the weber projects
Weber I: odds, bizzarities, and other ends
The following seventy-seven poems were written for the purpose of keeping their author sane during their tumultuous years of undergraduate study at the University of Vermont.
They serve no other purpose.
The collection revolves around an imaginary character named Weber, who’s memory is in the process of reclaiming itself and who often speaks about himself in the present, past, and future tenses
Consume at your own risk.
In dedication to John Berryman (1914-1972) and his eternal poem, The Dream Songs (1964).
Copyright © 2019 by Alexander H. Ellis.
Poem I On an island an unstrung lyre lay. Weber was fraught, to answer it: over the under-things or under the over-things? Sightless- Weber wobbled, then reduced himself, then added 1 tbsp. of himself over the over-things and under the under-things wobbly Weber wept, hiding histories under and over frayed cables clobbering: Web-webeh-webeher. Poem II or Scratch wobbly, Weber watched woefully; he did not like to see his own mistakes stretched out on another canvas. The past crawled back up his throat souring his stomach. he felt ill. Weber wept. Poem III or Walter Weber sometimes hated Walter, who never let him play on the weekend. —wonders if that’s why Weber’s all wound-up and sick of hearing Walter tell her she’s wrong, about everything. That he’s the bread-winner —as if that’s a reason to treat her like shit, which he thinks Walter is sometimes, wobbly Weber wanted nothing more than to say something to Walter, but he just wobbled on. Poem IV or Time after Time —he only knew what he knew, that He love Her doesn’t, pulling together-forever-forenever, passing time didn’t show that in ends, Weber feared; most the horror of unlove: he knew that he knowed all the-long. Poem V In the still of the night weary Weber waged war on Weber; tossing & turning dream fever caught him defense -less, a slow sickness of the mind. Who ever heard of a slow regression? into a whimpering child cough-cough under-the-weather-Weber both cause he was wet & cause he was sick. Poem VI or Fall There is a quiet peace to the changing of seasons said the dark side of the road, winking away the sun. Weber looked for Walt and found him underfoot, pressed into the folds of Spring. —whereunder the bits & pieces stuck to his heart, fits & ceased, Weber met Henry in Fall where leaves flew, but only a few. Poem VII Weber decided that night; revealing much, not in, but out. To speak for himself seemed a challenge: a series of quiet things that should not be said & should just be known. worldy Weber found that life got easier once he stopped asking why life was harder. Wispily he flew into the night chasing, and embracing the songs he so longed to catch and put inside a bottle for the all the laters and the afters -all. Poem VIII or Miss Nobody USA or Curran Weber sometimes sat and listened to Debussy, wondering if being “not-articulate” was such a crime after-all. “If a girl isn’t pretty like a miss Atlantic City” henceforth-he decided that all history was privileged and there was nothing to be done about it. “She should get a job, Get a weekly pay” wobbly Weber missed his old home. Poem XI Weber supposed, that if he were to die for a lost cause: Self-reproach sat wearily threatening to undo, alas, putting first things first seemed appropriate. Poem X or South Prospect Street Weber walks by peering into the yellow-shaded room wondering, if he could do it again, would he? He wasn’t sure how the whole thing devolved into pettiness; Could only bring himself to love from afar, and the ends always became more clear after the fact. Weber sat at the edge of a garden staring, and the garden stared back, chanting have a dream and never wake up have a dream and never wake up have a dream and never wake up. Poem XI In a flowerless land, Weber found a lily whispering to Auden, Weber sat contently waiting as life revealed itself more, each passing day; finding answers he wasn’t looking for. Poem XII The great vastness of unknowledge stretched further than his mind could imagine. “And so it goes and so it goes,” wobbling Weber felt he could not ever disclose; tumbling evermore. He knowed that he knew something about some-things, but only a few. Poem XIII Weber's habits unstuck themselves, bad-good, it mattered little. Breaking his fast, he contemplated going feral, maybe just for a day to see what it would take, Weber had doubts about his motives; more to her, less than him, or maybe something in-between. Living is an art —He was told. Poem