Works by Ben Balazs

Every day on this bus, I see life, death, and pizza delivery cars. I see those who are lame, those who are able, and those who don't care. I see headphones, wallets, and greedy hands. I see street signs, pedestrians, and road kill. People say that a "ride of a lifetime" is a title best given to a new roller coaster, but they have not ridden the bus. The bus is quite literally a lifetime in transit - a constant ebb and flow of people who have differing opinions on who should be president. There are people who work mornings, evenings, and weekends. Some have makeup, some have trash, some have wheelchairs, and many have cell phones. One bus ride is one trip through the lives of dozens of people, most of whom you will never know personally, but some of which you will be inclined to remember for a very long time. On this bus you will meet the homeless, the drug-abusive, and the newly promoted. I see the sweat-wearers, the white-collars, and the bike-riders....

I was with my family. Beside me was a somewhat small luggage bag, and I had a backpack slung over my shoulder. I began hugging and kissing my parents and sister. They were saying bye to me, with eager smiles on their faces, anticipating great things from my journey. I had no idea where I was going but they had such a determined joy about them that I couldn’t help but feel certain anyway. I slowly wandered off into the packed terminal where I would await my flight. My family kept waving at me, remaining at the entrance until I was out of sight. A prompter screen above where I sat was dotted with red lines along the flight numbers. It turned out that my flight was being delayed. I would have to wait several hours before my next plane could arrive. After the first hour I decided to call the family and let them know. It was my sister I spoke with. “Yeah, it’s no big deal… I’m sure it’ll be fixed soon… Well it sucks that I have to sit here, but whatever...I’ll be fine… Just tell mom not to ...

14 years it's been. So long since homemade jam and dew-lit grass. So long since the scent of whiskey and dry blood. So long since childhood friends and big apple trees. The house has withered, A flower in a graveyard of dirt and overgrown weeds. Its lips are dry and cracked, Paint peeling from the stench of rotting wood. Its eyes are hollowed and bent, Glass shattered and refracting the light of the gray sky. Abandoned. Where I used to laugh, to cry, to yell. Where my mother held me after a cold bath. Where my father broke my favorite toy. Time was no friend of this ashen corpse. I stepped onto the naked porch, Stripped of the once lush, white floor-boards. The posts could hardly bear the weight. The dead weight of a dead place. I touched the decay-infested walls, Tracing my fingers along the splintered, weak frame. The front door was battered, Tired of locking out the world. My suit and dress shoes made awkward contrast, An angel in the aftermath of wa...

Watching over the people, the birds, the flowers, the trees. All dancing in the breathe of his lungs. He watches with eagerness and a desire to learn. A desire to see how they react to him. He watches their laughter, their tears, their footsteps, and yet he is unsure of how to approach. Perhaps he finds peace in keeping his distance, wondering and listening and hopeful of new events. Only when there are those who struggle does he come to intervene, but such a rare moment that is. And even then, once they are lifted off the hard ground, he recedes back into the shadows to resume his tenure as a ghost. Maybe he is indeed shy, afraid of what his presence might do, or perhaps believes himself incapable of facing his own machinations. He feels the wind and sun just as they do, but he feels such different ways - Unable to comprehend, to grasp their limits. He watches them grow old and die, and he seems sad because they are all so unique. They are all so beautiful, and yet he cannot a...

Thousands of red stars flood the path. White lights take their seats above the flow, watching over the sea of blood and cheering us on through our pilgrimage. We turn the belt and swarm into a massive mob. Bright crimson is mesmerizing from here. They are an endless wave of fire- a mirror facing a mirror- a trail of burning gasoline. My glass-frame seems to be breathing heavily at the sight. The bulbs are so beautiful at night. Music is playing, washing over the drums of my ears, and peeling away at its gentle core. The bass is harmonizing with my heart, and the world is wading over the irises of my pupils. I can almost feel the two senses combining into something indescribable. Like a sensation felt in a dream that, when realized, becomes distant. Great green boards with more bulbs lead the vast number of us. Everyone is rushing past, trying to capture and hold as much light as possible. If we keep going we might reach the moon. There are white stripes on the lanes by our toes, and ...

Come forth you beasts! Bring forward your violence, your passion, and your taste for glorious death! You wage me salvation? I wage you my blood! I wage you the sacrifice of living. I wage you the cost of happiness. I wage you the burden of children! Dare not seduce me with those pearlescent gates! Dare not terrorize me with those ashen flames! Have you no respect for my beaten hands? Have you no comprehension of the value of human life? For shame! Your great names are golden plaques on a tombstone! Concealed behind the guarantee of eternal life, infinite happiness, and perfect physique, you smile greedily, awaiting the next victim to come under your spell. You soothe us with your venomous spatter,numbing us with a gratitude that we're better off without. What of those who fight? What of those who bathe in their tears, drowned by the pains and horrors of daily life? Where are they in the multitudes of webbing that you sow? They have been eaten, broken down, and digested in the aci...

Let not the air you breathe be your guide, for fairest breathes are taken in suspended exasperation. Let not your eyes deceive you with fateful findings and such visual expressions of dull color that would render ones soul reaped. Let not your nose steal even a wisp of the scent of death, for the tendons of the fell creatures that envelope such corpses are full of hasty hunger. Let only your hands be your brace against the brisk winds of labor. Let only your hands hold steadfast the weight of your genius in its gloriously hefty stature. Lest you grow old and wither, your hands cannot unleash an imagination lesser than god. For god is a man with pencil in hand and a heart in his palm. For our deepest concupiscence lies wrapped in our tongues, begging with all remorseful greed to be unraveled and splayed upon the very grandeur of crafted sheet. To smell the scent of printed elixir, to beseech upon thee the vision of fattened ink, to breathe in the thickened vapor of insp...