Works by Ben Balazs

"Can you get off your damn computer at all? I left this morning and you were sitting there. I came back and you're sitting there. There's plenty to do around the house! When I was your age- " It's easy to be discounted, Easy to be cheapened by seniority. And only in the land of the free do the elderly lobby vociferously from the disgruntled old age home studio, where their families dropped them off like preschoolers, never to be seen again - Forced to play tag in a treehouse made of alzheimers, misplaced dollars, laminated floors, and steel canes. Yet youth is the time of emotions, the time our limbs stretch out in grotesque, asymmetrical ways, ears flapping in the wind, teeth falling from the sky, hair growing grass-roots style, with little fervor and less intelligible direction. "When I was your age" is supposed to imply that everyone has been a child once, but therein lies the flaw. As Plato's pal escapes the cave of shadows born ane

For me, the veranda on mission-style rancheros Is the company at dinner, on sabbath night (and this only works in a decent-sized house, apartments excluded). And little learn'ed are we of rituals Or constellations drawn by ancient words, Supposedly leading me, like Great Spirit To Valhalla version 5. Entrenched in verbal trades; The exchanging of loving words and affirmations, Munitions in the form of praise and home cooking. Not ensconced in the rush of cold water from shower heads that suit tie briefcase days employ. An unshaken slumber, a dream where your hands are dipped in warm soup, so that you might feel the need to pee, But you hold it because you want to hear the punchline to dad's joke, which he repeats for the hundredth time, preparing a practiced chuckle Because it's not the joke that drew my smirk. It's mom's handsome hands which wove the bread I now butter; It's sister's jeering and juggling of complaints about coworkers I'

Meal 1 Honest to God! Nobody is ever honest to god. Because honesty is a great sin, Like a crack in the shell of Momma Bird's baby boy spilled into a searing pan. God demands a sacrifice! Your firstborn son. Sonny-side up. "But mom, I'm still hungry!" "Oh, of course you are, Dear. You are a growing boy after all!" Then some dribble of metabolism Ad nauseam, And drool of uncooked yolk hanging from my lips, My eyes feverishly seeking, I want the yellowest bits, I want the most colorful bites, To forget there ever was A “Caw” or “Coo” or “COCORICO” or “KUKAREKU” as it were, What I recall on the sound they make, Echoing, bellowed out from plastic speakers On a toy, “What sound does the Chicken make?” The rooster’s cries are soothing tunes for children learning to read, And in all my learning, questions remain: “What sound does the human make?” Meal 2 “Will that be for here or to go?” Little did I know, I was re

God bleeds down onto the skyscrapers, And by the time his blood runs deep within the soil upon which you squirm, it has dried, and tastes metallic on your tongue, But no matter is dried ice cream, Frozen long, and long desired. Rocky road. Ice forming around your favorite chunks, A cliffhanger if there ever was one, And the vertigo fools your brain as the city comes into view. Over the ledge there are cars and duct tape grids occupied by seatbelts rubber soles choking throats bitter gasoline - the price has gone up again. It's one of those double-edged swords where inexpensive petrol burns brighter, and patrons are the only ones who get a discount related to their life expectancy. But you know me. I'm the guy to round the corner with a tank that'll break out in hives if it doesn't get its fill, and on that corner will sit competitors, arm in arm, laughing at their friendly game - a Mexican standoff, but everyone is on the same team. They wait for me to pul

Today I am a body of water, not quite with the lung capacity of a river or sea. You will find me coming and going, the leftovers of a rare So-Cal storm, already sinking into your local pothole. I’m a mut of mud, rain, and neglect, every now and then infused with urine from the neighborly dogs. And I’ve read once about piss poisoning the earth, but have also been told that urine is sterile, and can disinfect a light wound when applied directly. But I cannot be any less or more than a familiar road on a familiar street, which for some reason you look forward to seeing on your morning stroll because my being there asserts a belief you have that everything is as it should be. That comfort I provide, though never pronounced through more than a stare, overshadows the murky water which describes my skin. I’ll be thinking of ways to escape, I’ll be sipping at the sky to ensure my survival, And I’ll continue to lay my head on the gravel bed I am to call home. But while I ponder

Body language is more than a cue, More than a wave of the hand or arms. It often speaks as the name begets, Inflicting pain or mouthing charm. It is the instructor telling her class, "I shouldn't work harder than you," While cupping her eyes At the lower lip of their lids. Nosing up. Staring down. Wearing down the academe Who would not dare to make a scene Because the son at home is hungry, And Momma needs to make more money. Baby boy can't milk the breast of Promise and degree for long. He wants the taste of stress and sweat As much as the next helpless child. Maybe that's why Toddlers would crawl through mazes like mice To come upon a few sweet treats Because they are sick of Momma's tired teet. But she will work harder than the voice across the room. The ode to seniority. The air of superiority Which reduces Momma to a sponging mind and pencil. Whose task for now Is looking up longingly at the security That hovers over the