary anxieties, has no enforcement mechanism left. Action Jackson acts accordingly.

Meta Description

A poem about subway necrophilia as the occasion for its real subject: the mechanism by which bystanders calculate that aversion to looking racist outweighs the obligation to intervene, leaving the social contract without an enforcement mechanism in the specific configuration of contemporary urban anxiety.

Keywords

Action Jackson, subway necrophilia, bystander mechanism, social contract, aversion to racism accusation, urban public space, contemporary satire, bunny simile, clobbered colon, peekaboo diction, non-intervention calculus, close reading, Hypocorism, social prohibition hierarchy, contemporary American poetry

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Amor Prohibido (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Amor Prohibido (ROUND 1)

"Amor Prohibido" is a poem about the rhetoric of seduction as a system — the way that a particular kind of experienced adult male voice assembles, in eight lines, every instrument of persuasion available to it and deploys them in sequence with a fluency that is itself the most revealing thing about the speaker. The title, borrowed from Selena's 1994 hit about a love forbidden by class difference, reframes the prohibition: what is forbidden here is not class-crossing but age-crossing, and the poem's eight lines are a portrait of how such crossings are verbally engineered — not through dominance or presumption but through a practiced, attentive confidence that knows what it wants and has learned to read what others need.

The poem is structured as a direct address — a message, a text, a DM — and its form is its argument. It does not describe seduction; it performs it, in real time, on the reader. This is the poem's most formally daring quality: the reader occupies the position of the recipient, and the speaker's rhetoric lands before it can be analytically processed. By the time one identifies the techniques being deployed, they have already been deployed.

The opening word — "Hey" — is the poem's most precise single choice. Not "Hello," which would be formal. Not the recipient's name, which would be intimate in a different register. "Hey" is the calibrated casualness of someone who has done this before, who knows that the first word sets the temperature of everything that follows, and who has chosen a temperature of relaxed confidence that performs the absence of pressure while being entirely purposeful. The "Hey" is a genre: the opening of a specific kind of message from a specific kind of man.

"I think you should let me spoil you a bit" — the modal "I think" softens without weakening. It performs tentativeness while delivering a directive: you should let me. "Spoil" activates the entire economy of gifts, attention, and resource transfer that structures the appeal — and "a bit" miniaturizes it, making the spoiling sound casual, low-stakes, easily accepted without obligation. The sentence performs the posture of a man who is merely sharing a thought while knowing exactly what thought he is sharing.

"Your semester starts soon, right?" — the question mark is doing enormous work. The speaker almost certainly knows when her semester starts. The "right?" performs uncertainty he may not have, inviting her confirmation, drawing her into the conversation as a participant rather than a recipient. It also deploys the academic calendar as a closing window, a now-or-never pressure that the word "soon" tightens. "So how about / we do a little Airbnb getaway before school / sinks its claws in you?" — "we" absorbs her into a plan already forming. "A little" miniaturizes again, making the getaway sound modest and easily fitted into any schedule. "Before school / sinks its claws in you" is the poem's most rhetorically sophisticated construction: it positions institutional obligation as predatory, as something that will take her, and positions the getaway as a rescue, a gift of freedom before the claws close. The speaker is not taking. He is offering an escape from what will take.

"I know that's forward" — the acknowledgment of forwardness is the seduction's most elegant move. By naming the quality of the proposition himself, the speaker demonstrates self-awareness, performs honesty, and inoculates against the charge before it can be made. The acknowledgment is not an apology but a preemptive disarmament — and it clears the ground for the poem's central declaration.

"But I know what I want. And I know enough / about this world to know what you need." — this is the poem's volta, and the removal of "too" from the final phrase is everything. The line is not claiming to know her better than she knows herself. It is claiming attentiveness: the speaker has been watching, reading, paying the kind of close attention that experience makes possible, and what he has arrived at is not a projection of his own desires onto her but a genuine reading of hers. "I know enough about this world" is the age gap offered not as superiority but as credential for care — the worldliness that allows him to recognize what she needs because he has seen enough to know it when he sees it. The claim is intimate rather than presumptuous: I have been paying attention to you specifically, and what I see is this.

"I promise to be a gentleman — until, of course, / you give me the green light to be otherwise." — the closing couplet delivers the proposition's true content beneath the cover of its entire rhetorical apparatus. The promise of gentlemanliness is conditional and temporary — "until, of course" — and the "of course" performs the inevitability of the green light as something mutually understood, already agreed upon implicitly, a matter of when rather than whether. The green light is genuinely hers to give: the speaker is not assuming he will take what has not been offered. He is expressing his confidence — earned through attention — that the offer will be made. The poem ends on this confidence: quiet, unhurried, the posture of a man who knows what he wants and has made his case and is willing to wait for the light.

What "Amor Prohibido" achieves formally is the complete inhabitation of a rhetorical register without a single word of external commentary. The speaker is never named, the recipient never described, the nature of the prohibition never stated. The title supplies the frame; the eight lines supply the mechanism. The poem is a found object — the DM, the carefully composed message — elevated into a specimen of how desire expresses itself when experience has refined it into something that no longer sounds like seduction at all, but simply like a man who knows what he wants and has been paying close enough attention to know that she might want it too.

Meta Description

A poem structured as a seductive direct address — eight lines performing the instruments of experienced, attentive persuasion in sequence, from calibrated casualness to the quiet confidence of a man who has been paying close enough attention to know what she needs, ending with the green light assumed as inevitable.

Keywords

Amor Prohibido, seduction rhetoric, direct address poem, age gap persuasion, attentive confidence, green light, Airbnb getaway, Selena amor prohibido, forbidden love, rhetorical analysis poetry, desire and attention, close reading, Hypocorism, DM as poem, adult male seduction

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Visit my Substack: Hive Being

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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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