XIV The flakes snowed, landing softly on Weber's nose, flirting away the oppressive stillness of the dawn. A half-smile peeped its head out across the yard and baked-good lullabies danced in the back-alleys of His heart. Weber was at rest; at least, for a while sentimental reasons, he loved and thought nothing less of himself for it: For why not? The callousness of life could never crack a smile like hers. Love missed him as he missed love. Poem XV God watched Weber walking and figured him to be a strange one. Weber, looking up, felt a strange feeling, off- put by the side of the road, a car lay in ruins. Godless-God trembled in the face of His own inattention, cursing Weber: that oddity of two legs, that gainly gait, that waste of a Weber. Wasted Weber walked wobbly away from the bar, cursing God, under his breath. Poem XVI Can Weber right it? time stood at attention- considering it's mother: anti-mater. From the farthest West, wobbly Weber awoke to a humming bird's song- fluttering & strange, transfiguring time running backwards towards the arms of it’s father: He crosses his arms and brooded. Can Weber write it? He doesn't think; so, often these days. Poem XVII Wishy-washy Weber, decision ran from. Soapy and all covered in choices, he consulted a lifeline. 1 of 3. More choices-decisions-moments-seconds. Panic ensued. Weber ran. There were certain people he just kept coming back to, —all at once. Poem XVIII Weber flirted with death, but she wasn't really into it. now now Mr. Wright, that was a long time ago, same old wobbie Weber only, softer. More docile. A bit more off the books and A bit more on the wild side: —Mr. Wright could only recall someparts of somebody sometimes somewhere, confusedment tickled Weber's toes and he indulged in a bittersweet sleep. Poem XIX Mr. Wright tried to beat the one inside, but he too, was wild. now that's not fair, Wright, I never said I tried to beat em, Weber faced the wind so it wouldn't bite so harshly, puffing away his huffy hangover. Poem XX Weber spoke about simple things, because he had a simple heart, at mind. Breadths taking deeply he stumbled his way through another week- end of the month end of the season Wobbly weber had his reason, or was it reasons? Unclearly-time had past so quickly he was neatly, —behind schedule. As usual, said Mr. Wright. Poem XXI In ends, it was nothing more than the ravings of a madman, buckling under the weight of his own delusions. His smile told a few lies. Now now, was it really so bad? So bad it made him wobble for the first time quivering-quaking-fainting he peered out at the descent, overdrawn and petering out, the corner of his smile held terrible truths; for Weber. Poem XXII Weber had a hurt he found peering at the moon. It had always been there, like the moon: silent & half-hidden. Tearing, he wiped away his hurt, as not to make the others in the car, uncomfortable. But it mattered little. The hurt remained, like the moon. Poem XXIII Weber was tangled; all jealous of the rosey-tinted peoples. The silence was, after -all, misleading. His words tumbled out onto the table, scrabbled & chipped to pieces. Evaded like the plague, sense sought others than Weber, leaving only wicked-wobbled-words left to the bored. Poem XXIV Situation I: Beginnings mattered. So did ends. Weber found looking down, that spiting stories was far easier than listening to them. Situation II: He thought facing himself in the mirror was quite the brave act. A superhero to himself, and Mr. Wright sometimes. Situation III: She noticed him out of the corner of her-I didn’t see her staring at you, Weber. It seems more than just your memory is deceiving you. His name-tag read: “Weber Wright, Easy-Tech extraordinaire, 2 years.” Situation IV: He collected as many paradigms as could fit in his coin purse and put his poems on hold, for a week or two. His memory slinked away, but Weber didn’t notice. Poem XXV Calls came often in the night. Never once did Henry and Weber, meet in person. Only in dreamwalks & dreamtalks, did they converse on paper? No they sang songs. They call them songs! Songs of the Mad, the Sad, and the Forgotten. To him, a beautiful mind was crushed under the weight of its own beauty. It could not see itself without its own shameful eyes: —such a delicate thing, it was. Perhaps, he should have done more. Poem XXVI or Con Alma Stirring the wallflowers from the wall, it crescendoed across the floor melting hearts and wetting cheeks. A blossoming of measured mellow splotched blue and yellow, Ah, quite the fellow, foot-tapping