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

Nymphology (ROUND 2)

Scholarly Essay: "Nymphology"

"Nymphology" is a poem about the collision between principled self-governance and the body's refusal to be governed — specifically, the way that a man's genuine commitment to artistic discipline and reproductive responsibility is overridden, repeatedly and completely, by an erotic compulsion he cannot name without the poem's title doing it for him. The poem does not moralize this collision. It renders it with the precision of natural history, which is exactly what the title's "-ology" suffix demands: not judgment but taxonomy, the study of a phenomenon that has its own laws regardless of whether those laws are convenient.

The title operates on multiple registers simultaneously. "Nymph" carries its classical meaning — the minor female deity associated with natural spaces, wild and ungoverned — and its entomological meaning: the immature form of an insect undergoing incomplete metamorphosis, not yet fully developed but already fully functional in its own mode. "Nymphology" therefore names both the study of these figures and, through the entomological register, a science of the not-yet-fully-formed. The suffix "-ology" imposes the apparatus of systematic inquiry onto what the poem will render as ungovernable compulsion, creating the poem's governing irony: the clinical pretension of the title against the feral reality of the content.

The poem opens with a simile that does the work of a thesis: "He bore like a plant / needing fire to propagate / its seed." The reference is to serotinous plants — species such as certain pines and banksias whose cones are sealed with resin and open only under the extreme heat of a wildfire, releasing their seeds into the ash-cleared ground that follows. The adaptation is one of evolutionary precision: the plant withholds its seed not from failure but from fidelity to the specific conditions under which germination is most likely to succeed. Applied to the man, the simile establishes his reproductive withholding as principled, as a form of biological intelligence rather than mere caution. He is not afraid of consequence; he is adapted to release only under the right conditions, which have not yet obtained.

"Fidelity to art / had him vigilant // about where he came" — the enjambment across the stanza break is the poem's first formal performance of its argument. "Vigilant" hangs at the end of the stanza, suspended, before "about where he came" completes it in the next. The vigilance is real and the object of vigilance is specific: ejaculation as a site of consequence, of responsibility, of the potential creation of a life he cannot sustain alongside the art that requires everything. "How could he raise / a kid?" — the parenthetical question is not rhetorical evasion but genuine reckoning, the man's actual internal calculus made briefly visible. The art is the serotinous cone: sealed, preserving, waiting for conditions that will not be compromised.

"But with feral / teenyboppers snarling // succubi stares" — the adversative "but" is the poem's pivot, and what follows it dismantles the entire architecture of principled vigilance the first two stanzas constructed. "Feral" is the poem's most important adjective, and it reaches back to the title's nymph: these are not socialized, domesticated, or legible-by-ordinary-social-rules figures. They are operating from something prior to socialization, something that the poem aligns with the natural forces — fire, compulsion, the ungovernable — that govern the poem's central simile. "Teenyboppers" is a period term, slightly dated, carrying its own cultural history of condescension toward adolescent female enthusiasm, but the poem deploys it without condescension: these figures are feral, which is not a diminishment but a designation of their power.

"Snarling / succubi stares" — the succubus is the female demon of medieval theology who visits men in sleep and draws their seed from them against or beyond their will, the theological attempt to account for nocturnal emission by externalizing its agency onto a supernatural female figure. The poem uses the succubus not to demonize these young women but to name the specific quality of the compulsion they produce: something that bypasses the man's rational and ethical governance and operates directly on the body's deeper architecture. The stare is doing this work — not touch, not speech, but the look itself, which "dares him / to nigga his strangle / into shat linen."

"Nigga his strangle / into shat linen" is the poem's most compressed and most formally daring phrase, and it requires careful unpacking. "Nigga" functions here as a verb — to nigga something is to do it with a particular uninhibited, ungoverned, fully embodied commitment, to bring to it the specific energy that the word designates in its vernacular use as a term of intense, unqualified action. "His strangle" names the choking that is this poem's erotic signature across the collection — the specific act that the feral stare is daring him to perform. "Into shat linen" completes the image with the physiological consequence of erotic asphyxiation taken to its limit: the involuntary bowel release that the poem's earlier "Diani" approached with "petechial brink of bladder dump." The linen bears the evidence of the body taken past its own governance, which is exactly what the succubi stares are demanding and exactly what his fidelity to art has been trying to prevent.

"He could never pull out" — the final line is the poem's most economical and most devastating. "Pull out" carries its literal sexual meaning — the withdrawal method, the act of responsible reproductive governance that his vigilance about where he came was organized around — and its figurative meaning: the impossibility of extracting himself from the compulsion, of maintaining the discipline the first stanza established against the force the second and third stanzas name. He could never pull out: not from the specific sexual act, not from the category of encounter, not from the compulsion itself. The serotinous cone, adapted over evolutionary time for precise and principled release, is opened by fire every time regardless.

The poem's formal structure enacts its argument through its stanza breaks and enjambments. The three quatrains move from discipline to compulsion to consequence, but the movement is not smooth: the enjambments force the reader to hold incomplete thoughts across white space, to experience the suspension that the man experiences between vigilance and override. "Vigilant // about where he came" makes the reader wait, as the man waits, before the object of vigilance is named. "Feral / teenyboppers" breaks across a line to give "feral" its full weight before the noun arrives. "Snarling // succubi stares" holds the aggression of the snarl before its object and instrument — the stare — is delivered. The poem's syntax and its subject are in the same bind: the completion keeps arriving despite the suspension.

"Nymphology" is ultimately a poem about the limits of self-governance under specific erotic conditions — not the limits of weak or undisciplined men, but the limits of a genuinely disciplined man whose discipline is organized around everything except the compulsion the poem names. The serotinous plant simile is not ironic: the man's fidelity to art is real, his vigilance is real, his reckoning with reproductive responsibility is real. The poem does not undercut these. It simply shows what overrides them, which is a force the title's "-ology" suffix frames as a natural phenomenon with its own laws, as available for systematic study as any other aspect of the natural world, and as indifferent to individual governance as fire.

Meta Description

A poem about the collision between a man's genuine artistic discipline and reproductive vigilance and the erotic compulsion — named by the title's clinical suffix — that overrides both: feral teenyboppers whose succubi stares demand what his principled withholding cannot finally prevent.

Keywords

Nymphology, serotinous plant simile, erotic compulsion poetry, artistic discipline and desire, succubi stare, withdrawal method, feral desire, vernacular verb, choking and erotic asphyxiation, reproductive responsibility, contemporary erotic lyric, close reading, Hypocorism, discipline and override, nymph entomology

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MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 3)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 3)

"Made for You and Me: Hive Being (Stanzas 2018 — Part 3)" continues the serial project of distributed consciousness that the earlier installments established, but this section carries a tonal register distinctly heavier than its predecessors. Where earlier sections moved with the aphoristic agility of a mind equally at home in the comic and the devastating, Part 3 has a higher proportion of entries organized around death, terminal conditions, and the specific grief of having arrived too late — to the father's body, to the dying wise man's bedside, to the moment before suicide became obvious. The hive is still buzzing, still ranging freely across registers, but something in this section has begun to feel the weight of its own accumulation.

The opening entry — "on your childhood bed after decades, the wake underway downstairs" — achieves its effect through spatial and temporal compression. The childhood bed and the adult body returning to it after decades, the wake proceeding below — the entire architecture of mortality, memory, and the body's persistence through time is held in a single prepositional phrase. The wake is downstairs: the dead are being mourned in the social space while the mourner has retreated to the private space of childhood, to the bed that knew the body before the body knew grief. The entry does not say whose wake or whose bed. It does not need to. The situation is total.

"A species for whom explaining is seen as losing, we were always anti-intellectual" — the plural "we" implicates the reader in a cultural self-diagnosis that the entry refuses to soften. Explanation as defeat, as exposure, as the surrender of the rhetorical high ground — this is named as constitutive rather than recent, "always" anti-intellectual rather than newly so. The entry is itself an explanation, which gives it the recursive quality of much of the section's best aphorism: it performs what it diagnoses.

"If no one thinks they have an accent, what else does no one think?" is the section's most compressed epistemological entry, and one of its finest. The accent is the standard example of the invisible norm — the way those who set linguistic standards are unaware of their own particularity, hearing themselves as accentless while hearing deviation in everyone else. The question extrapolates from this single case to an open-ended inventory of equivalent blind spots: what other norms are invisible to those who embody them, what other absences of thought are mistaken for the natural condition of thought itself. The entry asks the question and leaves it open, which is the only honest thing to do.

"Getting him back only to restore your chance to be the one to leave" is the section's most concentrated portrait of intimate bad faith, and it achieves its devastating compression by naming a motivation so true and so rarely admitted that its statement feels like exposure. The entire labor of reconciliation — the negotiation, the forgiveness, the reinstallation of the relationship — is revealed as instrumental: not a desire for reunion but a desire for the power of departure, for the restoration of agency in a situation where being left had stripped it away.

"Your tween daughter comes home from a sleepover / with a new coffee habit, like she is in Sex and the City — / perhaps just the tip of what the other daddy showed her" — the entry moves from the comic to the sinister across a single dash. "Like she is in Sex and the City" is the parent's amused observation of precocious sophistication; "perhaps just the tip of what the other daddy showed her" turns the observation inside out. The idiom "just the tip" carries its sexual register without announcing it. The entry does not accuse; it deploys possibility with a casualness that is its own form of indictment.

"Hypersexual and hyperviolent and tribal; remixing instead of being / the ultimate wellspring; regarding explaining oneself as weakness — / the black American shows us who we truly are, and we cannot stand it" is the section's most formally and politically charged entry, and it demands careful attention. The entry does not make a claim about black Americans as a group in isolation. It makes a claim about the universality of what is being described — hypersexuality, hyperviolence, tribalism, the preference for remix over origination, the equation of explanation with weakness — and identifies black American culture as its most visible and honest expression, while arguing that the broader culture's hostility to it is a function of self-recognition rather than genuine difference. The mirror dynamic the entry invokes is the same one the section names at its close: those who disgust us serve as mirrors, and the disgust is self-directed. The entry is deliberately uncomfortable in its framing, as the poem elsewhere names uncomfortable things directly; its argument is not that these characteristics are racial but that their most unashamed expression in one cultural context makes that expression a diagnostic mirror for the broader culture's own suppressed version of the same tendencies.

"Cancel culture, while it masquerades as self-love, is but the vitriol of our self-hatred / for being cripples hooked on coddling that cripples — and so to stab its heart is to lure / babies into self-love by inviting home varieties of the unsettling for them to overcome" — this is the section's most elaborately constructed single entry, and its argument is three-tiered. Cancel culture presents itself as self-love, as the protection of the vulnerable from harm. The entry identifies it instead as self-hatred projected outward — the self-punishing impulse of people who have become dependent on the coddling that perpetuates their helplessness. And the antidote it proposes is not resistance in the obvious sense but its opposite: inviting the unsettling in, exposing the young to difficulty and discomfort as the only actual path to the self-love that cancel culture claims to provide. The entry performs the argumentative complexity it describes: it does not simply attack, it diagnoses and prescribes.

"If you knew for sure it was God telling you to kill the baby, / your refusal to do it would amount to not understanding / that the being in question — perfect — knows what is best" — the entry enters the territory of Kierkegaard's teleological suspension of the ethical with the same compression it applies to everything else. The Binding of Isaac is here reframed as an epistemological problem: if the being commanding you is perfect, then your moral hesitation is not virtue but a failure to understand the nature of perfection. The entry does not endorse infanticide. It exposes the logical structure of any theology that attributes perfection to its deity while retaining the right to override divine commands on moral grounds — a position it identifies as internally inconsistent.

"Even if lions all of a sudden became peaceful, it would remain wise for finite creatures / like us to stay on guard around them at least in the transition period — profiling them / harder if their most popular music depicts them glorifying themselves as predators" — the analogy is the section's most politically compressed, and its final clause is its argumentative core. The entry does not argue for racial profiling directly. It argues for behavioral profiling — for the use of cultural self-representation as evidence about risk — while using the lion analogy to suggest that this is not prejudice but prudence. The most popular music is the cultural output the community has chosen to amplify; if that output depicts predation as identity, the entry holds that this constitutes relevant evidence for threat assessment regardless of individual variation. The entry is deliberately provocative in its implications and does not insulate itself from the discomfort those implications produce.

"How did liquidating yourself go, / so suddenly, from unimaginable / to the most obvious solution?" is the section's most devastating single entry, and it achieves its effect through the verb "liquidating" — financial, bureaucratic, cold — applied to suicide. The entry does not ask this question of a specific person. It asks it of the phenomenon itself: the way the threshold between unthinkable and obvious can collapse without warning, the way the mind can reorganize itself around a conclusion that would have been incomprehensible a week before. The question implies a witness, someone who watched the reorganization happen or found its aftermath, and who cannot account for the speed of the transition.

"Drawn together by trauma, the boy is down / whenever his father is down — but this day / a rollicking butterfly has drawn him away" — the tercet is the section's most purely lyrical entry, and its final image earns its lightness through everything that precedes it. The boy whose attunement to his father's depression has become its own kind of depression is, on this day, drawn away by a butterfly. The butterfly is not symbolic in any heavy sense. It is a butterfly, rollicking, which is a word that carries its own irresistible energy. The distraction is accidental and total and temporary and sufficient. The entry does not say whether the father notices or what the father feels. It ends with the boy's attention elsewhere, which is enough.

"Parents, mom too, heckling their kids / for reading: 'Look at this pussy-ass nigga — / reading a fuckin' book!'" — the entry names a specific and devastating form of anti-intellectualism: not the passive neglect of reading but its active punishment, the community enforcing its own intellectual suppression through the mechanism of shame. "Mom too" is the entry's most precise detail, insisting on the mother's participation rather than allowing her to be exempted from the dynamic by gender. The entry connects directly to the section's opening claim about explanation as losing: here the culture's equation of intellectual engagement with weakness is being installed in the next generation in real time, by its parents, with the tools of humiliation.

"Deathbed dying tends to come in such doses / that it is easy to persuade yourself, some / moments, that you might just pull through" — this is the section's most compassionate entry about mortality, and it is compassionate precisely because it is accurate. The intermittency of terminal dying — the moments of relative stability that the dying and their witnesses interpret as recovery before the next decline — is rendered without sentimentality but with a recognition of the psychological necessity of that misinterpretation. The persuasion is not delusion but the mind doing what it must to remain present in the room.

"The knowledge — unspoken on all sides — / that the Make-A-Wish teen wants pussy, / not videogames and a trip to Disneyland" — the entry is the section's most darkly comic, and it earns its comedy through the universality of the suppressed knowledge it names. The Make-A-Wish fantasy is a cultural institution built around the idealized desires of ill children: the theme park, the celebrity meeting, the gaming console. The entry identifies the gap between institutional fantasy and actual adolescent desire with the directness that the institution's sentimentality forecloses. The teen's wish is unspeakable within the framework that exists to grant wishes, which is a small but precise portrait of how institutional care systematically misreads the people it serves.

The section closes with two entries that function as a paired coda. "In realizing you are pretty much stuck in the home underclass, / for sanity you open to the beauty of those who disgusted you — / and so too to yourself, since they served as mirrors all along" — this is the section's most explicit statement of the mirror dynamic that underlies so much of its political and social analysis. The opening to beauty in conditions of constraint is not resigned acceptance but a perceptual reorganization: those who disgusted are recognized as reflections, and the disgust as self-directed, which transforms the social landscape and the self simultaneously.

