Works by Ben Balazs

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.