Weber swung slowly sweetened by the symphony of gentleness. Poem XXVII or In Response to Dream Song 148 Weber’s hour of thought grew heavy. Having, the burden of knowing, calling, on the Lord promising, in that present-space-time a swollen drop of friendship another wrought and wrinkled commitment —look at what you’ve done my friend, all busy wobbling and never held accountable. Poem XXVIII Weber had trouble discerning between the lies he had been telling himself and the truths he had been misremembering. It was, after all, only life: a series of seemingly mysterious layers of gray areas and in-betweens. Ignoring was easier then, hating; the painful truth. continuing the habit. making the lie, —true, that was then and this is now. It’s high time to let bygones be-gone. The risk of letting go was great; he felt it in the heat & shame burning the tips of his ears. Alas, there was no moving forward until Weber returned back. Poem XXIX Joy, was joyless. All the hummingbirds had shed their wings and the wind lost its whistle. Her hurt overshadowed Weber(s). Her loss was fresh, and in that cruel month she learnt that cruel truth: She thought love would last forever, She was wrong. Weber thought he could give his joy to Joy, to lessen her hurt, —but he was wrong too. Poem XXX Weber obsessed over the time, his time lost time times to come and time forgotten. Watch-wearing had yet to fall from fashion’s good graces, and thus, his obsession persisted. Father Time had little time for Weber, and would often pass him on the street with little, but a passing glance. But Weber knew something he did not: “All things come to past.” And so it went and so it came. Poem XXXI In a stunning display of punctuality, Weber arrived precisely when he meant to. —Indeed, stunning, said Mr. Wright. He asked the right questions at the wrong time and was granted the wrong answers by the right person, sauntering out of the office, he left behind a trail for all the little Holmeses and Watsons to sift through. Mysteries were life’s great way of keeping things re-freshing. He sometimes, thought she was a mystery, but Joy; he loved and thought nothing less of himself for it. Poem XXXII Weber curled his toes just like Walter. -one toe over another. “A little Walter,” she used to say. He often thought deeply about childhood, being the best time of life. But Weber disagreed. He yearned to devolve through that slow regression once more; to return again. But, there was no going back, even if he could close his eyes and see that sand-pit and those red-white & blue popsicles melted on that thankless pavement. The sun always shone brighter in dreams, and Weber embraced each return like an old friend. Poem XXXIII Superfluous imagery such as a singing meadow or a syrupy salamander, annoyed the hell out of Weber, so much so, that He felt heaven take control: The “good Weber” arising from the ashes, like a fiery-flaming-flamingo. —not a god-damned phoenix. He thought metaphor should be spelt “meta-for,” so it too, had a purpose in life, to not simply be, a floating-syrupy set of syllables; all amounting to little but a puff of air in the maelstrom of poetics and fools. Poem XXXIV Weber wallowed in his worn and comfortable loneliness. A love-hate relationship, with himself, he was tired of sending postcards far away and only receiving empty bottles on the beach. He resolved to let love find him —and quickly resolved thereafter, to the silliness of his own words. He owned the right words, but had trouble speaking them in the right order. He had a love, too, From long-ago. But had cast it away into that sea of empty bottles, He so loathed to see. Poem XXXV With a handful of hope in his palm he asked if he could hold her thoughts for a moment. He saw her for what the world was blind to & what her father could never bring himself to say. Weber hoped Joy might love him in the same way; love was hopeful and Hope was full of love; inseparable and kind. Hope spilled out of his hand onto Joy’s thoughts and for a moment, Weber saw a smile that had become so unfamiliar in the past few years. Weber warmed his heart by the fire and as Joy came nearer, let the tears come freely. Poem XXXVI Weber awoke from a dream of a house filled with memories that were not his & the calm-love he so desired. It was a nightmare of sorts, but, also a fantasy. A mix-matching of fear and pleasure blended so powerfully, he could tell not, the difference. In such a house, he met a girl rebuilding the past, page by page and line for line. —He scoffed at the thought: as if