Works by Ben Balazs

You're angry. No, not angry, disappointed . A glass, please. Pour, Pour, Pour. I'll wash this house clean. Beer foams better than soap. The mop goes splash, splash, And I'm wiping away, Up along the corners of the ceiling, On and over murky windows. So clean, so clean, The smell of hops I will permit, But dusty floors are always a no-go. It's faster to scrub in a circular motion, But all-talk is all-circles too, and you don't hear me saying, "Too slow!" Beer tastes better than soap, But it doesn't purge the swears, Though they come out more clear, You'll caw and you'll crow. You're angry. No, not angry, I'm disappointed .

God made the heavens and the earth, Then, God made Man, Then, Man learned to write, Then, Man made God.

America - the land of the free, And the home of the salad bowl Because "melting pot" was too Presumptuous. I would more promiscuously concede The analogy of brick and mortar: A tireless effort of blending and stacking, And blending, And blurring, And molding, And that hideous burgundy. Where dotted lines meet double yellows, And cars are swerving left and right, While respectable citizens are ringing up the cops, Phones quivering in their hot hands. Quick to judge and quicker to slam the breaks, More likely to let you sit down if You have a reservation. Making sure to remind you that "entree's come after  the appetizer," In case you'd forgotten - or never known. Because, as we all know, words are defined by more words. As we all know, what's mine isn't always yours. Because "availability" is a loosely labeled Synonym to "my personal preference".

Am I mistaken to think a day overcast Brings to light the truest of beams, Cutting the vision of those soaring eagles, Who no longer can hunt their prey, As consciousness dawns upon them briefly? A sun whose flaring nostrils exhale color onto the palette earth. Whose unblemished hands, blessed hands that brush and stroke creation, Are halted still by a singular cloud. A cloud whose vaults hold not more than air, But air would I breathe till my lungs burst in passionate utterance. Such clouds that shroud away my worldly canvas, that shun the spirits of humankin, That hush the vast libraries of language incapable of expressing this looming eclipse. And as the globe lay silent and dark, I remain, held aloft by feet not my own, Peering anxiously into the eyes of one who ties and laces me to such hallowed ground. And within those eyes do I bear witness to a world ended, dead and reborn, With no recourse toward mark'ed lands, To seas charted ...