"Making by hand invites, in the meditative clearing it safeguards, / ornamentation: self-amused patterns knifed into the pie crust / and penned deviations from the mono-style of the internet age" — the final entry is the section's most formally generous, and it closes the hive's buzzing on a note of careful, embodied making. The meditative clearing that handwork creates is the space in which ornamentation becomes possible — not the optimized, algorithmic ornamentation of digital production but the self-amused deviation, the pattern knifed into pastry by a hand that is amusing itself, departing from the mono-style not as rebellion but as the natural expression of individual attention given time and a surface to work on. The entry is a small argument for craft as resistance to the homogenizing pressure of networked production, and it lands with a quietness proportional to its confidence.

Formally, Part 3 of the series continues the ethical montage structure of its predecessors while allowing individual entries more breathing room than the densest passages of earlier sections. Several entries extend to three lines and develop genuine argumentative arcs rather than operating purely through compression. This expansion corresponds to the section's tonal weight: the death entries, the suicide entry, the butterfly and the boy — these require a slightly longer beat to register at full depth. The section does not abandon compression; it calibrates it, allowing the most devastating entries the space they need while keeping the hive's distributed intelligence intact.

Meta Description

The third installment of the Hive Being aphorism series: a distributed intelligence ranging across death, anti-intellectualism, intimate bad faith, racial mirrors, terminal dying, and the meditative clearing of handwork — heavier in register than its predecessors, carrying more of the weight of accumulated consciousness.

Keywords

Made for You and Me Hive Being Part 3, aphorism poetry, distributed consciousness, ethical montage, cancel culture critique, anti-intellectualism, terminal dying poetry, suicide threshold, Make-A-Wish satire, mirror dynamic, handwork and craft, racial mirror, Kierkegaard binding of isaac, contemporary American poetry, close reading, Hypocorism

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Fallen Few (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Fallen Few (ROUND 1)

The Demystification of Moral Exceptionalism in "Fallen Few"

The title "Fallen Few" sets up a classic puritanical trope—the narrative of sex workers as isolated, morally degraded outcasts—only to dismantle it across three tightly structured tercets. Rooted in a Nietzschean affirmation of physical existence (Amor Fati), the poem frames ascetic moralizing as a pathetic refusal to accept material reality. The opening stanza diagnoses puritanical outrage as "a toupeed disgust for Earth," a metaphor that reduces moral judgment to cosmetic vanity: a flimsy wig worn to hide the underlying mechanics of human nature. To condemn the sex worker is framed not as an act of virtue, but as a cowardly denial of the world we inhabit.


Structural Momentum and Universal Transaction

The poem's enjambment propels the reader across stanza breaks, mirroring the kinetic rhythm of the street. In the second stanza, the speaker collapses social hierarchies by asserting that "every lady / spreads tang in transaction." By establishing transactional exchange as the baseline for human alignment, sex workers cease to be "fallen" anomalies. Instead, the kinetic image of heels "clacking up to the car" grounds economic reality in physical sound, positioning the prostitute as a transparent actor in a world where everyone else merely hides their compromises behind sanitized titles like marriage or status.


The Speculum as Philosophical Dilator

The final stanza reaches its climax through the sharp juxtaposition of "a finger-sniff sample" and "a cranked speculum." The former introduces an unglamorous, tactile audit of the deal, while the latter transforms a cold medical instrument into a philosophical lens.


To "explore our home through a cranked speculum" is to force a clinical dilation of societal pretension. The speculum refuses to permit romanticized illusions or moral self-deception; it forcibly expands our view of "our home" (the Earth) until the true nature of human exchange is laid bare. Ultimately, "Fallen Few" argues that true ethical clarity requires unyielding fidelity to physical reality, revealing that those labeled "fallen" are simply the ones who refuse to wear the toupee.

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Gonzo Domestic Squabble (ROUND 5)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Gonzo Domestic Squabble (ROUND 5)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The present scene and the childhood memory achieve full superimposition in the final stanza. The man uppercutting the woman's gut, "the fist outline, / belly heaving from within" — the fist inside the body made visible through the skin, the exact image of the glucking fist of childhood now rendered externally. "The girl sobbing like her" — the final pronoun closing the loop entirely. The woman in the grass and the mother in the bedroom are the same figure, the present scene a recapitulation of the original in which the narrator, now armed with an air rifle, can finally inject himself into the intensity that excluded him as a child. The shots are the plop-plopping hand transposed: an instrument being used, finally, in the chaos that matters.

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

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

Meta Description

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

Keywords

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

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DIANI (ROUND 3)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

DIANI (ROUND 3)

"Diani" is a poem about the authenticity of extreme desire — specifically, the refusal to explain away unconventional erotic appetite as imitation, conditioning, or cultural damage. Its title is the speaker's name, establishing from the outset a first-person ownership of what follows: this is not an observation from a safe critical distance but a self-portrait, a declaration of what the speaker draws and what those drawn to her actually want. The poem's entire argumentative weight rests on the distinction between performed desire and real desire, and it makes that distinction in nine lines without hedging or apology.

The opening — "I draw Yes-Daddy blacks" — establishes the speaker's position with a directness that refuses euphemism. "Draw" carries multiple senses simultaneously: to attract, to pull toward oneself, to select. The speaker is not a passive recipient of whoever arrives but someone whose specific character and presence magnetizes a specific type. "Yes-Daddy" is a precise erotic and relational designation: it names a submissive orientation, a desire for enacted authority, without pathologizing it. The appositional phrase that follows — "hood hippies barely twenty, / tar-lipped bluntheads" — characterizes these women through compression rather than explanation. "Hood hippies" names a specific cultural intersection: countercultural freedom and urban formation, spiritual seeking and street-forged identity occupying the same person simultaneously. "Barely twenty" is exact without being clinical — it marks youth without marking victimhood. "Tar-lipped bluntheads" is the poem's most physically intimate compound, the darkened lips of heavy cannabis use rendered as identity marker rather than judgment, the kind of detail that only close attention produces.

The second tercet is where the poem makes its central argumentative move, and it does so through a "far from" that carries the entire philosophical weight of the piece. "Far from just aping porn" — the poem names and preemptively rejects the standard critical framework before the reader can apply it. The "aping porn" thesis is the default ideological account of extreme sexual practice among young people in the era of ubiquitous online pornography: that expressed desires are not authentic but imitative, that the appetite has been installed by exposure rather than generated from within. The poem refuses this account not by arguing against it abstractly but by insisting on what it has actually observed. These women "really do crave" — the adverb is the poem's epistemological stake in the ground. The craving is real. The speaker has been close enough, attentively enough, to know the difference between performance and appetite, and the poem reports that difference as fact.

What they crave is named with precise physiological specificity: "chokes / to the petechial brink of bladder dump." Petechiae are the small hemorrhages in the skin and eyes produced by the pressure of erotic asphyxiation — medical terminology deployed here not for clinical distance but for accuracy, for the insistence that the poem knows exactly what it is describing and will name it exactly. "Bladder dump" extends this precision into territory most erotic discourse declines to enter: the body at the outer limit of consciousness, where voluntary control begins to dissolve. The phrase "petechial brink" names a threshold — not the crossing of it but the approach, the craving for proximity to that edge. The desire is for a specific physiological state, known and sought, not stumbled into.

The final tercet renders that state in purely imagistic terms, and it is the poem's most formally accomplished passage. "Orgiastic irises rolled / into secret spheres" — the eyes turning back in the skull, visible only as white, the iris retreating into a privacy the observer cannot follow. "Secret spheres" is exact: the rolled eye is both a physiological event and a withdrawal into an interior space inaccessible to anyone outside the body experiencing it. "Bullring nostrils / flaring in the closure of light" completes the portrait: the flared nostril of physical extremity, and then "the closure of light" — consciousness narrowing, the visual field compressing as oxygen decreases, the approach to the threshold the second tercet named. The poem ends at the edge of that closure, holding the image without crossing into it.

Formally, the three tercets move from the speaker's self-identification, to the central argumentative claim, to pure image — from the declarative to the philosophical to the phenomenological. The movement enacts the poem's own epistemological confidence: it knows what it draws, it knows the difference between real and performed craving, and it can render the reality of that craving in images precise enough to constitute evidence. The poem does not argue for the legitimacy of this desire. It simply describes it with enough specificity that the question of legitimacy becomes secondary to the question of reality. The desire is real. The poem shows it. That is sufficient.

Meta Description

A self-portrait poem insisting on the authenticity of extreme erotic appetite — against the framework that would reduce choking and erotic asphyxiation to porn imitation — rendered through precise physiological imagery of the body at the threshold of consciousness.

Keywords

Diani, erotic asphyxiation poetry, authentic desire, hood hippies, Yes-Daddy, petechiae, choking and consent, first-person erotic lyric, desire and authenticity, porn imitation thesis, contemporary erotic poetry, close reading, Hypocorism, physiological precision, extreme desire and agency

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That Fun Auntie (Round 3)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

That Fun Auntie (Round 3)

Digital Surveillance and Carnal Surrender: The Architecture of Desire in "That Fun Auntie"

Introduction

In contemporary digital culture, intimacy is frequently mediated, quantified, and delayed by the very tools designed to connect us. Platforms like Substack and Instagram transform human longing into data points—open rates, view timestamps, and story viewer lists. In the prose narrative "That Fun Auntie," the author constructs a daring literary space that interrogates this modern paradox. By juxtaposing the sterile, corporate architecture of digital analytics with an overwhelmingly visceral, primal erotica, the text presents a meditation on parasocial obsession. Through its relentless use of the conditional tense and a shift from algorithmic tracking to somatic realism, the narrative posits that contemporary fantasy is often more structurally intoxicating than physical reality—until reality violently shatters and consumes it.


The Architecture of Anticipation: The Conditional Mode

The most striking formal characteristic of "That Fun Auntie" is its sustained reliance on the conditional mood. Operating almost entirely through an extended sequence of "Would we..." and "Say I flew..." clauses, the narrative mimics the psychological architecture of rumination. The narrator is not recounting a memory, nor is he merely plotting a future; he is simulating an entire first encounter in real-time within the theater of his own mind.


This sustained hypothesis creates a hypnotic cadence. By keeping the reader suspended in a speculative state across paragraphs of detailed interaction—from the gate at LAX to the eclectic kitchen filled with frankincense—the text mirrors the condition of modern longing. Modern digital desire is, by definition, conditional: it exists in the space between a sent message and a read receipt, between a published poem and its consumption. The narrator’s speculative flight turns this technological distance into a poetic engine, proving that the anticipation of touch can be more thoroughly mapped than touch itself.


The Friction of the Digital and the Carnal

A central tension in the text arises from the collision between high-tech surveillance and raw, unpolished human presence. The modern romance is traditionally stripped of its administrative realities, but "That Fun Auntie" aggressively incorporates them. The narrator notes the contrast between his corporate "newsletter analytics" and her behavioral footprints—his "fat-finger likes" and silent tracking of her Instagram stories.


However, this digital tracking does not remain cold; it is immediately humanized by heavy sensory anchors. The sterile glow of a screen gives way to the vintage, olfactory weight of Joy, Jean Patou, the smell of potted plants, and the low-volume rap heard from the passenger seat. This transition exposes a cultural commentary: technology offers a false sense of ownership over another person through data metrics, yet true possession requires the messy, unquantifiable friction of physical bodies. The digital ciphers—the blog posts and keystroked flight numbers—are merely the scaffolding designed to support an eventual, violent collapse into the physical world.


Somatic Realism and the Subversion of Domesticity

As the narrative progresses, it deliberately sheds its domestic veneer, moving from a whimsical depiction of a "fun auntie" into an ancient, ritualistic space of surrender. The transition is marked by a shift in language from intellectualized literary longing ("loins trying to crack each line") to aggressive, somatic realism ("nutty sebum and yeasty musk," "carotid blood").


This escalation is crucial to the story's thematic weight. The character of the "fun auntie" represents a safe, socially legible domestic archetype—benign, approachable, and contained. The narrative systematically strips away this sanitization. Through the "unconscious grammar of flesh," the encounter transcends polite boundaries, reframing intimacy not as a gentle exchange of affection, but as a mutual obliteration of safety ("protection would amount to blasphemy"). The final image—wrenching her away from the mundane archetype of the auntie into something "more radiant"—completes the thematic arc: the digital fantasy was never about comfort; it was a crucible designed to forge a raw, unsparing truth.


Conclusion

"That Fun Auntie" succeeds because it refuses to separate the digital vectors of modern life from our deepest, most uncensored animal drives. By treating blog posts as ciphers and open rates as modern telemetry, the text maps how contemporary loneliness seeks out its own cure through obsessive projection. Through its daring vocabulary, unyielding structural cadence, and unflinching psychological honesty, the narrative elevates the tension between screen-based longing and physical reality into a striking piece of modern literature.

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Wonkyland Muzzle (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Wonkyland Muzzle (ROUND 1)

"Wonkyland Muzzle" is a poem about the rhetorical mechanics of ideological self-protection — specifically, the way entrenched cultural power insulates itself from scrutiny by classifying ordinary inquiry as violence. Its subject is not homosexuality per se, nor even the question of its causes, but the epistemological regime that has placed certain questions beyond the boundary of permissible thought by attaching to them a cascade of escalating moral condemnations. The poem traces that cascade with forensic precision, showing how a neutral empirical question becomes, through a sequence of analogical substitutions, an act of evil — and how each substitution in the chain depends on a suppressed premise that the poem's italics hold up for inspection.

The title operates on two registers simultaneously. "Wonkyland" invokes a terrain of policy discourse, academic expertise, and progressive institutional management — the world of the professionally enlightened, where certain questions have been administratively settled and their reopening signals bad faith or worse. "Muzzle" names what this terrain installs: not argument, not refutation, but suppression. The title does not say whose muzzle or who is muzzled. It simply names the device and its location, leaving the reader to recognize both.

The poem's structure is a single extended conditional argument rendered in fragments, its logical connectives — "and so," "and so" — creating a chain of escalating condemnation whose individual links the poem isolates and interrogates through italics. The opening move is the identification of the question itself: "To ask here 'What causes gayness?' threatens / homosexuality's status / as natural." This is the first premise of the ideological argument the poem is anatomizing: that the question of causation implies unnaturalness, that curiosity about etiology is equivalent to pathologizing. The poem does not endorse this equivalence. It states it as the operative assumption of a particular rhetorical regime and then immediately turns to examine what that assumption requires us to believe.

The first italicized parenthetical — "lightning is unnatural" — is the poem's initial reductio. If asking what causes something threatens its status as natural, then asking what causes lightning would threaten lightning's naturalness. The absurdity is immediate and clean. The causal question is ontologically neutral; it applies equally to phenomena no one disputes as natural. The implicit premise — that natural things have no causes, or that seeking causes implies artificiality — is exposed as philosophically untenable the moment it is extended beyond its protected application. The parenthetical does not argue this at length. It simply names the consequence and moves on, trusting the reader to register the reductio.

The second movement escalates: the question is not merely threatening to naturalness but "violent." Here the poem's italics do their most important work: "speech / is a fisty gang rape." The analogy being anatomized is the one that underlies the contemporary equation of harmful speech with physical violence — the claim, increasingly institutionalized in academic and corporate settings, that certain utterances constitute assault rather than expression. The poem's chosen analogy is deliberately extreme: not merely assault but gang rape, and not merely gang rape but "fisty" — a term carrying its own register of graphic sexual violence. The extremity is the point. The poem is not selecting a marginal or uncharitable version of the speech-as-violence claim; it is identifying what the logical structure of that claim actually licenses when its premises are followed to their conclusion. If speech is violence, then asking a question is assault; if asking a question is assault, then the specific character of the assault can be calibrated to the perceived severity of the question — and the poem names the calibration the regime has applied.