believing you could really hold onto the string of a kite through the heart of the storm. Poem XXXVII or Un-union They parted three days before Christmas, grieving someone, not yet dead but undoubtedly gone. Forever was too long a time, so he left with a farewell, not a goodbye. Only in dreams would Weber see that lovely smile once more, emptiness filled him. —Weber evaporated. Poem XXXVIII At land's end, he climbed up from the bottom of the wishing well, no longer a slave to chance. The sweetest note left by the piano spoke more than any song it had let to the air: Web, Remember me most in Fall. Goodbye. it was all too easy learning silence as a way of being. And so, Web grew very still and very quiet. Poem XXXIX I: Weber's friend, being less of a stand-up guy and more of a a sit-down guy, angrily drove a bus for a dying. For him, living was not working, although his friend's life was mostly, —work. Charlie had wanted to be a singer, but had let go of that dream, leaving it a long time ago to another life somewhere far, far away. II: On a Tuesday in the summer Charlie stopped his bus and simply walked out its doors to sing. He figured it was time to stand up for his dreams. He left his puzzled passengers with but a whistle and a wink, and began anew. Poem XL Without a wobble, Weber rose to meet the day. Grinning, he greeted the sun with a poem about a son, he had yet to meet. Pushing all the wiggles out his toes, the world did not reply turning over in its blanket of snow. He spilt some coffee over the railing, a daily caffeinated ritual, to help the world arise. He asked the world if he wrote it a poem if it would change. —The world said no. So he decided he didn’t need the world and changed himself instead. Poem XLI Something about this mourning was different than all the others, —It came early. On a street in a town on a hill, he met an old poet who had forgotten his own words. Saw his name carved into the side of that old oak. —Saw her name too. As dawn broke and Weber tried to put its pieces back together, he remembered feelings along that path he trod with that old namer. The early breeze whispered a forgotten melody into his ear & The sun warmed his path. Mourning became morning. Poem XLII Weber spent much of his life looking for a magic that wasn't there. Real magic, not tricks or deceptions but, —something real, something powerful. He never did catch Santa in the act nor receive his letter in the mail, and so the magic waned even inside his mind. It was rekindled in college when he met The Son every Wednesday. But alas, he never heard back from God, and so the magic waned always inside his mind. It was only to return once Web learned that the magic he so longed to hold in his hand had always been so. The power to transcend time, to touch another's heart from the grave, to impart wisdom from miles away. The magic had always been there and so he held the magic inside his mind always. Poem XLIII or Paean 194 Each Jack be the custodian of his desires and each Jill be the keeper of her dreams & songs. Let’s get lost in each-other’s arms. Let’s ask where content lies, and for directions there. X marked the spot where he found it; —where They had found it, together, unwrapping a shrouded conundrum Tap-rap-Tap. They forgot to look both ways at that crossroads; yes, kissing is a distraction for all. Try as he may, Dr. God couldn’t be bothered by that diminuendo, those little-little silences. Weber sat atop a firetower and remembered an afternoon in spring. It smelt of unfroclicked grass and missed kisses. His memory coiled around a lover from the past. Poem XLIV Weber's heart afluttered at the thought of what might be. A stranger transmuted, and he, the Alchemist of his own desires. He corned over the sappyness of the love poem, pouring it slowly down the brain unto the heart filling its arteries & clogging its veins. Loves begin and end at the same place: —some queer and inaudible isle, between a stranger and a passing fit. Poem XLV Warbling Weber wrung his worries out on the close line for all to see. They, all soapy & covered in sin filled the air with wailing and fury to no avail or respite. Despite his ceaseless cawing and cooing the warbler could do little to dispel his own cloudy doom. It, always, fluttering gently in the breeze to the chuckling of the leaves. The sun offered a callous joke to Weber sobering himself red. He measured one tablespoon of himself but then thought better of it, putting his nutritionless thoughts to bed. Weber unpinned himself well. Poem XLVI In ends, Weber