an old writer and his words

  • CHARLESTON, WV

    Half of me, according to the twistedstrands of deoxyribonucleic acid,has its roots in Liskovo, which would bea simple matter were there not townsby that name in Poland and Belarus,and none in Lithuania, the language of my genes. All of this is preparatory to my visitnext week to the city where my mother,grandparents and great grandparentsare…

    Lou Faber

  • RECESSION

    The lake is slowly receding, fading,the lake we created arrogantlyassuming that when it cameto nature, we could be godlike.It’s withdrawal has revealedcars, boats and bodieswe had not expected there,put by intention or accident,laid bare by nature, onceour devoted servant we imaginedthen a prophet we so callously ignored, nowin a retribution carefully ordained,the angel of destructionvisiting…

    Lou Faber

  • EULOGY

    In a perfect world it would bea requirement that every personupon reaching the age of 40would be compelled to writea draft of a eulogy in the voiceof each lover or partner whoserelationship he or she chose to end,one that the spurned loverwould deliver at his or her funeral.The task would comewith the caveat that one…

    Lou Faber

  • THE WEIGHT OF MOURNING

    The weight of mourning defies precise measurement,and all of the rules of mathematics fail in an attempt.Grief rejects being placed on scales, there is nevera moment of pure equilibrium, only a teeteringthat always threatens to bring it all down in a heap.A million who are nameless and faceless is an agonyand yet eighty thousand with…

    Lou Faber

  • HOW OLD?

    People say that dogs can liveto well over 100 dog years,but each of our yearsis seven of theirs, soour self-delusion feels complete.We want old age for our dogsto feel they have lived a full life,something we also want for ourselvesand so we project on our pets.The odd thing is that as we agewe wonder if…

    Lou Faber

  • BEAR WITNESS

    Some like to say guns don’t killpeople, other people do.But no one I have ever heard ofhas been killed by a volume of poetry,although one man hit by a carcrossing the street without lookingdid have a small book, Howlby Allen Ginsberg, in his back pocket.How many have died by hateor anger this year alone, somenot…

    Lou Faber

  • ON ITS HEAD

    Death has an uncanny knackfor turning normalcy on its head.My mother was never readyat the time my parents had to leaveeither selecting outfitsor jewelry, the right shoes,as my father stood by fidgetingand looking at his watch,knowing better than to say anything.Yet she left without notice,no delays at all, just suddenly goneso unlike her to make…

    Lou Faber

  • CONCEIVE OF THIS

    No child, no youthwants to imagine the momentof his or her conception.Now, that is the moment of personhoodin some places, a moment whentwo cells become one and isa life of its own, but it isn’tthe convergence of sperm and ovumwe avoid, but the act leading to it.When you are an adopteeand only later in life…

    Lou Faber

  • ONE MORE, MORE

    That there is another shootingcomes as no surprise,it is commonplace now, expectedand there are only questions:how many this time, whatkind of weapon was used, whatmotivated the shooter to do it. What does it say when we definemass killing as requiring threeor more dead bodies in one place. The body of the single victimis no less…

    Lou Faber

  • A MOMENT

    It is 1952, April, and Iam handed to the woman.I am wrapped in a thin blanket,the tall man is standing beside her.I do not recall this, but thisis how it must have happened,she finally a mother, hea father despite infertility.I do not recall her, the womanwho perhaps never held meonce I exited her body, whohid…

    Lou Faber