The third escalation — from violent to "evil" — completes the chain and introduces the poem's final and most philosophically charged italicized term: "reflection, revealing who we are / even if it offends who / we wish to be, / is Hannible Lecter." The Hannibal Lecter reference is exact. Lecter is not merely a villain but a specific cultural figure of sophisticated, penetrating, almost aestheticized evil — a psychiatrist whose gift for seeing through people to what they actually are is precisely what makes him monstrous in the popular imagination. The analogy the poem is anatomizing holds that reflection — the Socratic activity of examining what we are rather than what we wish to be — is not merely uncomfortable or impolite but evil in this specific, cultivated, predatory sense. To ask the question is to be Lecter: brilliant, penetrating, and wicked for the very penetration.

The italics throughout are the poem's formal argument. They mark the suppressed premises — the claims that must be true for each escalation in the chain to hold — and by marking them, by giving them their own typographic register, the poem separates the ideological argument from its hidden foundations and holds those foundations up for inspection. The reader is being shown the machinery rather than experiencing its effects. This is the poem as epistemological intervention: it does not refute the ideological chain by arguing against it directly but by making visible the analogies it depends on, which refute themselves once stated plainly.

"Wonkyland Muzzle" does not take a position on the causes of homosexuality, nor does it suggest that the question is simple or that its answers would be ideologically neutral. What it argues is prior to and independent of any such position: that the regime of suppression operating around the question is philosophically incoherent, that its incoherence can be demonstrated by following its premises into the territory of lightning and Hannibal Lecter, and that the muzzle it installs is not the product of rigorous argument but of a cascade of analogical substitutions whose hidden premises cannot survive scrutiny. The poem's title names the muzzle and its homeland. The poem's body shows how the muzzle was constructed and what it is made of.

Meta Description

A poem anatomizing the rhetorical chain by which ordinary empirical inquiry is classified as threat, then violence, then evil — isolating through italics the suppressed analogical premises that make each escalation possible, from lightning's naturalness to Hannibal Lecter's penetrating wickedness.

Keywords

Wonkyland Muzzle, speech as violence, ideological suppression, epistemological poetry, rhetorical chain analysis, cancel culture poetry, Hannibal Lecter analogy, homosexuality and causation, free inquiry poetry, institutional muzzling, italics as argument, contemporary political poetry, close reading, Hypocorism, anti-intellectualism critique

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Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters (ROUND 2)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters (ROUND 2)

"Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters" is a poem about the persistence of rational order beneath apparent ontological chaos. Its subject is the philosophical principle of sufficient reason — the claim, associated most forcefully with Leibniz, that nothing happens without a reason adequate to explain it — and its argument is that quantum indeterminacy, far from refuting this principle, actually demonstrates it at a deeper level. In nine lines and three tercets, the poem performs a philosophical rescue operation: it takes the most destabilizing finding of twentieth-century physics and shows that the destabilization is local rather than global, and that the very rule governing the instability is itself an expression of the order it appears to threaten.

The title establishes the poem's philosophical coordinates immediately. "Sufficient Reason" names the Leibnizian principle directly — nothing is without a reason sufficient to account for it, including existence itself — and places it in relation to "the Stutters." The plural is significant. Where a single stutter might suggest an anomaly, a glitch in an otherwise continuous system, stutters designates a recurring condition, a structural feature of reality at a particular scale. The quantum foam does not stutter once; it stutters constitutively, perpetually, as its normal mode of operation. The title's spatial claim is therefore more ambitious than it might initially appear: sufficient reason is not merely surviving one exception but persisting beneath a condition of chronic, systemic apparent lawlessness.

The opening tercet establishes the concession the poem is willing to make: "Even if some particles / materialize from and vanish into / literal nothing." The "even if" is the poem's logical hinge. It does not deny the quantum finding; it grants it full force. The particles materialize from literal nothing — not from some pre-existing substrate, not from a field in a different state, but from nothing in the strongest ontological sense the physics warrants. And they vanish back into the same nothing. "Literal" is doing precise philosophical work here: it forecloses the interpretive escape of treating "nothing" as a loose colloquialism for some attenuated form of something. The poem insists on the full ontological weight of the claim before proceeding to complicate it.

The second tercet introduces the poem's crucial qualification through a single word: "seems." Where the opening concedes that space is quantum-frothy at the Planck scale, the second tercet frames this as appearance rather than ultimate ontological description — "seems quantum-frothy rather than / Einstein-smooth." The shift from the first tercet's ontological directness to the second's epistemic qualification is the poem's most compressed philosophical gesture. The quantum foam is real; the indeterminacy is real; but the conclusion that this foam constitutes a fundamental violation of rational order is a matter of interpretation, of how deeply one looks. "Seems" opens the space the poem needs to make its argument: beneath the appearance of smoothlessness, something else is operative.

"Quantum-frothy" and "Einstein-smooth" are the poem's most compressed technical achievements. "Frothy" carries the physical image of the quantum foam — John Wheeler's term for the turbulent, indeterminate structure of spacetime at the Planck scale — while also suggesting the insubstantial and quickly dissipated. "Einstein-smooth" invokes the spacetime of general relativity: continuous, differentiable, deterministic at the macro scale, the universe as a four-dimensional manifold without gaps or discontinuities. The poem places these two descriptions in opposition but does not treat the opposition as absolute. It is scale-dependent: the universe appears frothy at one level of description and smooth at another, and the poem's argument depends on this layering.

"Still / a panoptic smoothness remains" completes the second tercet and delivers the poem's pivot. "Still" performs its characteristic double function: it means nevertheless, and it means motionless, undisturbed — the smoothness is calm in both senses, persisting without agitation through the foam above it. "Panoptic" is exact: all-seeing, all-encompassing, operating across every scale and every instance without exception. The smoothness is total rather than approximate or local. The enjambment across the tercet boundary — "remains / tacit" — is the poem's most formally significant line break. By carrying "tacit" into the final tercet alone, the poem isolates and emphasizes the word: the smoothness does not announce itself, does not surface through the foam to declare its presence. It is operative without being visible, foundational without being conspicuous. The sufficient reason beneath the stutters is tacit in precisely the way that the deepest structural principles always are.

The final tercet delivers the evidence: "in the rule that the greater / the materialized particle's energy / the faster it vanishes." This is the Heisenberg energy-time uncertainty relation — the principle that the more energy a virtual particle borrows from the quantum vacuum, the less time it can exist before that energy must be returned. The rule is a conservation principle, an expression of the universe's fundamental bookkeeping: nothing is gotten for nothing, even at the scale where particles flicker in and out of literal nothing. The higher the loan, the faster the repayment. Existence at the most fundamental level is governed by a principle of strict proportionality — a ratio, a reason, a sufficient reason — that is itself the panoptic smoothness the second tercet announced.

The philosophical force of the final tercet lies in what kind of thing the rule is. It is not indeterminate. It is not itself subject to the foam. It governs the foam with a consistency that no individual particle's behavior exhibits but that the totality of such behavior expresses. This is the poem's Leibnizian move: the sufficient reason is not visible in any single stutter but is tacit in the pattern across all of them. The principle does not operate at the level of the individual particle's appearance or disappearance — those events retain their quantum character, their apparent lawlessness — but at the level of the relationship between energy and duration, which remains fixed, proportional, smooth. The stutters are real; the smoothness beneath them is equally real; and the poem holds both without collapsing one into the other.

Formally, the three tercets correspond to three logical movements: concession, qualification and pivot, evidence. The enjambments are philosophical throughout — "such that space / seems," "still / a panoptic smoothness remains," "tacit in the rule that the greater / the materialized particle's energy" — each line break occurring at a point of maximum logical pressure, where the sentence has committed to a direction but not yet delivered its consequence. The syntax withholds resolution until the final line, which arrives with the flatness of a demonstrated proof rather than a rhetorical flourish: "the faster it vanishes." The poem ends where the argument ends, in the rule itself — plain, proportional, sufficient.

What "Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters" refuses is both the naive determinist comfort that quantum mechanics poses no genuine challenge to rational order and the fashionable conclusion that quantum indeterminacy licenses ontological chaos or the abandonment of rational explanation altogether. Its position is more exacting: the stutters are real, chronic, and constitutive of space at the quantum scale; and the sufficient reason for all of it is tacit in the very rule that governs how the stuttering proceeds. Order does not require smoothness at every scale or at every level of description. It requires only that the principle of proportionality — the ratio of energy to duration, the bookkeeping of existence — hold without exception. And it does.

Meta Description

A nine-line philosophical poem arguing that quantum indeterminacy — virtual particles materializing from and vanishing into literal nothing — does not refute the Leibnizian principle of sufficient reason but demonstrates it at a deeper level, the energy-time uncertainty relation constituting the panoptic smoothness tacit beneath the chronic stutters of the quantum foam.

Keywords

Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters, Leibniz sufficient reason, quantum indeterminacy poetry, virtual particles, Heisenberg uncertainty principle, quantum foam, Einstein smooth spacetime, philosophical poetry, panoptic smoothness, energy-time uncertainty, contemporary metaphysical verse, close reading, determinism and quantum mechanics, Hypocorism, philosophical lyric

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Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutters (ROUND 1)

Scholarly Essay: "Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutter"

"Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutter" is a poem about the persistence of rational order beneath apparent ontological chaos. Its subject is the philosophical principle of sufficient reason — the claim, associated most forcefully with Leibniz, that nothing happens without a reason adequate to explain it — and its argument is that quantum indeterminacy, far from refuting this principle, actually demonstrates it at a deeper level. In nine lines and three tercets, the poem performs a philosophical rescue operation: it takes the most destabilizing finding of twentieth-century physics and shows that the destabilization is local, not global, and that the very rule governing the instability is itself an expression of the order it appears to threaten.

The title establishes the poem's philosophical coordinates before the first line. "Sufficient Reason" names the Leibnizian principle directly — nothing is without a reason sufficient to account for it, including existence itself — and places it in immediate relation to "the Stutter." The stutter is quantum indeterminacy: the apparently lawless materialization and dematerialization of virtual particles in the quantum vacuum, the foam of existence and non-existence at the Planck scale that seems to violate the smooth determinism of classical and relativistic physics. The title's claim is spatial and hierarchical: sufficient reason is not abolished by the stutter but is beneath it, foundational to it, operating at a level the stutter cannot reach.

The opening tercet establishes the concession the poem is willing to make: "Even if some particles / materialize from and vanish into / literal nothing." The "even if" is the poem's logical hinge. It does not deny the quantum finding; it grants it full force. The particles materialize from literal nothing — not from some pre-existing substrate, not from a field in a different state, but from nothing in the strongest ontological sense the physics warrants. And they vanish back into the same nothing. This is the stutter of the title: existence flickering at the boundary of non-existence, the universe quantum-frothy rather than Einstein-smooth.

"Quantum-frothy" and "Einstein-smooth" are the poem's most compressed technical achievements. "Frothy" carries the physical image of the quantum foam — John Wheeler's term for the turbulent, indeterminate structure of spacetime at the Planck scale — while also carrying the suggestion of the insubstantial, the effervescent, the quickly dissipated. "Einstein-smooth" invokes the spacetime of general relativity: continuous, differentiable, deterministic at the macro scale, the universe as a four-dimensional manifold without gaps or discontinuities. The poem places these two descriptions in opposition — "quantum-frothy rather than / Einstein-smooth" — but the "rather than" is not a simple replacement. It is a scale-dependent description: the universe is frothy at one scale and smooth at another. The poem knows this, and its argument depends on it.

"Still / a panoptic smoothness remains tacit" is the poem's pivot and its central philosophical claim. "Still" does double work: it means nevertheless, despite the quantum foam, and it means motionless, calm, undisturbed — the smoothness is still in both senses. "Panoptic" is precise: all-seeing, all-encompassing, operating across every scale and every instance. The smoothness is not local or approximate; it is total. And it is "tacit" — implicit, unstated, operative without being announced. The sufficient reason beneath the stutter does not proclaim itself. It manifests as the rule that governs even the stutter's apparent lawlessness.

The final tercet delivers that rule: "in the very rule that the greater / the materialized particle's energy / the faster it vanishes." This is the Heisenberg uncertainty principle in one of its formulations — specifically the energy-time uncertainty relation, which holds that the more energy a virtual particle borrows from the vacuum, the less time it can exist before returning that energy. The rule is a conservation principle, an expression of the universe's bookkeeping: nothing is gotten for nothing, even at the quantum scale. The higher the loan, the faster the repayment. Existence at the most fundamental level is governed by a principle of proportionality — a ratio, a reason, a sufficient reason — that is itself the panoptic smoothness the poem has been claiming.

The philosophical force of this observation is considerable. The standard presentation of quantum indeterminacy emphasizes the violation of classical causality: particles appear from nothing, the vacuum seethes, determinism breaks down. The poem does not dispute any of this but identifies what remains constant across the indeterminacy: the rule governing the relationship between energy and duration. This rule is not itself indeterminate. It is, in the poem's terms, an expression of sufficient reason operating beneath the stutter — a logos that the foam cannot dissolve because the foam is itself subject to it. The Leibnizian principle is not refuted by quantum mechanics; it is driven deeper, to a level more fundamental than classical causality, where it manifests as the conservation law that governs even virtual existence.

The poem's formal structure enacts its argument. The three tercets correspond to three logical movements: concession, pivot, evidence. The enjambments are philosophical rather than musical — "such that space / is quantum-frothy," "still / a panoptic smoothness," "the greater / the materialized particle's energy" — each line break occurring at a point of maximum logical tension, where the sentence has committed to a direction but not yet delivered its qualification or consequence. The syntax withholds resolution until the final line, which lands with the flatness of a demonstrated proof: "the faster it vanishes." There is no rhetorical inflation at the close, no reaching for sublimity. The poem ends where the argument ends, which is in the rule itself — plain, sufficient, smooth beneath the stutter.

What "Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutter" refuses is both the naive determinist comfort that quantum mechanics never happened and the fashionable conclusion that quantum indeterminacy licenses wholesale ontological chaos or the abandonment of rational explanation. Its position is more precise and more demanding: the stutter is real, the foam is real, the particles materialize from literal nothing and vanish back into it, and the sufficient reason for all of this is tacit in the very rule that governs how they do so. Order does not require smoothness at every scale. It requires only that the principle of proportionality — the ratio of energy to duration, the bookkeeping of existence — remain intact. And it does.

Meta Description

A nine-line philosophical poem arguing that quantum indeterminacy — virtual particles materializing from and vanishing into literal nothing — does not refute the Leibnizian principle of sufficient reason but demonstrates it at a deeper level, the energy-time uncertainty relation itself constituting the panoptic smoothness beneath the quantum foam.

Keywords

Sufficient Reason Beneath the Stutter, Leibniz sufficient reason, quantum indeterminacy poetry, virtual particles, Heisenberg uncertainty principle, quantum foam, Einstein smooth spacetime, philosophical poetry, panoptic smoothness, energy-time uncertainty, contemporary metaphysical verse, close reading, determinism and quantum mechanics, Hypocorism, philosophical lyric

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He Sang Beyond the Genius of the Honeywell (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

He Sang Beyond the Genius of the Honeywell (ROUND 1)

"He Sang Beyond the Genius of the Honeywell" investigates the phenomenology of hypnagogic perception—the fragile, liminal state between wakefulness and sleep where the brain generates complex internal auditory hallucinations. In nine lines and three tercets, the poem maps how an internal experience takes shape against the steady, physical drone of a box fan, capturing a man lying relaxed on his back in bed at night as his mind constructs an entire phantom broadcast from within.


The title announces its argument before the first line, adapting Wallace Stevens’s masterwork "The Idea of Order at Key West," which famously opens with the line, "She sang beyond the genius of the sea." In Stevens, the singer creates something the sea itself could not produce, exceeding the generative capacity of her raw environment. To substitute "the Genius of the Honeywell"—a brand of household box fan—is not a deflationary joke; it is a precise relocation of Stevens's metaphysical claim to a domestic interior. The box fan provides the real, physical acoustic ground: a continuous, unyielding white noise that acts as a neutral backdrop. The opening lines—"A song crept alive, chorus / and verse, against the box fan's blank / canvas"—establish how the hallucination emerges incrementally. The song "crept alive," slipping into consciousness before it is fully recognized, using the fan's ambient sound as the surface upon which it projects.