spent so much time tempering his heart to the cold of the world that when, the true heart-attack finally came. His brittle heart shattered to pieces smearing what was left across his sleeve for all to see. Poem XLVII Weber's novel was anything but. A calamity of cliches wrapped in a gown of forgettable obfuscation, he often found himself caught between too little & too late. He proudly wore his badge of shame: a red herring someone forgot to mention, an outside-in parable of partitions. —First works are always messy they do say. Maybe he would become the last novel-list? Who re-remembered the characters off the tip of his tongue & Who hardly wrote anything more important, than a boring-old grocery list, left on an old-boring coffee table for the bored & old. Poem XLVIII When he was little and the world was little too, Web wished upon a shooting star. What he wished for he could not recall. Now that the world got big And Web did too, He wished to feel whole. —Everything else could be overrated. In his mind could he ever be really close? In his mind he was an overworked door-salesman: —Both the Opener & Closer. Shooting stars made him sad these days, Them, living all alone out in cold space and burning silently in white-flame. He remembered that first wish through blue candles on a cake for Joy. He fished around for that feeling in his heart for years, but never caught the right memory, until today. Poem XLIX Weber asked his ghost if he ever missed home. With a whistle and a wink he held Weber's hand to comfort him; answering only with spectral silence. He made home with the people of today and slowly forgot the homes of yesterday. He snuck a peek under that bed-sheet but didn’t understand what he saw. Web asked his ghost if he ever felt trapped, but he had disappeared through the cracks of the hardwood floor, leaving only a shard of light to cast Weber's shadow homeward. —Ghosts only live in your head, Weber. Poem L Weber returned home to find his palace robbed & ravaged. Someone had left the archives open and the doors unlocked over the weekend. The worst part wasn’t what was taken, but that he could not remember what he had lost. Those thieves left no lists, no receipts, no tokens, no-things at all. Perhaps, he was going mad. Maybe there wasn't ever a break-in anyway and it was all in his head. Or in this case out. He felt that the neighborhood was getting worse; the theft more frequent, the loss more devastating. Did he lose the cat’s name this time? Or maybe his mother's birthday? no-no, something else something more important, —something grave. Weber strained his brain taking a week’s vacation as a space-cadet. Poem LI Weber ran his romantic life like a never-ending game of Sorry. With the unfortunate side effect of always picking those pieces who had to go home, or to jail, or who had been forgotten under the couch in the living room. He never drew odds, always even if he wanted an odd, He felt like he could only ever really move with other odds and although he often veiled himself even, his heart remained odder than ever. He thought he might try Monopoly, but he wasn’t any good with maths and hardly knew when to put his money where his mouth was. Weber may have been a bad kisser or a good kisser but no odd or even ever gave him the number. Poem LII Web toyed with the poem as a cat plays with a mouse. —A maniacal game of life and death. Switching it on & off in the hallway he felt like God, until he discovered the bounds of creativity; flush with cash & the redness of the cheek did Web lose his directions. Was he content today? Or yesterday? Or now? or ever. God only knew how much he’d be without you. But God was dead and Weber watched you kill him. —shame on you. Poem LIII Weber copped himself out of the poem, again. Blood-letting his anxiety over the page, he-arts a sloppy-valentine; Confounded & confused, Weber leapt to the occasion only to fall & call victim once more. Staring at a blank space he opened his story in media res and closed it at ab ovo, missing both the point and the message. Web fabled himself out of the story a —gain. Poem LIV Weber knew that he could always be good to the one who watched, and tinkered and dreamed of time. The story ended but their just friends. How could they know what love is? passing, shadows his window a dark & lonely form, The watched one wavered in the window. Poem LV Maybe Walt was right and the source of obsession was merely the lusting after a life he had already lived in & out of. Maybe his favorite artists & singers were all just