Works by Ben Balazs

How is it so, That Icarus flew so close to the Sun, That if Reason had her way, She would draw him forth with those slender arms, never to let him burn, That had he not fled on his wondrous wings, He should never feel the light of day? Did not mankind leave their warm and fitting blanket For the cold, empty reaches of space? Not knowing certainly that all would be for naught, Yet knowing all the same that doom would be their shoulder to cry on, If they failed. The marvel it seems, Is in the eye that gazes upon the universe, That human kindling eye, Which seeks without rapport, That blindly wanders within the abyss, Hoping to find a vibrant light, That they know will only starken the darkness. So then, one might ask, What brings you here? What assures you of this finality? What behooves you to see the light of day, As certainly as Icarus, Who flew too close to the Sun, and burned in that distant horizon? Where for one moment perhaps...

On that day when green goes gray, When leaves descend and breezes take, A breathe away from tree and trunk, When lumps of ash seem lesser stunk. In mango skies with clouds amiss, From harsher winds that come to kiss, The shy and shining sun that broods, Along with vibrant waters blue, All remaining lovely hues. On that day when branches snap, And poking strangers, cackle back, To colder weeks in frosty meadows, Where birds chirped less and cozied mellow, Hoarding seeds like sheepish prey, But all for naught, to their dismay. On that day when green goes grey, When light had gone to find some shade, And darkness set the land ablaze.

We ate our meal as jauntily as we could, setting aside our uncertain feelings for the surrounding décor, which at its best must have been plucked from a lost-and-found of the 50s. It was hard to stare at the ceramic dish between my palms, as its sheen reflected the pasty yellow lighting of this diner. I tried shifting my seat as an attempt at making the meal more comfortable, but was interrupted by a loose tile in the floor. It meagerly trapped the leg of my chair, begging to be returned to its place in the ground below. I scoffed it away with another grunt and tug of the budget throne, managing to snap the age-old tile in the process.  Before creating enough of a scene to pull the other guests away from their colorless food, I scraped my chair back into position and hastily grabbed the nearest fork. I could see stains where the washer must have forgotten to scrub, and suddenly I felt the need to distract my fellows from whatever it was that might have inhabited their plates. ...

It is often difficult to discern just how loud traffic is at night. Drivers zoom in their stratified lines, and pedestrians stomp their steel-toed boots from block to block. From afar it doesn't seem like anybody is looking at anything - as if they're all minding their own business. I know better. I know better then to believe they don't have eyes on the back of their heads, or under the soles of their feet, or over the lenses of their cameras. They are always watching, day in and day out, waiting to see whether I have met their visual quota for the month. It's not like I can escape those eyes either, as I sit like a mural under the sky, blocking the light of the stars from reaching the concrete that holds me. The city lights shine too bright, and the smog in the sky is barely enough to blanket my bare body from prying eyes below. I let them stare, but I curse every turning head. A whole city of people look up to me, look up to my nude figure in the hopes that it lo...

I could taste it. So sweet. So damn sweet. "Drink up! Don't you waste a drop!" I kept my head down as I gulped, forcing it to slosh past the roof of my throat. So sweet. Drool began to pool, but the drink never stopped, and the lights, they got brighter, and I wasn't sure what people were crying out to me. Their words drowned in it. "Drink up!" I kept going, unable to breathe, but it didn't matter. It was so sweet. Sweet like ice cream, cake, and chocolate crushed together and blended with a candied apple. It burned, but I could not stop. The people disappeared, the walls were melting, and the music was looping, looping, looping. "Drink up! Don't you waste a drop!" I drank, and I drank, and drank. For a moment, my eyes wide, I choked on it all, and the music stopped, and the yelling came back. So loud! "Make it stop," I begged. And back I went, head bent forward. "Drink up! Don't you waste a drop! Not...

Every week felt the same. The table would be set. The candles would be lit. A few prayers would be uttered, and then we would eat our fill. It was just your run-of-the-mill human social complex, but when I think of the word complex, I expect something a little more... sophisticated. “Oh, this election is great,” someone at the table remarked, “It’s gotta be the best one yet!” “Yeah but it’s not supposed to be television,” someone else interjected between mouthfuls, “‘cause the one in charge is gonna take care of us for 4 fuckin’ years.” A brief quiet ensued, only periodically interrupted by the clashing of silverware. “Well I’m sure it won’t make much of a difference,” the head of the table muttered, “We’re still here. There’s still work to do. Doesn’t matter if this country’s run by a squirrel. Bills need to be paid…” His voice trailed off into his food. That was an interesting thought. Did it really matter? The president is just a fancy title afforded to a pret...