Works by Ben Balazs

LA pigeons followed me to Munich's layer-cake grids and mile-high shopping districts. Smells of rental backseats turn to late nights in the city crawl surrounded by polite drunkards and beer-sworn allegiances. Folks grin with brushstrokes of various sauces on their flushed cheeks, midnight snacks finger-painted onto plastic cups that you can return to the bartender for 2 euros. I would say people are so eco-conscious here, but that assumption is clouded by the shared chimney dust of a nearby clique whose cigarette butts are still roasting, even on the cobbled road. I suppose the party never stops in this dreamy village-city. There are hardly any children, fewer homeless, and less so any sense of dread or anxiety when inebriated and wandering the mazing streets whose buildings huddle so close together it's a miracle the air could be cold at all. I feel that I am being whispered to as I wedge myself past lines of sirs and ladies waiting to use the nearest restroom, and restaura...

"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...

I am all the clock-wiser With four arms extended. Two to dance around the table. Two to tell me when to stop. Ticking, clicking, poking, and prodding away The day. Feeling enlightened when I deduce One cannot count down hours in a line When they only run in circles. Or I am moments passed Hunted and tracked. Or I am the twitching ball in a skull Staring at numbers on a wall. Because the smartest animal on the planet Has not much better to do Than twirl its thumbs In rhythm with a tocking clock. Thump. Thump. Tick. Tock. I may finally understand That five-o-clock shadows are metaphors For the human lifespan.

I like my salads undressed, Un-dripping with sauces of sours and sweets. Withering, pouting leaves that sag with expiration. Too late unshelved, seasoned for tolerance and not flavor, Much like a steak before the icebox obsession. Tended a tossed bowl of greens That only holds such color by name, Stooped to the brand of "bar" because One can't get drunk off fresh vegetables, So they offer a bottle of their strongest ranch. Where the sneeze guard is an obtuse design, As the filth goes in and not out, And patrons must fit into their clothes - Not the other way around. But they'll always promise a one-time fee For butter lettuce and sugar peas. Page after page of cabbage sleeves, All you can read, all you can eat. Everyone's waiting in line for reader's digest.

The end is nigh. The well has dried. Students shout, "Adieu! Goodbye!" Essays are drafted, finals approaching. Learners are looking for all kinds of coaching. Some need a therapist, others, prescriptions, While many are questioning their very existence! All this commotion, and no hope in sight, Students that quit and call it a night, But hear ye oh friends, and foes alike. Within all this darkness, I do see a light! It comes ground and fine, brownish in hue. It provides all life meaning when it stirs and brews. Coffee, my friends, that is the key! If you feel like you're crashing, have one shot or three! It boils your blood, and it gives your brain steam. You'll have visions of the future in feverish dreams. Aside from that last line, this legend is true! Coffee is God's little "get well" stew. So, fill up a cup, and drink to delirium. Enjoy the rest of your college experience.

To the individual who maintains, whilst laboring under the burden of numerous menial jobs, that sense is defined as seeing the small victory inherent in taking a dump so clean that wiping is unnecessary, I have only to say so much as that small victories do not win wars. In shy numbers of two or three, a small victory is a concession to the hands of intimidation and irresolution. Only in vast numbers do small victories expound any inkling of conquest, but a thousand small victories are small victories no longer. Even so, ten thousand clean sweeps on the toilet reflect no greater a success than managing to brush one's hair in the early hours of a long work day ahead. More so, what are one hundred thousand conviction-less victories, if not degrees of tolerance explored by a people worked so hard that they think their lot in life is a rite of passage? There exists a significant collection of servants who are absolutely certain that working hard and studying harder will allow each...

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 ...

You were there. I was there. Leaned your head against my arm, And I assumed my arm chair. I chose to stare at your hair, Watch it rise and fall with your inhalations. And you slung your hair back To reveal a collarbone While your eyes peered over. And juxtaposed like sun and moon, Like button to shirt, Lip to lip, we kissed. But it dawned - there She goes again, doing that thing with her nose - On me where I had been all along, Baring your back upon my posture, Still. I hold you up, my dear, for fear You should slouch. While your spine aches for limber curvature, I stand my ground, I hold my pose, I hold you up, My dear, For fear, You should learn that I am a chair beneath            you.

The yard grows larger every day. "It''s all about verticality," they often say. Though I haven't yet heard of the Innovation - Watering a building to make it so tall. But I assure you, the weeds would Disagree, Puffing out their chests and flexing. A wildly sight indeed, catching even The attention Of nearby crows, Who briefly rest along the banks Of this jungled terrain. It did not occur to them - The egregious nature by which they scanned The ground - How unlikely they were To find prey. Yet, as defiant as the weeds still Holding their breath, Each crow cocked its head, Left, Right, Often convincing themselves that The bickering piles of drying leaves - Whom by wind were animated so - Were certainly the meal They hoped should arrive.

I see you, friend, in the shadows, Lost in the darkness of this room, Fading into a nondescript wallpaper, And refusing to call for help, Afraid you should be mistaken for an Apparition. I see you, though I must spread my pupils wide To paint your silhouette, To trace the liniments of your extremities. I know you are there because my eyes Can make out the aura of your figure, And though you may shield Your gruesome face, With the help of your gnarled claws, I can, with this canvas of a room - In the infinite darkness of each corner and wall - Design in my mind the echoes of A sweet child, Whose skin finds no blemish, Whose hands show no wrinkles, Whose teeth bare no stains... So long as you whisper to me, I shall not see a ghost, Nor some feral fiend, I see only you, friend.

What to you may be a simple smile, Or a friendly hug, Or a waving hand, Is to me the welcoming steam Of fresh chicken soup Over a calloused nose. It is the traction between cold bed sheets And my goose-bumped skin, Sheltering me from the responsibilities Of days prior. Your glance in my direction is The first stream of hot water That drizzles upon my bare back, Washing away all uncertainty In my mind. As I think of you, I cannot help but think of all The little pleasantries That sprinkle my routines. The individual brush strokes That inform a painting; The planks of wood That compose a house; Were I ever a sentence, I could only hope for you to be The period that completes me.