FEATURED POET: MICHAEL WEBER
Michael Weber is a native of Binghamton, NY, who grew up wanting to be a comedian, a pro hockey player, and a writer (no particular order). Following his concise career as a professional hockey player in Turkey, amateur hockey player in New Zealand, even more concise stand-up career, —he is now pursuing his other enduring fury—- writing. Michael has earned his BA in Creative Writing at California State University, Long Beach, his MA in Creative Writing at SUNY Binghamton, and is currently enrolled at the University of Tampa working toward his MFA in Poetry.
I Grew Up Lucky
I didn’t grow up with nicknames like kyke or yid. My friends just called me Mikey or Webs. I slept in a bunk with ninja turtle pajamas, not a single stripe. I played hide and seek, but never in attics. My hair never filled car seats, and my shoes always donated willingly. July 4th lit my face with Roman not German candles. I stood silent for prayers not target practice. In the shower I feared only soap in my eyes. I loved girls with blonde hair and blue eyes. I paid for my numberless tattoo, keeping me from being buried next to the Goldberg and the Steins. In fifth grade I heard Chris Manderville sing: “Roses are red and violets are blue I’m a Nazi and you’re a Jew,” before his stringy ponytail blew carelessly over the mulch. I grew up cutting off bad poets’ ponytails; I grew up lucky.
The Price of Seasons
They stole summer. We didn’t even know it was gone amidst midday mornings and daylight good nights. We knew only our shadows, declaring to the dark abyss— we don’t need the sun, we have streetlights!
I bought you fall. And lemme tell ya, the cost of golden leaves goes up every year, brisk air ain’t cheap either. So dance mad as colors die fast, for I can’t afford many more. Soon my wallet’s full of crackling leaves and pumpkin seeds, left to bring my bare branches to the bank.
I borrowed winter. Just to see the snow covered limbs of the whispering trees, to hear that crunchy crunch your boots make when you walk. But winter was too fuckin’ long, and when I tried to give it back, you were never home to take the cold nights I laid alone.
Spring was your gift. Its seeds arriving late this year like your riverbank smile, blooming electric blue with forget-me-nots. Decorated in such damn vitriol! Tissued snow, glittered salt, and bow-tied floe— with gangrene’s aid I unwrapped last season’s remains.
Lemon Law
If only your flaws had shown through on that frigid autumn morning, during our test drive through the grit-lain city streets, though I never heard the squeaky wheel over the glinting sun on your freckled cheeks.
That day your paint sparkled like jewels in the Topkapi Palace—parked under an elm, hooked popped, engine busting through its metal brassiere, for-sale sign in the pebble chipped windshield; lookin’ like a lottery ticket, and I was feeling so damn lucky.
I didn’t grasp the force in which your brake pedal required, just pushed and pushed until my leg twitched uncontrollably— your headlights fought cataracts, while brake-lights struggled with turrets, the odometer simply read, “I’m too tired for this shit.”
The dash ablaze, like a Kodachrome of the Vegas Strip from celestial space, all your faults on display—service this, check that, and fill the other thing, all yelling “Take me to someone certified to reset my god forsaken rights.”
The owner’s manual was in Japanese, the glove box hung open like a saloon door, and with every bump, it bobbed like a buoy littered with white fast food napkins, I imagined were seagulls, or seagull shit.
I couldn’t peel off the faded bumper sticker asking, “How’s my driving?” I admired the consideration, but knew you really meant: don’t call, or text, just give me the finger and be on your way.
I always saw a sparkling jewel, despite others whispers of your spark plugs poking through— I must’ve missed the roar of your moaning engine, and ignored your failure to meet the standards of quality and performance, I’d paid for in a currency of years.
One mild Autumn morning, for-sale sign carefully placed, I abandoned your freckled frame under a ring-less elm—I turned back, your engine purred as it cooled, and I thought of all your treasures still hidden in the dark cracks, which I admired from afar, imagined all the lost coins, french fries, and hair ties I could find—I turned away with a lemon-faced smile as my pocket rattled the hymn of loose change.
