an old writer and his words

  • GIVE US THIS DAY

    The old bus shelter has spray painted walls and a broken metal bench. Each morning he shuffles up the hill, a battered leatherette briefcase clutched tightly in his right hand, a copy of the Seattle Times “Nixon in China” in the other. He sits calmly on the bench case between his knees and waits patiently…

    Lou Faber

  • VLADIMIR

    Krevchinsky froze his ass off on the Siberian plain. The gray concrete box was traded for concrete gray skies, the whistle of the truncheon gives way to winter’s blasts. It was in many ways easier when the beatings came neatly marking the days dividing days between pain and exhaustion, all under the watchful eye of…

    Lou Faber

  • SMALL REFLECTION

    It is that moment when the moon is a glaring crescent, slowly engulfed by the impending night — when the few clouds give out their fading glow In the jaundiced light of the sodium arc street lamp.- It nestles the curb — at first a small bird — when touched, a twisted piece of root…

    Lou Faber

  • SWING

    The sax swings freely rising and falling on the notes he coaxes out, dancing around the bass’s rhythm, the brushes caressing the drum heads. You close your eyes and allow the music to carry you off. It is at the set’s end when he unfolds the white cane that you see you share a common blindness.

    Lou Faber

  • TOMORROW

    Tomorrow, he is certain, it will be sunny and surprisingly warm or it will rain, with a cool breeze or it will be temperate but rather cloudy. It may be none of these or all, by turns. He would ask the weatherman but he knows none and this would be such a personal question you…

    Lou Faber