Crucially, the radio elements are not external transmissions being listened to from across the room; the airbreak and the broadcast are entirely internal to the hallucination itself. When the text turns to the "broadcast host / airbreak unchanged in volume / when he put the alarm clock / to his ear," it captures a stunningly accurate feature of hypnagogic perception. There is no actual radio broadcast playing and no real talk show host; rather, the mind projects the phantom transmission onto the acoustic screen of the room. Because the voice, the airbreak, and the song are generated entirely within the speaker's own mind, bringing the clock-radio to his ear changes nothing about the volume or clarity. It does not behave like a real radio wave obeying distance or tuner frequencies, but instead possesses an unyielding, internal immediacy. The fan is the only external reality in the room—a blank physical canvas. Everything else is a seamless, involuntary construction of a brain sliding into sleep.


The final tercet brings this psychological phenomenon into sharp philosophical focus: "a taste of what / the greats mean when they insist / the music, the idea, the image / was just given to them." The poem grounds the mystical idea of artistic "givenness" in concrete neurology. Great art often feels like it arrived from outside the self because the human brain is entirely capable of generating complex, fully formed audio structures—chorus, verse, and broadcast—completely divorced from conscious construction right on the threshold of sleep. By anchoring this insight to the humble hum of a Honeywell, the poem demonstrates from the inside how the mind can author an entire experience and receive it as a gift.


Meta Description: A nine-line poem locating the phenomenology of artistic reception—the experience of a work arriving as a gift rather than conscious construction—in a hypnagogic state against the acoustic texture of a box fan and a phantom radio broadcast.


Keywords: He Sang Beyond the Genius of the Honeywell, Wallace Stevens Idea of Order at Key West allusion, creative reception poetry, phenomenology of inspiration, box fan white noise, artistic givenness, hypnagogic hallucination, phantom radio broadcast, domestic sublime, ambient sound poetry, tercet form, enjambment and meaning, contemporary lyric poetry, close reading

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MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 2)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 2)

"Made for You and Me 3: Hive Being (Stanzas 2018 — Part 2)" is a poem that operates as a collective nervous system — a distributed, non-hierarchical intelligence registering the full frequency range of contemporary experience simultaneously, without the consolation of narrative sequence or thematic resolution. Its form is the aphorism pushed past the point of wisdom into something more volatile: observations that begin in wit and end in vertigo, ethical provocations that implicate the reader before they have finished processing the sentence, juxtapositions whose violence is structural rather than rhetorical. The poem does not argue. It accumulates. And what accumulates is a portrait of a civilization that has lost the capacity to integrate its own contradictions — not because the contradictions are new, but because the mechanisms for managing them (narrative, ideology, sentiment, humor, religion, theory) have been simultaneously exposed and retained, emptied and still in use.

The title's three-part structure encodes the poem's central tension. "Made for You and Me" is the language of romantic inclusion, of popular song, of the American folk promise — Woody Guthrie's land made for you and me, the domestic idyll, the shared inheritance. "Hive Being" immediately complicates this by dissolving the dyadic "you and me" into collective organism: not two individuals who belong together but a swarm intelligence in which individual identity is a functional illusion. The parenthetical "Stanzas 2018" grounds the hive's buzzing in historical specificity — 2018 is a particular moment of American and global political fracture — while "part 2" signals that this is not a complete argument but a fragment of an ongoing, perhaps uncompletable, inventory. The title is itself a small aphorism: togetherness as both promise and dissolution of self.

The opening entry — "that cuck chair in the motel corner" — arrives with maximum compression and minimum explanation. "Cuck chair" imports the full toxic freight of contemporary internet culture's most weaponized sexual insult: the cuckold, the man who watches while another takes what is his, now evolved into a term of political emasculation applied to any perceived capitulation or weakness. In a motel corner it becomes furniture — ordinary, specific, slightly melancholy — the way ideology always eventually becomes decor. The chair is "that" chair: definitively known, perhaps frequently encountered, its presence unremarkable to those who furnish such rooms. The poem opens by naming an object that contains an entire theory of masculinity, sexual anxiety, political resentment, and cheap accommodation without explaining any of it. This is the poem's fundamental method: the named thing is already saturated; the poem relies on that saturation rather than producing it.

"Nostalgic about the way the place used to be as soon as they migrate there" is the poem's first sustained aphorism and one of its most precise sociological observations. The sentence identifies a temporal paradox at the heart of gentrification, displacement, and cultural colonization: the newcomer's nostalgia is not for a personal past but for an imagined prior state of the place they have just entered and begun to transform. The nostalgia is produced by arrival, not by departure. It precedes any actual attachment. And yet it functions as attachment — as entitlement, as grievance, as the emotional basis for further transformation. The sentence says nothing about race or class explicitly, but its implications extend through both. It is the mechanism by which every encroachment justifies itself as preservation.

"The preferred weed sack; the preferred woman: fat, pungent, no seeds" performs its equation with deliberate crudeness. The parallelism — sack/woman, fat/pungent/no seeds — is the poem's most openly provocative yoking, and it refuses to signal whether it is endorsing the equivalence, reporting it, or both. What it does is name a set of preferences that exist in the same consciousness, organized by the same aesthetic logic, without the usual separation of registers that allows people to maintain contradictory self-images. The connoisseur of quality marijuana and the man who prefers large, aromatic women without complications (no seeds: no reproductive consequence, no entanglement) are not being contrasted. They are the same person applying the same criteria. The crudeness is the point: the poem denies the dignity of separate categories.

"Medical test results in a river" is the poem's most compressed tragedy. Five words contain an entire biography of poverty, shame, fear, and magical thinking — the refusal of diagnosis, the literal disposal of knowledge that cannot be afforded or survived psychologically. The river is both specific (Southern, gothic, American) and mythological (Lethe, the river of forgetting). The person who throws their test results in a river is not ignorant; they are making a rational choice within an irrational system, choosing the uncertainty they can live with over the certainty they cannot.

"The inhumanity of not letting strangers hold your baby" is the poem at its most mischievous. It reframes a contemporary bourgeois norm — the protective anxiety around infant contact, the sanitized stranger-danger that has replaced village-level communal child-rearing — as inhumanity rather than care. The entry doesn't argue this at length. It simply names it and moves on, leaving the reader to sit with the possibility that the gesture of protection is also a gesture of severance, of anti-communal privatization of new life.

The entry immediately following — "but wait, are we not nothing more than avatars of our race and gender identities?" — performs a mock interruption, a satirical voice-from-the-theory-room objecting to the implied humanism of the previous observation. The "but wait" mimics the rhetorical move of progressive discourse that would dissolve the "stranger" and the "mother" and the "baby" into subject positions determined by identity categories, making the spontaneous human impulse to hold and be held legible only as the reproduction of structural power. The poem does not reject this analysis. It places it next to the baby and lets the discomfort accumulate.

"Enemies invented to sell weapons" is the poem's most direct political aphorism, and its brevity is its argument: the sentence is short because the mechanism is simple, and the mechanism's simplicity is the scandal. Adjacent to it, "gas station libido packets" drops into the register of the bathetic and the commercial — the blister-packed aphrodisiacs, the rhino pills, the desperate late-night purchases — with a deflation that is itself a kind of commentary on what becomes of desire in a militarized consumer economy. The juxtaposition is not explained. It doesn't need to be.

"What in her he so needed to kill was the only thing keeping him with her" is the poem's most devastating single observation, and it stands as its own complete psychological novel. The sentence describes the mechanism of intimate destruction with a precision that neither condemns nor excuses: the thing targeted for elimination in the beloved is simultaneously the thing that produced and sustains the attachment. Destroy it and you are free; destroy it and you have nothing. The sentence does not specify gender but its grammar — "in her," "him" — deploys the conventional pronoun assignment of heterosexual destruction, while remaining open to other configurations. It is the most purely literary entry in the poem.

The coitus-in-front-of-children entry is the poem's most deliberately outrageous philosophical proposition, and it earns its outrageousness through the precision of its argument. The claim is not simple provocation: it holds that exposing children to parental sexuality is in some pure, anthropological sense an act of life-affirmation — the opposite of the bloodbath gaming and cinema that the same culture accepts without comment. The qualifier "in our anti-life land" is the key: the proposition does not advocate but diagnoses. The culture that traumatizes children with graphic death while protecting them from consensual adult sexuality has arranged its taboos around the suppression of life and the normalization of violence. This is a genuine argument, made in three lines, surrounded by forty-eight other arguments.

"'I won't make you promises' / is not a true deconstruction if the subtext / is 'I won't after this one, of course'" performs a philosophical and emotional operation simultaneously. It identifies the self-exempting clause hidden inside the rhetoric of non-commitment — the performative contradiction of the person who promises not to promise. The word "deconstruction" is used precisely: not in its academic sense but in its popular appropriation as a term for dismantling convention, and the poem notes that this dismantling is always already re-conventionalizing itself through the exception it carves out for the present moment.

The placebo and color of Jesus entry — "since different color placebo pills / have different efficacy, might / different color Jesus's as well?" — is the poem's most compressed theological provocation. The empirical finding (that placebo effect varies by pill color, shape, and perceived authority) is extrapolated into comparative religion with the lightest possible touch. The question mark keeps the poem from settling into either mockery or mysticism. It is genuinely asking whether the cultural specificity of religious representation has measurable psychological efficacy — whether a Black Jesus or a Brown Jesus or a White Jesus works differently in the nervous system of the believer, and whether this would be an argument for or against the truth claims of any tradition.

"Hypersexualized bodies (blacks, say) are more easily raped in good conscience / animalized bodies (blacks, say) are more easily killed in good conscience" — these two parallel entries are the poem's political and historical spine made briefly visible. The parenthetical "blacks, say" is doing enormous work: it names without insisting on uniqueness, marks without reducing to a single case, acknowledges the pattern while leaving open its application to other bodies organized by similar logics of dehumanization. The entries do not editorialize. They state mechanisms. The horror is in the statement's accuracy, not in any rhetorical amplification.

"Remaining exploited because it frees you from having to care" names a genuine psychological economy of oppression: the way in which powerlessness can function as a form of exemption from moral responsibility, from the exhausting labor of agency. The entry does not moralize about this. It simply identifies it as a real structure of consciousness — one that is simultaneously understandable and, in its own way, a form of complicity with the conditions that produce it.

The poem's final entry — "with pathetic plosives, a young boy battles / plastic figurines from the film coming soon / as puff-eyed parents, bedside, pray for time" — arrives as a kind of negative epiphany, a closing image that refuses closure. The "pathetic plosives" are the child's sound-effects, his mouth-made explosions and crashes, "pathetic" in its root sense of pathos-laden rather than merely pitiable. The film coming soon has already colonized his imagination; he is playing inside a commercial fiction that will become a commercial reality. The parents, puff-eyed from crying or sleeplessness or both, pray "for time" — not for healing, not for miracle, but for time itself, which is to say they have already moved past hope into the more desperate prayer of postponement. The scene is rendered without sentiment, which is what makes it devastating. The poem ends not with aphorism but with image — with three people in a room, the child making the sounds of battle while his parents pray at the edge of something the poem will not name.

Formally, "Made for You and Me 3" operates through what might be called ethical montage: the juxtaposition of entries produces meaning that neither entry contains alone. The cuck chair and the nostalgia of gentrification illuminate each other across the white space between them. The preferred woman and the medical results thrown in the river share a logic of avoidance and appetite that becomes visible only in proximity. The poem's white space is not absence but pressure — the force of relation held open for the reader to complete or refuse. This is a poem that trusts, perhaps demands, an active reader: one willing to sit in the discomfort of adjacency, to make connections the poem refuses to make explicit, to be implicated by what they recognize.

What "Made for You and Me 3" ultimately refuses is the consolation of a position. It does not stand anywhere stable long enough to be located. It moves through registers — the sexual, the political, the philosophical, the domestic, the theological, the ecological — with an agility that prevents any single framework from organizing the whole. The hive being of the title is not a unity but a distributed intelligence, sensing everywhere at once, incapable of the kind of hierarchical meaning-making that would allow any entry to dominate or resolve the others. The poem is itself a hive: its individual observations are workers, each doing a specific function, and the queen — if there is one — is something like the pressure of living consciously in a civilization that has not yet found a way to integrate what it knows about itself.

Meta Description

A formally distributed poem of aphorism, provocation, and ethical montage — moving through sexuality, race, power, religion, grief, and consumer culture without hierarchy or resolution, building a portrait of collective consciousness that registers everything and metabolizes nothing.

Keywords

Made for You and Me 3, Hive Being, aphorism poetry, ethical montage, contemporary American poetry, race and sexuality, consumer culture critique, distributed consciousness poetry, placebo theology, gentrification nostalgia, intimate destruction, political aphorism, close reading contemporary verse, Hypocorism, fragmented form poetry

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Band Performance Section of "Hypocorism" (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Band Performance Section of "Hypocorism" (ROUND 1)

"Band Performance" is a section of Hypocorism that performs its central argument in its own architecture: it is a meditation on the impossibility of clean categorical separation — between desire and love, between protection and exploitation, between logic and lived experience, between selfhood and the other — rendered in a prose form that itself refuses to stay cleanly inside any category. It is at once a philosophical essay, an erotic confession, a grief narrative, an ekphrastic excursion, and a love letter structured as self-prosecution. Its central intelligence is a man at war with his own intelligence, and the section's formal achievement is to make that war feel simultaneously desperate, lucid, self-serving, genuinely beautiful, and genuinely dangerous, without resolving any of those tensions into a verdict.

The section opens in medias res — the narrator has driven, out of habit, to a private cemetery spot, a place of established significance that is being revisited in her absence as a kind of secular vigil. The gesture is immediately characterized as simultaneously voluntary and compelled: "out of habit — but not entirely." This hedged self-knowledge is the piece's governing mode. The narrator is always catching himself in the act of a motivation he cannot fully own, always adding a qualifier that simultaneously reveals and protects. The cemetery is the right place for such a narrator: it is a space organized around the impossibility of retrieval, the permanence of loss, and the ongoing necessity of meaning-making in the face of brute facticity.

The car, the tree, the park orientation — these domestic rituals accumulate into a portrait of a man whose relationship to control borders on compulsion. The oral-care routine that has "ballooned, one micro addition at a time, into a half-hour stretch" is one of the section's most precise psychological notations, and it functions not merely as character detail but as structural analogy: the narrator's relationship to ethical reasoning has similarly ballooned through micro-accretion, one qualification at a time, into an elaborate apparatus that is simultaneously rigorous and self-serving. He is as precise about his parking coordinates as he is about his philosophical positions, and in both cases the precision is a form of control that mimics care.

The bassinet gravestone is the section's central ekphrastic object, and the narrator's response to it constitutes some of the piece's most accomplished writing. "Laid out was a little christening gown, its lace detail softening into a flatscape at a rate too slow for human notice in process outside of a centurial time elapse compressed into a short video." The description is precise to the point of scientific rigor, and it is this rigor — this refusal of easy sentimentality — that makes the passage devastating rather than merely sad. The gray lichen spreading "like tiny archipelagos," the moss "pooled in the deepest creases," the parallel grooves of the name worn past legibility: these details accumulate into an argument about the relationship between inscription and erasure that the narrator recognizes immediately as hers. "Even your chiseled name dies." He "cribs her poem seed" — a phrase that is itself a small theft, a small appropriation — and emails it to himself. He is always processing her through his own machinery even when the thought originated in hers.