older & younger Webers. —Names matter little, Weber, in regards of the eternal soul. The emptiness of time shall always croak upon the stiffness of indifference. Mr.Wright was not always right nor did he feel like Wright especially right as he woke up & out of his stricken & befouled nap. Poem LVI Weber's motley crew of washed out has-beens and washed up have-nots colored his days with more than just half-crooked smiles. He had unrequited love for these strangers of the quotidian, and words, he never once uttered whilst passing in the street. Weber asked Walter once: What belongs to the day? Walter replied gently in toe, —all and none that the sun stirs and lulls and nothing less and nothing more. Perplexion invited Weber in for the day offering a bitter tea, mixed with half-crooked lies and philosophical fats. Poem LVII Weber asked himself if he had mourned enough? No body ever told him it would be easy No body told him ever it would be hard. No body ever, within these dark treacheries of the mind lied to wicked Weber. Only the hucksters and the charlatans prowling their wares & cares to the airs. When the mess met him, he couldn’t meet she, in her own —all alone. In facts he couldn’t mourn himself whole; pieces of Weber made life harder on nights like these. Poem LVIII Weber learned certainty one quiet-night’s end. and this did actual happen, this was so. Time unlocked itself and Weber was so too. —What was real anyway? Joy seemed real enough to him. Lovely dream & songs like Joy, came and went— slowly burning bright and vanishing, leaving Weber alone, his heart full & ready to move on. Poem LXI Weber settled for a walking dialogue taking his time slow for those mattering-things. All his darlings blinded themselves for they apart left a piece of his heart upon the floor. Weber rarely changed as quickly as the change in his pocket changed hands. He sometimes struck the iron before it was hot, leaving only the dented carcass; the unfinished remains the un-wound story but these days, more often than not, —the story-wound. Poem LX Weber taught an apple of revenge resting under the mother tree. The orchard noticed: An unnatural reddening, a fury of the seed. Weber read the apple his absurdities & bizzarities and laughed at his own futility. Plotting the deaths of hundreds the apple learned its place among the cosmos and how little he must have felt? To know And to never have his revenge. A single match overtook that place and the apple took his own name as a place to begin. Weber decided it would be best not to liberate anymore fruits for a time. Poem LXI Weber chose to dull himself full of nightly rituals: Dis-jointed from reality re-enamored and unarmoured he looked paler than before, Let's go back to the start babey A full-smile of you And he, so drunk off the past, Weber's fear realized; to erase some-thing near from afar. He thought himself a mystery, no record to track, no photographs to recall. habits & ritual blended into a fine smoke on a fine evening. Poem LXII Red-eared & red-handed, Weber stole a look and was quickly named, —THIEF! The staring contest had gone rather poorly and the evidence, well, damning. He had not meant any harm by it, even if the little things on her desk spoke more than they had ever, to one another. He had tried hard to unknow the moment, washed & rubbed & peeled, but his memory ran clearest in moments of panic. Red-listed as a villain and a fraud, wilful Weber took himself to the grave of embarrassment, shoveling that final, trembling, handful of dirt over his own corpus of folly. Poem LXIII While emptying his bladder Weber swore he saw the face of god or at least felt his empty space. He, devoured ideologies by the dozen & slurped down another principal with —out religion as a chaser this time. His empty seemed unbound, with no sustenance relieved. Weber condemned that rebel without a cause until he found little in the ways of being. —For who but I, would get-gone with the wind? Poem LXIV On lonely roads did Weber put his questions, hardly noticing his own reproach or dreaming. The irony bit hardest against that illiterate man of letters, who, under the current pretexts, hardly noticed his own illiteracy. Poems demarcated nothing for Weber but the spaces in-between souls & feeling and not much else-where; Weber was wondering about a world where bookstores became oddities and bookworms: myth. Poem LXV Weber sat himself a middle of spring & embraced a moment's thoughtlessness. In looking up the great smallness of Weber made itself known forcing away, that