Works by Ben Balazs

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.