The synesthetic description of the cherub faces — "sharp urine and pungent halitosis, once angular and glinting like an Ethiopian cage shaken to terrify the cat into secretive production, now mellowed to what could be mistaken for unfiltered honey" — is the narrator performing his arcane erudition at precisely the moment when simpler language would have been more vulnerable. He opts for the civet comparison over the "Face on Mars" comparison, he tells us, "in his worry about cliché." But the worry about cliché is itself a form of defense: it keeps him at the level of craft rather than feeling. The section is full of these moments in which intellectual facility becomes a buffer against the thing it is supposedly describing. That he names this tendency does not exempt him from it; it merely demonstrates the depth of the trap.

The philosophical digression on the wedge between logical closure and existential satisfaction is the section's most formally daring passage, and it does not read as digression because it is the argument the whole section is making in embodied form. The narrator is a philosopher who has spent decades dismissing first-person experience as philosophically irrelevant — dismissing, precisely, what she insists upon when she yells "I have one life!" The wedge he describes — between the airtight ontological account and the nausea that no such account can assuage — is not merely an academic problem. It is the structure of his entire situation. He can argue, and has argued, and continues to argue, with complete logical coherence, that the age gap between them makes romantic involvement morally suspect. He wins every argument. He does not win. The section dramatizes what it describes: the insufficiency of third-person ethical bookkeeping as a technology for navigating actual lived bonds.

That the girl is sixteen is not incidental to this analysis and the section does not permit it to be incidental. The narrator knows it. He rehearses the arguments. He presses himself with them in interior monologue, in fantasy dialogue, in his compulsive returns to the philosophical literature on justification and lived experience. But the section is too intelligent to present his philosophical pressure as exculpatory. If anything, the elaborateness of the ethical apparatus — its many qualifications, its genuine sophistication, its real philosophical substance — becomes, under readerly scrutiny, evidence of the degree to which sophisticated consciousness can be weaponized in service of desire. The narrator is aware of this possibility. He accuses himself of it. The accusation does not stop him. This gap between self-knowledge and behavioral change is the section's darkest psychological territory.

The fantasy-her dialogues are the section's most formally inventive device and its most ethically complex. Fantasy-her is articulate, perceptive, independently-minded, and capable of arguments that puncture the narrator's philosophical defenses: "The territory ain't the map. That's what you say right? Maps blur the shit — every hospital, no matter how different they are, the same red cross. Feel me? I'm real in the territory. I'm not just a kid. I'm this kid." This is a genuine philosophical point, one the narrator could not have improved. But the dialogues are his construction. He has given her the arguments that defeat him. He has scripted her victory. The fantasy form has, he notes, "its own life like a song looping in your head" — but it is his head. The fantasy version of her accesses "his mind too, just as real-her did," but the parenthetical "just as real-her did" reveals the asymmetry: fantasy-her's access to his mind is, in fact, his mind's access to an image of her. He cannot stop projecting, even when he is most insisting on her independent reality.

The band performance itself is one of contemporary American prose's more quietly devastating set pieces. The fluorescent tubes "at the same merciless wattage of lunch hour," the smell of tater tots and floor wax, the "childish cacophony" — the scene is rendered without glamour or sentimentality, and its refusal of glamour is what makes the narrator's response to it so disarming. When she rises and puts her lips to the mouthpiece, "her posture took on a fierce gravity." The physical description is both accurate and erotic, and the narrator knows it, does not look away from it. "His chest tightened, pitched forward." But what follows is not reduction. The horn becomes, in his hearing, the embodiment of her central argument — "screaming, shrieking, her existential challenge to abstract reasoning, to impersonal logic that could capture a lived bond no more than physics could God" — and then, critically, exceeds his reading of it. "Her solo had too much presence for that reading to stand. She was her own person. This was a rage against all flattening."

The Rilke invocation — "You must change your life" — is precise because it is the line from "Archaic Torso of Apollo" that designates the aesthetic object's demand on the viewer. The torso's gaze, Rilke writes, reaches everywhere and insists on transformation. The narrator hears this demand from her playing, and is moved by it — genuinely, physiologically moved, to tears and boogers and a cracked voice and a paper towel from the janitor. The janitor's "They grow up fast" is simultaneously banal, appropriate, and quietly vertiginous, given what we know. The narrator's "Yeah" costs him something.

The section's final movement, centered on the card, constitutes its emotional climax and its most concentrated formal achievement. The card — made to look deliberately primitive, backwards S's and P's, tornado swirls — carries a message whose poetic compression exceeds anything the narrator produces in his academic or ekphrastic modes:

Hurry kills Presence / Worry kills Peace / Doubt kills Faith / Ego kills Love / Fear kills Spark / Duty kills Intimacy

Each line is a diagnosis of what he is doing to them, to himself, to the possibility of the connection he claims to value above all. And the reversal — "Read it the other way too" — transforms each line into its positive: Presence kills Hurry, Peace kills Worry, Faith kills Doubt, Love kills Ego, Spark kills Fear, Intimacy kills Duty. The card operates as a chiasmus, a logical inversion that proves she has been listening more carefully to his own philosophical training than he credits. The final notation on the back — "I kill the noise" — is the most compact formulation of her function in his life, and the most quietly devastating thing in the section. She kills the noise. He has not been able to return the service.

That he "stayed quiet, letting her watchful smile and searching eyes stay pure" is the section's most ambiguous moment of tenderness. He does not perform his comebacks. He honors the card's message. Whether this constitutes genuine transformation or a more refined form of self-congratulation — noting his own capacity for restraint — the prose leaves open. The final detail, that he does not masturbate when he returns home but instead stands before the card "as if it were a candle flame," is not redemptive. It is continuous with the section's logic: he is capable of restraint when the alternative is insufficient, when the better thing is also the thing he wants more. He has not changed the wanting. He has found a different object for the night.

Formally, the section moves between registers with a precision that mimics the narrator's own oscillating consciousness. Academic prose gives way to vernacular transcription, ekphrastic notation gives way to fantasy dialogue, philosophical argument gives way to physical sensation, and back. No register dominates for long enough to become a stable dwelling. The sentences themselves enact this: they are long, elaborately subordinated, clause-heavy structures that accumulate qualifications the way the narrator accumulates ethical hedges — each parenthetical a micro-adjustment, each revision a small retreat from the claim of the sentence before it. The prose sounds like a man thinking, which is to say it sounds like a man evading and pursuing the truth simultaneously, which is to say it sounds true.

"Band Performance" is ultimately a section about the limits of the intelligence it enacts. It does not condemn its narrator from outside; it gives him every tool — philosophical, emotional, aesthetic, self-critical — and watches what he does with them, which is, in the end, to remain. To stay in the cemetery. To drive to the school. To stand in the back of the auditorium in the dark. To cry at the janitor. To go home to the card. The intelligence does not free him. It furnishes the cell.

Meta Description

A section from Hypocorism tracing a philosopher's recursive self-prosecution in a cemetery and a school auditorium: desire, ethical argument, fantasy dialogue, and ekphrastic grief converge in a prose form that performs the section's central claim — that no amount of third-person reasoning can fully account for, or finally restrain, the first-person life.

Keywords

Hypocorism, Band Performance, age-gap narrative prose, philosophical fiction, first-person lived experience, ekphrasis and grief, fantasy dialogue fiction, erotic cognition prose, Rilke archaic torso, existential wedge, interior monologue analysis, ethical self-prosecution, cemetery ekphrasis, contemporary American literary fiction, desire and restraint, close reading prose fiction

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Parthenia Spring (ROUND 3)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Parthenia Spring (ROUND 3)

Introduction In "Parthenia Spring," the speaker transforms a localized Austin memory into a meditation on deep time, ecological immersion, and historical inheritance. Dedicated to a specific chapter of the author's life, the poem operates on multiple planes simultaneously: it is a phenomenological record of a physical dive into the frigid depths of the spring, a modern recreation, and a quiet acknowledgement of the indigenous peoples—such as the Tonkawa and Apache—who inhabited and moved through the landscape long before urbanization. Through precise material detail, kinetic enjambment, and a vertical optical shift, the poem accomplishes a synthesis of personal nostalgia and ancestral resonance. The Materiality of History: Weight and Ancestral Lineage The poem immediately establishes its stakes through physical weight in the opening stanza, introducing "Stone ballast cradled / at heart, a boy / moonhops (as natives did) / in a clearing of eel grass." By describing the stone as a ballast, the speaker frames the boy's body not merely as a swimmer, but as a vessel navigating an aquatic space. The parenthetical aside—(as natives did)—is a crucial pivot. Rather than romanticizing or appropriating indigenous history from a detached distance, the poem roots historical continuity in a shared physical technology: using heavy stones to overcome buoyancy and descend into the aquifer. The moonhops across the eel grass connect the modern child's play to ancient survival and ceremonial practices, binding past and present through the shared resistance against water. Kinetic Form and Environmental Pressure The formal mechanics of the second stanza mirror the physical realities of diving into a deep, high-pressure spring head. The text moves through enjambment as the boy "lies back under / its calm / heft in the frigid / gush of the headspring— / verdure pulsing." The tactical use of enjambment forces the reader to experience structural suspension. Breaking the lines across "under / its calm / heft" mimics the physical drag, inertia, and downward pull of the water column. The language moves deliberately between opposites: the calm heft contrasts with the sudden, dynamic energy of the frigid gush. Furthermore, the phrase "verdure pulsing" animates the underwater flora, transforming the spring bottom from a static landscape into a living, breathing ecosystem that matches the internal tension of a body holding its breath under pressure. Optics, Mediation, and the Vertical Axis The poem's concluding movement shifts perspective from the ocean floor upward, using modern optics to frame a primal visual field "like surface-treading limbs / in his goggled eyes, drawn / up to that quivering / smear of sun." Separated from the surface by a heavy column of water, the boy looks up through his goggles at the distorted world above. The choice of the word quivering—a deliberate evolution from a softer, more passive shimmer—introduces a restless, optical jitteriness. The sun is reduced to a smear, warped by refraction, currents, and the motion of surface-treading limbs. This imagery accomplishes a brilliant psychological and spatial inversion. The modern swimmer, equipped with goggles, looks up at the unheeding modern vacationers overhead, yet his entire method of being there is ancient, suspended between the silent floor of the aquifer and the sunlit world above. Conclusion "Parthenia Spring" achieves its resonance by refusing to treat nature or history as mere backdrops. By anchoring the poem in the precise physics of underwater descent—the ballast stone, the cold current, and the distorted refraction of light—it turns a fleeting memory into an artifact of deep time. The boy at the bottom of the spring becomes a conduit, unknowingly stepping into an ancient footprint, proving that the landscape retains the memory of all who have sought its cold refuge. Keywords: Parthenia Spring, Barton Springs, Tonkawa, Apache, deep time, phenomenology, enjambment,

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White Supremacy on Its Deathbed (full book, Round 3)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

White Supremacy on Its Deathbed (full book, Round 3)

"White Supremacy on Its Deathbed" is the most formally ambitious, politically volatile, and intellectually demanding work in the project — a lyrical essay that refuses every available category for its containment. It is not a polemic, not a memoir, not a work of cultural criticism, not a prose poem, though it borrows the instruments of all four. Its governing formal claim, announced in the preface and enacted across six chapters, is that the most devastating threats to Black flourishing in contemporary America arrive not from the residual energies of white supremacy but from the apparatus constructed in white supremacy's name — and that this reversal is the defining irony of the present moment, an irony so severe it has the structure of tragedy.

The Sowell and Washington epigraphs establish the essay's intellectual lineage before the preface begins. Both figures are positioned as prophets whose warnings went unheeded — Sowell's observation that racism has been placed "under new management," Washington's warning about race-problem solvers who "don't want the patient to get well." The essay inherits from both a suspicion of institutionalized grievance, a commitment to Black agency as the only durable foundation for Black flourishing, and a willingness to say what the dominant discourse has made professionally dangerous to say. What the essay adds to this tradition is the formal apparatus of a lyrical essay that refuses the sober register of policy argument and instead floods its argument with the full resources of literary violence — the grotesque, the satirical, the scatological, the pornographic, the comedic, and the tragic operating simultaneously.

The preface establishes the essay's central thesis with compressed clarity: that the "antiracist movement, in its mainstream form at least, nourishes itself ultimately upon the bogus notion that white supremacy — although 'now invisible most of the time, to most eyes' — flourishes today well beyond merely the American marrow from which it supposedly can never be removed." The move is rhetorical and argumentative simultaneously: by positioning DiAngelo's framework as the object of critique and citing McWhorter, Chait, Loury, Steele, and Hughes as critical allies, the essay places itself within a specific tradition of Black and liberal dissent from progressive orthodoxy, a tradition with genuine intellectual pedigree that the dominant discourse has systematically marginalized. The preface also discloses the personal — the cancellation of the author's professorship on grounds that his creative writing was "unsettling especially to vulnerable populations" — which grounds the essay's animus in specific biographical injury rather than abstract ideological position. This disclosure is crucial: it tells us that the essay is not a detached analysis but a document of genuine wounds, that the furious intelligence driving it is in part the intelligence of someone who has been hurt by the very apparatus he critiques.

Chapter 1, "Gator Bait," establishes the essay's central rhetorical device and sustains it across hundreds of pages: the extended rhetorical question "what might white supremacy do from its deathbed?" followed by the refrain "It could just sit back and revel in our world where..." The device is formally brilliant because it inverts the standard antiracist framework without abandoning its terms. Rather than arguing that white supremacy is absent, the essay argues that white supremacy's most effective remaining operation is to do nothing — to allow the apparatus of antiracism to perform the work of degradation, infantilization, and dependency that white supremacy itself could never accomplish openly. The irony accumulates across the chapter's historical inventory of Black achievement and opportunity: the essay asks what room white supremacy has to grow in a time when Black Americans have reached every pinnacle of American life, and answers that it needs no room because the work is being done for it. Coleman Hughes's opening epigraph frames America as "one of the least racist places on Earth," and the chapter's historical inventory is designed to substantiate that claim against the dominant narrative — not to deny that racism exists but to argue that the dominant narrative's exaggerations have become more damaging than the residual racism they nominally address.

Chapter 2, "Macaroni Sounds (Over That Brrrap-Brrrap-Brrrap)," is the essay's most formally extreme section and its most legally treacherous. The extended catalogue of rap lyrics — drawn from across decades and artists, ranging from the merely raunchy to the genuinely criminal — is the chapter's central formal argument, and that argument is structural rather than merely illustrative. The sheer accumulation is the point: the catalogue is too long to be selective, too comprehensive to be dismissed as cherry-picking. What the essay is arguing through form is that the monolith of hypersexual, hyperviolent imagery in mainstream Black popular culture is not an aberration but a system — and that the system's persistence, its escalation, its normalization, and its celebration by the very progressive apparatus that claims to fight Black degradation constitutes a catastrophe for Black dignity that no honest account of the present can avoid. The C. Delores Tucker speech — intercut with Sukihana's lyrics in a formally devastating counterpoint — is the chapter's emotional and argumentative center: Tucker's 1993 anti-gangsta-rap testimony, delivered with the full moral authority of the civil rights tradition, is shown to have been not only ignored but actively overrun by the very forces she named. The chapter's invented La'Cinda'Relle Cinderella parody is the essay's most formally audacious set piece — a sustained satirical fiction that enacts its argument through pastiche, using the genre machinery of the fairy tale to render visible what the culture has normalized. That it is simultaneously funny, devastating, and genuinely offensive is the point: the essay refuses to make its critique comfortable, insisting that the reader who laughs at La'Cinda's story or who winces at it or who is aroused by elements of it is implicated in the cultural system the essay is examining.