pleasant relief. He wasn't half of what he used to be, but two halves more or less, Weber. He boxed up his existentialism for another afternoon. Poem LXVI Weber stood at the precipice of changing, quivering & raw. Introspection & contradiction lied in bed; those fated lovers. His heart & I wondered if she would always be the eyes of fantasy. Pass her by Pass her by nevermore an ideal. Please forgive this foolish love. Poem LXVII Weber sat, stared, & fell to the side of good intent. That faithful, counter of days & that unfaithful, loser of nights bet their cards against worrisome Weber. He dread the ancestral eyes of himself, all but worn & weary, he made battle with time, —and lost that ancient feud. Weber wrapped himself in fate politely subduing death for a moment in ends. Poem LXVIII In the stillness of the day did Weber Wright so often lay and she, all smiles & silly dances cancelled her date with destiny. To lie together, Too dastardly, young & mischievous larks and Weber, having depleted the last of his borrowed time, found himself repeating over & over and under & under, that same old-memory, twisting and whirring to the bump of an old 45. The burn holes in his memory matched the ones in his sole. Poem LXIX Weber had room for but one. (at a time?) He had no need to erase them, but the sounds of the past kept creeping up from the basement, Yipping & yawning, incapable of change: fuzzy and ready to be replaced. Weber would be replaced too, maybe recycled once or twice, before landing in the great landfill of amnesiacs. —At least they can reuse the plastic. Weber boggled himself rearranging the poem, at least, for the most point- s. Poem LXX The snow was melting and with it the old Weber. It turns out, things don’t always blow over or mend or change with time. But Weber did and he thanked her for it. Weber had hated summer for so long he forgot her older sibling in his blind & useless-wrath. Poem LXXI Weber, having faced himself, left no one else to fear. The likeness of language explained-less undressed and faltered under the less-explained likeness of her. He could not tell us of love & he could not tell us of unlove. He simply carried with him all the happily, thereafter-alls. Poem LXXII Weber often had spells, which casted his time lost. Maybe he shouldn’t have loosened up & emptied out his head so often. —not so good for the Earth, there Webs, who, drowned it deep inside of him, somehow feeling filled up & empty at the same time. Weber’s law was a sham anyway. —only if that 2% wasn’t everything you drowned. Poem LXIII Weber’s way with words wasn't wonderful, but his heart was in the right place, or the wrong place, or just in a place. All year, his heart had been playing hooky, and the truancy officers had little luck, wrangling it homeward. Weber often had his way with words, showing only, disdain for alphabetical consent. His words rarely agreed with him, leaving him an upset tummy & a heart on the run. Poem LXXIV The murder of winter passed Weber with little notice. He thought he saw a snowflake in the corner of his eye, but it was just a snow-fake; an overconfident speck of dust. The sun melted its evidence in the loamy soil, But Weber saw: both gates looking the same and offering the same. Poem LXXV Weber wrote a play on words- but it was just more of the same. Eyes of the sun hallow be thy Wide-eyed Weber, seen and un-whole y. Everybody took a moment to bask in an(-)other; moment. The crowd roared with their eyes, trembling all the same. Poem LXXVI – Mr. Wright’s Letter Weber, how must you linger? It is not that life is boring It is that life bores me. Oh how have I become that beloved straw man? Do you remember? No? I thought as much, or as little. The moon has grown fonder of you, Web. You ought to call her back. You might delete a phone number, But you can’t escape history. Remember this: What is Wright may not always be right. Poem LXVII – Weber’s Waking It came in spring, unbeknownst, to he. Anew Weber came each season- some colder some warmer —but all with hurts bruising and pruned. This spring had come quietly though, and Weber felt lighter: all giggles & head banging, bizzare and uncounted. Weber’s waking wore him weak, and left him asking for seconds, and minutes and days —back. Time jeered, leaving woken Weber singing uselessly, uselessly into the night. This publication unapologetically maintains the equal right of free expression without regards to race, color, religion, sex, gender, national origin, age, disability, genetics, or any other metric of difference.