Chapter 3, "Toby in Kunta Mask," shifts the essay's focus from cultural to educational institutions, and its governing argument is the most philosophically sustained in the work: that the lowering of standards for Black students, the pathologizing of intellectual achievement as "acting white," the substitution of grievance pedagogy for genuine education, and the condemnation of the very Enlightenment values — reason, objectivity, scientific inquiry, diligence — that have historically enabled marginalized groups to compete and flourish, constitute a form of anti-Black racism more insidious than any cross-burning. The chapter's use of invented classroom scenarios, spoken-word performances, and hypothetical courses like "Afro-Mathematics" operates as satirical defamiliarization — taking the real logic of certain progressive pedagogical positions and following it to its conclusions with merciless literalism. The chapter's intellectual touchstone is McWhorter's observation that what is being implicitly communicated to Black students is "we can't cut it" — and that this communication, however kindly intended, is the most devastatingly racist message available. The Marva Collins reference is the chapter's positive counter-example: a Black educator who held Black kindergarteners to demanding intellectual standards and achieved remarkable results, a figure whose approach the dominant progressive framework would now classify as oppressive.

Chapter 4, "Open Season," is the essay's most politically direct chapter, and its catalogue of ways that affirmative action and special dispensation have simultaneously patronized and damaged Black people draws heavily on the established conservative and centrist Black intellectual tradition — Loury, Steele, McWhorter — while pushing that tradition's logic further than it typically goes in respectable venues. The chapter's argument is that the infantilization of Black people through lowered expectations is not a side effect of well-intentioned policy but its necessary structural consequence: that the logic of "you cannot be expected to compete under these conditions" contains within it the premise of permanent inferiority, and that this premise — however wrapped in the language of justice and compassion — reproduces the essential content of the white supremacist worldview it claims to oppose. The chapter's most intellectually serious move is the distinction between emergency medicine and chronic dependency: affirmative action as a "syphon" to start a flow that then requires individual development to sustain, rather than as a permanent substitute for that development. This is not a novel argument — it is recognizably Steele's and Loury's — but the essay deploys it with a ferocity and a fullness of implication that the more measured academic versions rarely reach.

Chapter 5, "Nazi Alert," is the essay's most formally anarchic chapter and its most deliberately provocative. The extended catalogue of white self-abasement — the Race2Dinner dinner party, the boot-kissing campus ceremony, the various white progressive confessionals, the university convocation speech — is the chapter's rhetorical engine, and its operation is complex. On one level it is satire, following the logic of certain progressive positions to absurd but not entirely implausible conclusions. On another level it is a serious argument about the psychological and social consequences of a culture that has normalized the public performance of white guilt as a substitute for genuine engagement with racial inequality. The Thomas Chatterton Williams epigraph frames the chapter's central claim: that mainstream antiracism "mirrors ideas of race — specifically the specialness of whiteness — that white supremacist thinkers cherish," that both sides "eagerly reduce people to abstract color categories" and "feed off and legitimize each other." The chapter's catalogue of the various double-binds whites face — damned for speaking, damned for silence; damned for engaging with Black culture, damned for not engaging; damned for defending themselves against accusations, damned for failing to defend themselves — is the essay's most formally precise argument about how the antiracist framework has made productive interracial discourse structurally impossible. The chapter also contains the essay's most controversial material: the extended passages describing rising white radicalization and the fantasies of retributive violence. These passages are not endorsements — they are the essay's most urgent warnings, rendered in the register of inevitability rather than desire, showing the trajectory that sustained dehumanization historically produces.

Chapter 6, "Let My People Go!" is the essay's shortest and most direct chapter, and it closes on Farrakhan's inversion — "Pharaoh has already let you go! But it is you who have not let Pharaoh go!" — as its governing image. The chapter synthesizes the preceding argument into its cleanest formulation: that the "biggest threat to goodwill between whites and blacks is the various things done in the name of an 'anti-nazi commitment to inclusion and equity'"; that the biggest inciter of individual racism on both sides is all that keeps being done to fight a systemic racism "long ago put into remission"; that "the best evidence for the lie that white supremacy continues to have a pervasive grip over this country are the various things done in the respectable (and big-money) name of 'dismantling white supremacy.'" The Coleman Hughes epigraph frames the chapter as a moral-panic analysis: the antiracist movement as a species of the same mass delusion that produced the Satanic daycare hysteria of the 1980s — a phenomenon that "looks like obvious absurdity from the outside" while seeming "totally reasonable to those on the inside." The chapter ends not with resolution but with the trajectory the essay has been tracing throughout: a call for the alignment of "our perceptions with our reality" as the only path toward the racial healing that the dominant discourse, in its exaggerations and its incentives, actively forecloses.

Formally, the essay's most significant achievement is its management of tone across its enormous length. The "It could just sit back and revel" refrain functions as a kind of liturgical structure — the repeated phrase creating a cumulative ironic weight that grows heavier with each iteration, so that by the essay's final pages the refrain carries the full weight of everything that has preceded it. The essay moves between registers — academic citation, satirical fiction, lyrical description, catalogue, invective, confession — with a fluency that refuses the reader any stable interpretive position. One cannot read it as simple polemic because its formal complexity exceeds polemic. One cannot read it as detached analysis because its personal investment is too fully disclosed. One cannot read it as satire because its factual claims are too seriously documented. It is closest, in the tradition of African American letters, to certain modes of the jeremiad — the prophetic denunciation of a people's failure to live up to their own stated ideals — but its target is not the nation's failure to honor its Black citizens. Its target is the failure of the institutions claiming to honor those citizens to honestly reckon with what that honoring requires.

The essay's ultimate subject is Black agency — its suppression, its necessity, and its recovery. Every chapter circles back to the same argument: that genuine Black power requires the willingness to look honestly at the full complexity of Black life, including the aspects that progressive orthodoxy has made taboo to examine; that the dependency cultivated by the antiracist industrial complex is the most effective remaining mechanism for Black subordination; and that the path out runs through exactly the qualities — reason, rigor, self-examination, accountability, aspiration — that the dominant discourse has classified as expressions of whiteness. The essay's anger is not the anger of white supremacy. It is the anger of someone who believes Black people are capable of more than the framework built to protect them allows them to be.

Meta Description

A lyrical essay of extraordinary formal ambition and political volatility — moving across six chapters from historical inventory through cultural critique, educational analysis, satirical fiction, and radical political provocation — to argue that the contemporary antiracist industrial complex constitutes the most effective remaining mechanism for Black subordination, its infantilization, dependency cultivation, and standard-lowering performing the work that white supremacy itself could no longer accomplish openly, leaving the deathbed patient to sit back and revel.

Keywords

White Supremacy on Its Deathbed, lyrical essay, antiracist critique, Black agency, victimology narrative, Glenn Loury, Shelby Steele, Thomas Sowell, John McWhorter, Coleman Hughes, C. Delores Tucker, gangsta rap and Black culture, affirmative action critique, Enlightenment values, moral panic, jeremiad form, satirical fiction, La'Cinda'Relle, Race2Dinner parody, dependency and dignity, progressive orthodoxy, Black intellectual dissent, contemporary American political essay, formal complexity, ironic refrain, racial double-bind

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One Lifeboat Fewer (ROUND 3)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

One Lifeboat Fewer (ROUND 3)

"One Lifeboat Fewer" is a poem about the specific cognitive impoverishment that follows the death of someone who shared your memories — the person whose presence allowed your past to remain three-dimensional, verifiable, and alive. Its nine lines move through three tercets with the careful formal architecture of an elegy that has stripped itself of all conventional consolation, arriving at a single devastating economic metaphor: the survivor as "inheritor of unexpected poverty."

The title establishes the poem's governing figure before the first line. A lifeboat is emergency survival equipment — what you reach for when the ship goes under. One lifeboat fewer means the mathematics of survival have worsened; the margin has narrowed. Applied to the death of a person who shared your memories, the metaphor argues that such a death is not merely a loss of companionship but a reduction in one's capacity to survive the sea of the past. Memory, the poem proposes, is not a private archive but a shared one — and when the co-archivist dies, the archive itself is partly destroyed.

The opening tercet names what has been lost with a precision that accumulates across its three lines. "Luminous no longer to nourish / them" — the "them" initially unspecified, held back by enjambment — establishes the dead person as a source of illumination for something essential. "If only with his nudging / glance" specifies the mechanism: not dramatic intervention but the small, continuous, lateral confirmation that another person provides simply by being present and sharing the same field of reference. The "nudging glance" is exact — not a full look, not an explanation, but the sideways recognition between two people who share a context so thoroughly that the glance alone activates the shared archive. "To flush, to flesh, / them out" finally names what the nudging glance accomplished: to give the memories body, dimension, substantiality. "Flush" carries its photographic sense — to develop, to bring the latent image to visibility — alongside its sense of fullness and color. "Flesh" is equally precise: memories without a co-witness are skeletal, structural; the other person's presence gives them flesh, makes them inhabitable again.

"To affirm or refute / your playback" deepens this analysis. Memory is not simply stored and retrieved; it is played back, and playback requires an audience capable of affirming or refuting the version being replayed. The co-witness does not merely confirm — they can also push back, correct, offer a different angle. "Refute" is important: the relationship the poem mourns is not one of simple validation but of genuine epistemic partnership, in which the other person's disagreement was as valuable as their agreement, because both kept the memory from calcifying into unchecked self-narrative.

"Memories / defoliate into stumps too soon / after that tssk of the flame" is the poem's most formally inventive passage. "Defoliate" is a word from herbicide and warfare — the deliberate stripping of foliage from trees to deny cover, most famously associated with the systematic destruction of the Vietnamese jungle. Applied to memory, it suggests that the death of the co-witness performs an act of exposure and devastation on the shared archive — not the gradual fading of ordinary forgetting but the sudden stripping of everything that gave the memories their living cover. What remains are "stumps" — the memories are not gone but reduced to their bare structural remnants, alive enough to mark where something was, too diminished to shelter anything.

"That tssk of the flame" is the poem's most daring sonic invention. "Tssk" is onomatopoeic for the sound a flame makes when it goes out — the soft, almost dismissive extinguishing that is the opposite of the dramatic death we might prefer to assign to those who mattered. The word is also the sound of mild reproof, of impatience, of the tongue click that says "such a shame" without fully committing to grief. The flame "who shared them with you" confirms that the dead person was not a passive repository but an active participant in the maintenance of the shared archive — they shared the memories, tended them, gave them their heat.

"Inheritor of unexpected poverty" closes the poem on its governing paradox. The survivor has not lost something external — a companion, a friend, a co-witness — but has inherited a condition: poverty. Poverty is the absence of resources one needs to function, to participate fully in the life available to one. Unexpected poverty is particularly devastating because it arrives without preparation — one did not know one was living above the poverty line of memory until the death revealed the true accounting. The word "inheritor" is exact: the survivor has received this poverty as a bequest, has been handed it by the death, carries it now as part of their estate.

Formally, the poem's three tercets mirror the three functions of the co-witness named in the first two stanzas — to nourish and flesh out memories, to affirm or refute their playback, and finally to be extinguished — before the third tercet names the result. The enjambments are consistently used to hold the key terms — "them," "memories," "stumps" — past the line break before delivering them, creating small suspensions that reproduce the experience of reaching for something that is no longer where one expects to find it. The sonic texture is careful throughout: the soft fricatives of "flush" and "flesh," the percussive precision of "tssk," the formal weight of "defoliate" and "inheritor" anchoring the poem's more colloquial moments.

What "One Lifeboat Fewer" achieves is a portrait of a specific and undertheorized form of grief — not the loss of a person's presence but the loss of the cognitive and epistemic function they performed, the way their existence made one's own past survivable and legible. The poem does not console. It maps the new poverty with precision, which is the only honest gift available.

Meta Description

A poem about the cognitive impoverishment that follows the death of a shared-memory witness — arguing that the co-archivist's death strips memories of their living cover, reducing them to stumps, and leaves the survivor an inheritor of unexpected poverty: the sudden revelation that one's past required another person to remain three-dimensional and survivable.

Keywords

One Lifeboat Fewer, elegy, shared memory, co-witness grief, memory defoliation, cognitive poverty, nudging glance, tssk of the flame, inheritor, unexpected poverty, contemporary American elegy, tercet form, close reading, grief and epistemology, memory and survival

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MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 1)

The first installment of the 2018 sequence announces a shift in the hive's atmospheric pressure. Where the 2016 and 2017 sequences built their range gradually, moving between registers with something like leisure, Part 1 of 2018 arrives already at maximum compression — its entries shorter on average, more aphoristically concentrated, and more willing to let a single phrase do the work that earlier installments might have distributed across three lines. The sequence feels accelerated, as though the hive has learned that the world it is documenting moves faster than the forms available to document it, and has adjusted accordingly.

The sequence's opening entries establish its governing tensions immediately. "A neck-rubbing boss — your neck" is eight words and a complete power analysis: the intimacy of physical touch deployed as a vehicle for dominance, the possessive "your neck" implicating the reader in the subordination. "Off-the-rack identities" follows, naming the commodification of selfhood with the precision of a fashion metaphor that is also a critique of the identity politics it describes — identities assembled from available stock rather than made to measure, the illusion of individuality within a system of standardized options. These early entries are working faster than their predecessors, trusting the reader to fill in more of the analytical space.

The gender cluster in Part 1 is the most sustained and most contentious in the project so far, and it demands serious engagement rather than either endorsement or dismissal. "The barbarism of gender-reveal parties in an age of choose your own gender" identifies a genuine cultural contradiction: the elaborate celebration of binary gender assignment at birth sits in uneasy tension with a culture that increasingly insists gender is self-determined. The poem does not resolve this tension; it names it. "Born gay, perhaps — but born fagulously falsetto?" is sharper — it distinguishes between the reasonable claim that sexual orientation has biological basis and the more questionable cultural performance of gay identity, suggesting that the latter may be learned rather than innate without thereby dismissing the former. "Then let any AI who identifies as human compete in human chess" applies the identify-as logic to an absurd case, not to mock transgender identity but to examine the philosophical consistency of the underlying principle. The sequence is not anti-trans; it is philosophically rigorous in ways that contemporary discourse has largely foreclosed, and its rigor is the form's commitment, not a political position.

"The uncomfortable alliance between nostalgic regressives and trans revolutionaries / on shared advocacy of gender stereotypes" is the sequence's most analytically precise gender entry. The observation is genuine: certain strands of trans discourse, in insisting that gender identity maps onto the full apparatus of traditional gender presentation — pink for girls, blue for boys; dolls and trucks; particular vocal registers and behavioral norms — reproduce the gender essentialism that feminist theory spent decades critiquing. The alliance with "nostalgic regressives" is uncomfortable precisely because it is structurally real, whatever the intentions of either party. The comparison to the Klan/NOI alliance on racial separation is extreme but not arbitrary — it names the phenomenon of ideologically opposed movements converging on shared positions, which is a real political pattern.

The testosterone entry is the sequence's most medically pointed intervention in the gender debate: "testosterone is such an anxiety slayer that giving / the teen just a pinch will drive away any dubitation / about whether gender dysphoria is her real issue." The argument is that anxiety, depression, and gender dysphoria can present similarly, and that testosterone's anxiolytic effects might resolve the presenting symptoms without resolving — and while foreclosing the resolution of — the underlying question. This is a genuine clinical concern, not a transphobic dismissal, and the sequence's willingness to name it reflects the same commitment to uncomfortable honesty that runs through the project's treatment of race, addiction, and death.

"His trauma turned into a pathology, but his pathology made his vengeance unending" achieves what the best mosaic entries do — it names a psychological mechanism that is immediately recognizable once named, that one has never seen named in quite this way. Trauma pathologized becomes justification for the very behaviors the trauma produced; the pathology, once established, provides infinite warrant for its own continuation. The entry is not about any specific person but about a structure of self-perpetuation that operates across contexts.

The Bateman entry is among the installment's most culturally pointed: "like those who 'miss the point' and celebrate Patrick Bateman, we seem now a culture / that celebrates, apes even, artistic depictions of our depravity." The American Psycho reference names the specific failure of ironic consumption — the reader who takes the satirical portrait of aspiration and sociopathy as aspiration rather than critique. The sequence extends this beyond Bateman to the broader cultural pattern: art made in critique of the worship of "bling and Botox hoes" consumed as endorsement of exactly that worship. The ironic register becomes unavailable once the audience has lost the capacity to register it.

The slavery entry — "negatives of slavery aside, at least blacks got to learn who the real God is" — is the installment's most deliberately provocative and most carefully calibrated irony. Voiced in the register of the apologist, it enacts the rhetorical move it is critiquing: the acknowledgment of atrocity as a prelude to the claim of compensatory benefit. The irony is complete and requires no authorial commentary; the logic exposes itself. That it will be misread by some readers is the point — the sequence trusts that misreading to identify its own audience.

"Mushrooms cutting out the priest between you and God" is the installment's most compressed psychedelic theology, and it is entirely serious beneath its wit. The priest functions as institutional mediator — the church's claim to interpretive authority over divine experience requires that direct encounter be classified as either illegitimate or pathological. Psychedelics are the pharmacological disintermediation of that authority, producing experiences of the kind that the institutional framework claims to facilitate but actually channels through its own structures.

"The moon tends not to speak much to those with glowing screens" achieves the rare thing of being a complaint about technology that is also genuinely beautiful. The moon has always been the figure for the kind of attention that requires darkness and quiet and the willingness to simply be present to what is there. The screen is its negation not because technology is inherently alienating but because the screen's specific operation — the pull of notification, the demand of the feed — forecloses precisely the kind of receptive stillness the moon requires. The entry does not moralize; it observes, and the observation is enough.

"We belong to a 'fixed' constellation in another's night sky" is the installment's most quietly devastating entry. From our own position we are moving through space; from a sufficiently distant vantage, we appear fixed, part of a pattern we cannot ourselves perceive. The application to human life is immediate: the patterns we constitute for others — the fixed points in their sky — are invisible to us from inside our own motion. The entry is about the gap between self-perception and how one appears in another's life, between the experience of change and the appearance of constancy, between the self we know to be in flux and the self others have integrated into their own orientation.

Formally, Part 1 of 2018 is the most compressed installment in the project to date. The average entry is shorter, the transitions more abrupt, the gaps between topics wider. This is not slackening of attention but its intensification — the hive moving faster through its material because the material itself is moving faster, because the cultural moment it is documenting has accelerated beyond the pace of the earlier stanzas. The 2018 sequence has absorbed the 2016 and 2017 sequences' lessons and is now operating at a higher frequency, trusting that the reader who has traveled this far can keep up with the hive at full speed.

Meta Description

The first 2018 installment of the mosaic poem arrives at maximum compression — its entries shorter, its transitions more abrupt, its cultural analysis more concentrated — moving through gender politics, trauma pathology, psychedelic theology, Bateman and ironic consumption, testosterone and dysphoria, and the moon's silence in the age of glowing screens, all at the accelerated frequency of a hive that has learned its own method and is now operating at full speed.

Keywords

Made for You and Me 3, hive Being, 2018 sequence, mosaic poem, gender politics, trans debate, testosterone and dysphoria, Patrick Bateman irony, psychedelic theology, moon and screens, trauma pathology, gender reveal parties, slavery apologist irony, constellation and selfhood, compressed aphorism, contemporary American poetry, fragment poetics, cultural acceleration, identity commodification

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Cosmetic Repairs (ROUND 1)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Cosmetic Repairs (ROUND 1)

"Cosmetic Repairs" is a poem about the persistence of exploitation across racial lines — specifically, about how the mythology of African resistance to colonial capitalism can obscure the degree to which predatory economic behavior is not a racial inheritance but a human one. Its nine lines move through a single extended analogy with the compression and timing of a well-thrown punch, arriving at an image so contemporary and so specific that the historical figure invoked is both honored and deflated simultaneously.

The title announces the poem's argument before the first line begins. Cosmetic repairs are surface corrections — the kind that make something look fixed without addressing structural damage. Applied to the racial mythology the poem is about to examine, "cosmetic" names the ideological operation of celebrating African rulers who resisted European colonialism while quietly editing out their participation in the slave trade. The repair is cosmetic because it leaves the underlying structure — exploitation as a feature of power rather than a racial pathology — entirely intact.

Queen Nzinga's parenthetical introduction is the poem's central formal device and its most precise intellectual move. "That big boss / who owned and sold / countless black slaves" is not a dismissal of Nzinga's historical significance — her military resistance to Portuguese colonialism was genuine and remarkable — but a refusal to perform the cosmetic repair the title names. The poem insists on the full complexity of the historical record: Nzinga was a formidable sovereign, a skilled diplomat and military strategist, and also a participant in the slave trade. The admiration and the indictment are simultaneous. "Big boss" carries both registers — genuine respect for her power and the ironic deployment of the term against the mythology that would make her an uncomplicated hero of Black liberation.

The poem's pivot from historical figure to contemporary type is its most audacious move, and the precision of the analogy is what makes it land. The "smiley African slumlord every hood knows" is not a caricature but a recognizable social type — the landlord who purchases foreclosed properties in Black neighborhoods, performs the minimum necessary repairs using the cheapest available labor, and then extracts rent from the same community. The smile is specific: not warmth but the particular facial presentation of someone whose economic interest is to appear benign while executing extraction. That this slumlord is Black, and that the poem explicitly identifies the labor as "Mexican patch jobs" — the cheapest available, itself an observation about labor hierarchy within communities of color — refuses the comforting narrative that Black ownership of Black community resources is categorically different from other forms of extraction.

"Her black Benz / bumping Burna Boy" closes the poem on a detail of such precision that it functions as a complete cultural portrait in seven words. The black Benz is the specific register of wealth that announces arrival without ostentation — not a Ferrari, not a Rolls, but the car that says "I have made it within the system." Burna Boy — the Afrobeats superstar whose work is explicitly engaged with African pride, post-colonial critique, and pan-African identity — playing from the slumlord's speakers as she collects rent is the poem's final irony. The soundtrack of liberation accompanies the act of extraction. The cultural product that celebrates African resilience and resistance to exploitation provides the aesthetic backdrop for the reproduction of exploitation's logic. This is not hypocrisy in the simple sense; it is the poem's argument made audible — that the ideology and the practice can coexist without cognitive dissonance because the cosmetic repair has been so thoroughly performed.

The poem's formal economy is striking. Nine lines, three tercets, no wasted syllable. The first tercet establishes the historical figure and the suppressed fact; the second performs the analogical pivot to the contemporary; the third delivers the image that completes the argument. The tercet structure creates a reading experience of controlled acceleration — each stanza advances the argument one step, and the final stanza arrives with the force of a conclusion that the poem's structure has been building toward without announcing. The enjambment between "her black Benz" and "bumping Burna Boy" holds the image for a beat before completing it, allowing the car to register before the music complicates it.

What "Cosmetic Repairs" refuses is the comfort of a racial explanation for exploitation. The poem argues that predatory economic behavior — the extraction of wealth from vulnerable communities through ownership of their housing — is not a pathology imported by European colonialism but a feature of power operating across any body that holds it. Queen Nzinga's slave trading and the slumlord's rent collection are not identical acts, but they share a structural logic that the mythology of Black resistance to white supremacy has been cosmetically repaired to conceal. The poem performs the repair's removal in nine lines and asks the reader to sit with what the surface was covering.

Meta Description

A poem that dismantles the cosmetic mythology of uncomplicated Black resistance by placing Queen Nzinga's historical slave trading alongside the contemporary African slumlord extracting rent from Black neighborhoods — arguing that predatory economic behavior is a feature of power rather than a racial inheritance, its soundtrack the very music of pan-African liberation.

Keywords

Cosmetic Repairs, Queen Nzinga, African slumlord, Burna Boy, pan-African mythology, slave trade, housing extraction, Black landlord poetry, racial critique, exploitation and power, contemporary American poetry, tercet form, historical analogy, Afrobeats irony, post-colonial critique

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MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2016--FULL YEAR)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2016--FULL YEAR)

The 2016 installment of "Made for You and Me" — the first chapter of the hive Being project — is both foundation and overture. Where the 2017 sequence arrived already in full command of its method, the 2016 installment is the form discovering itself: more exploratory in its range, more willing to sit with pure image rather than argument, and in certain stretches more nakedly elegiac. It is also, in aggregate, the sequence's most sustained meditation on the comedy of embodiment — the relentless, undignified, often hilarious fact of having a body that farts and ages and desires and fails and finally stops. That this comedy is inseparable from the sequence's deepest pathos is the 2016 installment's central formal discovery.

The sequence opens on "yard sale dentures" and closes, after thousands of entries, on "those after us create the legends of our time" — a trajectory from the discarded remnants of a mouth to the future's act of meaning-making from our debris. This arc is not plotted but accumulated: the sequence does not argue toward its ending so much as arrive at it through the sheer weight of everything that precedes it. The dentures establish the governing tonal register immediately — objects that were intimate, functional, intimate again in their abandonment, and faintly comic in their visibility at a yard sale. The sequence's characteristic move is present from the first entry: the domestic object carrying more than it appears to carry, the ordinary surface concealing and revealing simultaneously.

The form's most distinctive feature in the 2016 installment is its treatment of pure image. Where the 2017 installments frequently extend into argument and aphorism — three-line stanzas that build a position, turn it, qualify it — the 2016 sequence includes a higher proportion of entries that are purely observational, refusing to do anything with what they notice except notice it. "The drowsy dog / raises an ear of alertness / at the sound of his own fart" is not an argument about anything. It is a moment rendered with the precision of a haiku and the comic timing of a perfect joke. "Monarch butterflies suckling dog shit, / their pleasure too intense to care / about being blindsided with a rock" is similarly pure — the juxtaposition of beauty and squalor held without comment, the butterflies' absorption in their pleasure rendering them vulnerable to a violence the poem does not enact but names. These entries trust the image to do all the work, and that trust is itself a formal argument: attention is sufficient; the world, attended to without agenda, is already extraordinary.

The body is the 2016 sequence's most persistent subject, and its treatment of the body is more consistently comic here than in the 2017 installments. The sequence attends to the body's indignities — "farts that interrupt the urine stream," "the shiver after urination," "nitrogen bloat in compacted intestines," "the groan it takes her to exit the sedan" — with an affectionate specificity that refuses both aestheticization and contempt. These are not grotesque details deployed for shock; they are the simple truth of what it is to inhabit a body, rendered with the same quality of attention the sequence brings to dying stars and dying people. The body is comic because it is irreducible — it keeps insisting on itself at the worst moments, it has its own agenda, it will not be dignified by the mind's preferences. The sequence loves it for this.

The dying cluster in the 2016 installment is distributed more diffusely than in 2017, appearing throughout rather than concentrating in sustained meditation. "Hospice workers forever fazed by what not-alive looks like" achieves its effect through a single precise observation: even those who attend death professionally cannot habituate themselves fully to the specific appearance of the thing. "Watching someone die, / only in rare cases / do we want it to end" is among the entire project's most honest formulations — the acknowledgment that grief and love produce a desire for continuation even when continuation is cruelty. "The dead hand still warm" is three words and an entire experience. These entries work through compression and restraint, trusting that the reader brings everything necessary and needs only the trigger.

The addiction thread in 2016 is more autobiographical in feeling than the clinical observation of the 2017 sequence. "Those ecstatic times of highness in that ruining addiction of decades" names both the pleasure and the destruction without separating them — the ecstasy and the ruin are simultaneous, not sequential. "Fleeing the state to escape the drug" names the spatial delusion of addiction: the belief that geography can solve what is interior. "Confidence to quit only when high" is the sequence's most precise formulation of the addiction paradox — the only moment the mind feels sufficiently resourced to stop is the moment it has already stopped stopping. These entries do not moralize; they describe, with the accuracy of someone who has been inside the experience.

The sequence's racial intelligence in 2016 operates somewhat differently than in 2017, with more of the entries working through image and narrative rather than argument. "NWA bumping through an anachronistic boombox / during that barn train: 'She only fourteen and a ho, / but the bitch suck dick like a specialized pro!'" stages the collision of musical vernacular and material reality without editorializing — the anachronism is the point, the barn train context is the point, and the lyric's content acquires a different charge in that staging than it carries as pure cultural product. "The child's love for his maid transcended / color, but soon enough the world / convinced him she was just his tool" is a miniature bildungsroman of racial socialization — the education into seeing that overwrites the child's original clarity.

The theological and cosmological entries in 2016 establish the metaphysical frame that the 2017 sequence will elaborate. "The sun was once the most sensible candidate for god" is epistemologically serious — not a dismissal of religious thought but a recognition that solar worship was rational given the available evidence. "Out of all the wormhole bubbles of the quantum cradle / prior to the Big Bang, the bubble that kept expanding — / our universe — did so by the blow of a sufficient cause" engages the cosmological argument from within the language of contemporary physics, neither capitulating to easy theism nor dismissing the question. "Before stars awoke, the so-called 'primordial chaos' preordained the seeds, / and all the chrysalid resonance patterns of their unfurling, that would bloom / gateways — as came to be here, now, through us — to post-physical songlines" is among the project's most ambitious single entries, tracing an arc from pre-cosmic condition through stellar genesis to human consciousness to something beyond it, all in three lines.

The Amway thread is one of the 2016 installment's most sustained satirical inventions, and it deserves attention as a formal device. The sequence of Ambot speakers — Sapphire, Emerald, Diamond, Double Diamond, Triple Diamond, Crown — each introducing their motivational wisdom with a pop song's opening bars, constitutes a parody of aspirational culture so precise that it becomes, paradoxically, moving. "Stop letting past failures stop you," / says the Emerald Ambot, the synth / opening on Survivor's 'Moment of Truth'" — the song choice is exact, the Ambot's rank appropriate, the wisdom simultaneously hollow and true. These entries are funny, but their comedy contains the specific pathos of sincere belief in a system that extracts what it promises to supply. The Amway thread is the 2016 sequence's sustained portrait of the American Dream's most naked and most pitiable institutional form.

"Sometimes the subject is not to be centered in the viewfinder" appears multiple times in the 2016 installment, operating as a formal refrain and a methodological self-description. The mosaic poem itself enacts this principle: no entry is centered, no subject is given the viewfinder's full attention, everything is caught at an angle or in peripheral vision. The instruction is simultaneously technical advice for photography and epistemological counsel for living — that the subject often reveals itself more fully when approached obliquely, that direct address can frighten away what patient attention would allow to emerge. The entry's repetition gives it the status of a governing principle rather than a single observation.

The "condemning gay sex on grounds that..." series is the 2016 installment's most formally inventive satirical sequence. Each entry follows the same structural template — a stated ground for condemnation, followed by an equally arbitrary "even as you" that exposes the inconsistency — but the grounds and the comparisons accumulate into a comprehensive demolition of the logical bases for the position. The sequence is not hostile to religious belief; it is hostile to inconsistency, to the selective application of principle, to the use of moral argument as cover for preference. The comedy of each entry depends on the precision of the "even as you" — the comparison must be exact enough to expose the double standard without being so distant as to become mere absurdism. "Condemning gay sex on grounds / that Leviticus unequivocally forbids it / even as you toss pigskin footballs and savor lobster and trim your beard" is a complete logical argument in three lines, requiring nothing additional.

The closing movement of the 2016 installment gathers toward its final entries with a quality of earned exhaustion — not defeat but satiation, the mind having moved through enough of the world's material to arrive at something like rest. "The spirit, stealing a glimpse up at the blue / vastness, once again starts rattling the bars / of a world sequestered to concrete slivers" is the sequence's image of its own aspiration: the spirit confined to the fragment, the aphorism, the limited view, but always reaching toward something larger. "We announce ourselves, if only for own ears, proclaiming / our awakened state through the dark beyond dumb matter / wondering what in the void might quicken and speak" names the project's deepest bet — that attention, articulation, the refusal to let experience pass unnamed, is itself a form of reaching into the void and asking whether something answers.

"Those after us create the legends of our time" closes the sequence on an act of faith in retrospection — that the meaning of what has been accumulated here will be made by those who come later, reading from a distance the hive's full roar, finding in its fragments the portrait of a moment that did not know what it was but kept attending, kept noting, kept insisting on the full range of what it meant to be alive and aware at this particular point in the strange, brief, extraordinary experiment of human consciousness.

Meta Description

The 2016 installment of "Made for You and Me" — the founding document of the hive Being project — discovers the mosaic form through sustained attention to embodiment, dying, addiction, racial socialization, cosmological inquiry, and the comedy of ordinary life, arriving through sheer accumulated weight at a faith in retrospection: that those who come after will make the legends of this time from its fragments.

Keywords

Made for You and Me, hive Being, 2016 sequence, mosaic poem, embodiment poetry, yard sale dentures, Amway satire, condemning gay sex series, sometimes the subject, viewfinder poetics, addiction phenomenology, racial socialization, cosmological inquiry, comedy and pathos, fragment poetics, contemporary American poetry, founding document, accumulated attention, aphoristic poetry, human consciousness, retrospection and legend

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MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017--FULL YEAR))
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017--FULL YEAR))

The complete 2017 sequence of "Made for You and Me 2" is the most ambitious document in the project — a mosaic poem of extraordinary length that constitutes, in aggregate, a full phenomenological portrait of American consciousness at a specific historical moment. Where individual installments establish the method and demonstrate its range, the complete sequence reveals the project's true scale: not a collection of aphorisms but a single, continuous act of witness, a sustained attempt to hold the entire bandwidth of human experience — from the cosmological to the scatological, from the tenderly domestic to the politically volcanic — within a form capacious enough to refuse nothing and organize everything by adjacency rather than argument.

The sequence's governing formal wager is that meaning emerges from accumulation and juxtaposition rather than from development or resolution. No single entry explains or leads to the next; each stands at its own irreducible frequency while the aggregate produces something that no individual entry could generate alone. The reader who attempts to move through the sequence linearly will experience something close to cognitive saturation — the sensation of being inside a consciousness processing everything simultaneously, unable to rank or filter, committed to attending to the full range of what it means to be alive and aware in this particular historical moment. This saturation is not failure of organization but the form's central argument: that the attempt to organize, rank, or filter contemporary experience according to any single principle is itself a form of violence against its irreducible complexity.

The sequence's treatment of mortality constitutes its deepest thematic current, running beneath everything else as the ground from which all other observations grow. Dying appears not as a subject among subjects but as the medium through which nearly every other observation is refracted — the dying-literacy argument distributed across dozens of entries, the hospice and bedside observations, the dying done well and done poorly, the medical prolongation of dying, the child allowed knowledge of his dying only when parents leave the room, the "do not go to your death as an amateur" imperative. What accumulates is a sustained argument that the culture's relationship to death is the index of its relationship to everything else — that a civilization unable to attend to dying honestly will be unable to attend honestly to anything. The sequence does not moralize this argument; it demonstrates it by placing death at the center of the mosaic's field of gravity, letting every other observation orbit it at varying distances.

Race is the sequence's most volatile and most carefully sustained subject, and what distinguishes its treatment from either simple critique or simple provocation is the consistency with which it refuses the available political positions. The sequence attacks progressive paternalism — the "predatory help industry," the dependency culture, the lowering of standards in the name of protection — with genuine intellectual force and without the comfort of a safe ideological address. It simultaneously attacks the racial mythology that has historically justified that paternalism and continues to justify its contemporary forms. The factory farming and slavery parallel, the corpses sold for anatomy lessons, the slave on the auction block contradicting seller exaggerations about his own hardiness — these entries hold the history without allowing it to become an alibi for the present. The sequence's racial intelligence is precisely its refusal to allow any position — progressive or conservative, Black nationalist or integrationist — to rest comfortably within its field of attention.

The sequence's treatment of sexuality and the body is similarly refusal-based, operating through the deployment of explicit content not as provocation but as insistence on the body's full presence in any honest account of human experience. The sexual entries are not distributed as titillation across an otherwise serious text; they are integrated into the same field as dying, politics, theology, and aesthetics, governed by the same quality of attention. The smoked aroma on the vibrator weeks after the ice-cream-tub marathon, the play-acting drunk beneath Mom's squirting cowgirl, the moral alibi of the sofa blanket — these entries carry the same analytical weight as the theological arguments and the racial observations because the sequence refuses the conventional hierarchy that treats the body as beneath the dignity of serious thought. Insisting on the body's full presence is itself an argument: that any account of human experience that excludes or aestheticizes the sexual and the scatological is producing a lie about what it is to be human.

The theological thread constitutes the sequence's most philosophically sustained argument, distributed across dozens of entries that collectively constitute a serious engagement with the problem of God rather than a simple dismissal. The pantheist entries — "it is impossible for us to exist estranged completely from that of which / we are completely a function" — stand alongside the skeptical ones, the critiques of organized religion alongside the genuinely awed encounters with the Muslim call to prayer and the possibility of divine light. The sequence does not arrive at atheism; it arrives at a position more complex and more honest — a sustained inquiry into what the concept of God requires, what it cannot accommodate, and what legitimate human experience it is attempting to address. The entries about beings unworthy of worship — beings who prioritize belief over good deeds, who subject finite beings to infinite torture, who need constant reassurance — constitute not a rejection of divinity but a demand for a conception of divinity adequate to the human intuitions it claims to ground.

The addiction cluster is among the sequence's most compassionate and most precisely observed sustained engagements. The entries on addiction do not moralize or pathologize but render the phenomenology of dependency — the addict's promise to the mirror, the part that says "this time at least don't get as bad as before," the subtle shift from using drugs to work to working to use drugs, the one bad trip opening the door, the having money to be a functioning addict — with the same quality of attention the sequence brings to dying and theology. Addiction is understood here not as moral failure but as a form of relationship, often the most reliable relationship available to the person whose other relationships have failed or been foreclosed. The sequence's most devastating addiction entry — "a kid raped so bad thank God he found drugs" — refuses the therapeutic framework that treats substance use as the problem rather than the solution to a prior and more devastating problem.

The sequence's aesthetic self-consciousness is most explicit in its entries about art, writing, and the creative life — a thread that constitutes a sustained ars poetica distributed across the full length of the work. "No matter what you might hear, it is impossible to be / a bad house guest of the World-All" is an aesthetic principle as much as a metaphysical one. "An artist fearful of causing offense is closer to a jingle-writing ad-man" is a direct statement of the sequence's own commitments. The entries about artists needing to be away from the work of other artists, about the license art gives to neglect loved ones, about excellence for which the price of potential humiliation is too high, about seclusion as sacrifice rather than indulgence — these constitute a self-portrait of the conditions under which a project of this ambition and this duration is possible, and the costs it exacts.

The sequence's closing movement — "ours, for always / you too are an I" — arrives after the sustained cacophony of the full mosaic as something close to benediction. "You too are an I" is the sequence's deepest ethical claim, stated with the simplicity available only after the full complexity has been traversed. The entire project — the thousands of fragments, the full range of registers and subjects, the refusal to rank or filter — has been building toward this: the recognition of the other's inner life as the ground of all ethical responsibility and all genuine attention. The mosaic form is itself a demonstration of this claim: every entry, however brief or apparently trivial, is the record of a consciousness attending to something that mattered to it, and the act of attending constitutes the recognition the sequence finally names.

What the complete 2017 sequence of "Made for You and Me 2" achieves is nothing less than a formal argument for a particular mode of consciousness — one that attends to everything without ranking, that holds contradiction without resolving it, that insists on the full presence of the body and the full seriousness of the spirit, that refuses every available comfort of ideology or aesthetics or moral certainty. The hive does not explain itself. It hums at every frequency simultaneously, and the cumulative sound is the most honest account of American experience that the project's extraordinary ambition can produce.

Meta Description

The complete 2017 sequence of "Made for You and Me 2" — a mosaic poem of extraordinary length and ambition — constitutes a full phenomenological portrait of American consciousness: refusing to rank or filter the body, mortality, race, theology, addiction, sexuality, and aesthetic self-consciousness, it builds through adjacency and accumulation toward its final benediction, "you too are an I," as the ground of all genuine attention and all ethical responsibility.

Keywords

Made for You and Me, hive Being, complete 2017 sequence, mosaic poem, phenomenological portrait, dying-literacy, racial paternalism, addiction phenomenology, theological inquiry, aesthetic self-consciousness, aphoristic poetry, adjacency and accumulation, cognitive saturation, American consciousness, contemporary American poetry, ars poetica, body and spirit, ethical attention, benediction, fragment poetics, full bandwidth witness

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MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017--part 98)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017--part 98)

In the closing movements of MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: Hive Being, the poetic voice operates not through the harmonious synthesis of American mythos, but through a brutal, kaleidoscopic assemblage of cultural debris, existential dread, and psychological exposure. Taking its title from the utopian refrain of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” the text functions as an intentional irony: the “you and me” of this landscape is not a sunlit expanse of shared democratic promise, but a crowded, claustrophobic hive of collective trauma, vulgarity, and irreducible mortality. Through a sequence of aphoristic, fragmented stanzas, this section constructs an aesthetics of the edge—a realm where existential philosophy intersects with the grimy, hyper-specific colloquialisms of late-capitalist American life. By examining the dialectical tensions between the abject and the sacred, determinism and agency, and social performance versus internal unraveling, we uncover a work that demands a reckoning with what it means to exist as an “I” within the overwhelming totality of the hive. I. The Abject Horizon: Transgression as Existential Mirror The section opens by plunging the reader directly into the abject. Julia Kristeva posits in Powers of Horror that the abject is that which disturbs system, order, and identity—the borderland where the body confronts its own material decay and taboo desires. The juxtaposition in the opening line—hidden-camera doggy-style peace signs—the garage-sale VHS labeled “Rectal Rooter”—establishes an aesthetic where countercultural idealism (“peace signs”) has been thoroughly commodified and degraded into forgotten, grotesque media artifacts. This tension between the sublime and the profane recurs throughout the stanzas. The "farmer napes leatherized by their ultraviolet god" transforms labor and sun exposure into a pagan ritual where skin is "scored in bloodless diamonds." The sun is not a benevolent force of growth, but an indifferent, searing deity. Similarly, the dark humor of at least the house fire killed all the roaches—“mahfuckas wanted warmth, huh?” illustrates a defense mechanism against catastrophic loss. Pain is blunted through gallows humor, framing destruction as a grotesque irony. Furthermore, images of "neonatal cock sleeves," "bukkake gangbangs," and "carpet boots" function as deliberate shock-probes designed to dismantle bourgeois sensibilities, forcing an encounter with the raw, uncensored mechanics of human desire and disgust. Rather than relying on gratuitous vulgarity, these images serve an essential philosophical purpose: they strip away theoretical abstractions, forcing consciousness to confront its grounding in visceral, decaying matter. II. Determinism, Finitude, and the Violence of Being Underlying the sequence's chaotic imagery is a persistent philosophical inquiry into determinism, mortality, and Martin Heidegger’s concept of Geworfenheit (thrownness)—the state of being cast into a world without prior consent. The stanza observing that a land that pathologizes sadness / would have us ignore the truth: / our finitude, our thrownness directly critiques contemporary society’s imperative toward forced positivity, identifying it as an erasure of fundamental existential truths. The poem repeatedly confronts suicide, decay, and the illusion of control. In the lines describing the man who needed to take off his shoes before he jumped / off the bridge to end himself, and before that / he needed to pee first, the text highlights the terrifying intrusion of mundane physical needs into the gravest existential acts, stripping suicide of romanticism. Later, the image of bugs rising up to the tree zapper in a slow helix seduced by glory, only to drop in a line serves as a bleak allegory for human ambition; seduced by illumination, the collective moves predictably toward its own destruction. Even identity and biology are destabilized under this deterministic lens. The stanza detailing the unmaking a billion years of sex differences in one third-period microplastic wig out captures the blurring of evolutionary biology and industrial pollution, suggesting that human ingenuity inevitably undoes its own foundational categories. Meanwhile, the assertion that history steps outside for a cigarette break now and then frames human events not as a grand, teleological march toward enlightenment, but as an intermittent, chaotic sequence of accidents occurring within an unyielding deterministic framework. III. The Fractured Social Fabric: Tribalism, Race, and Performance The "Hive Being" of the title implies an inescapable interconnectedness, yet the text continuously highlights the friction, prejudice, and isolation that define modern social relations. The poem refuses safe political platitudes, opting instead to present uncomfortable social anxieties in their unvarnished state. In the lines addressing urban paranoia and racial profiling, the speaker acts as an unfiltered observer of social mechanisms, challenging the reader to confront the unspoken calculations of fear, privilege, and societal breakdown. The text quickly shifts this psychological strain to a global, geopolitical scale when describing how child pockets bulge with rocks—not ones / found too pretty to leave in the dirt, but ones / that by some magic of youth will stop tanks. Here, the innocence of childhood is weaponized by desperation; the "magic of youth" is recontextualized not as play, but as asymmetric resistance where toys become anti-tank munitions. Furthermore, the poem repeatedly examines the concept of performance as self-preservation. The observation that not being the person you were trained to perform / is not a contradiction even if you are the one / who trained yourself to perform it echoes Jean-Paul Sartre’s concept of bad faith (mauvaise foi). The self is framed as a continuous, exhausting theatrical act where the actor and the director are trapped in the same mind. In a parallel move, the advice to never discipline an artist for doing what an artist does: holding up hurtful mirrors positions the creative force as an exile whose social utility lies precisely in their refusal to conform to polite consensus. IV. Aesthetic Architecture and the Epigrammatic Form Structurally, this portion of MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2 functions through staccato montage. The abrupt transitions between raw street observations, psychological trauma, political satire, and quiet tenderness mirror the modern sensory experience—a hyper-mediated stream of consciousness where tragedy and triviality occupy the same attention span. Consider the swift juxtaposition across three distinct stanzas: Sticking yourself into the tribe so that what underpins that tribe stands out against what underpins you. Hoping this time, this night sleepless, to remember differently that wretched scene long ago. The former pinup model hitting on young men in her eighties still with the old having way. The sudden shifts in scale—from a sweeping sociological critique of tribal identity, to an intimate moment of insomnia and trauma, to an elderly pin-up model maintaining her seductive posture—create an overwhelming sense of temporal compression. Time is actively eroding everything, leading toward the eventual reality that the rain eats away even your name in stone. Yet, despite this pervasive nihilism, the sequence concludes with a subtle, resonant turn toward radical empathy and ontological recognition. The final movement transitions away from the inevitable decay of memory toward an unmistakable affirmation: ours, for always you too are an I Conclusion: The Hive as a Mirror In MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: Hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 98), the text ultimately presents a vision of humanity that is dirty, traumatized, hyper-intelligent, and profoundly vulnerable. By collecting the discarded fragments of American life—from garage-sale videotapes and subway violence to philosophical meditations on determinism and grief—the poem constructs a monument to the endurance of consciousness amidst chaos. It asserts that to exist in the "hive" is to be bruised by the proximity of others, to be horrified by one's own finitude, and yet, in the absolute darkness of that realization, to recognize the subjective reality of the other: "you too are an I." It is a poetic achievement that demands we look into the "hurtful mirror" and refuse to turn away.

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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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