an old writer and his words

  • ANGRY, BUT ONLY A LITTLE

    You want it spicy, but just so that the tongue remembers it a moment after the mouth has moved on, a lingering sense of having been present. It should be a mantilla, a shawl, not the blanket some claim, gently caressing, lighting up the plate. Its host, freshly from the rollers, was born for this…

    Lou Faber

  • THANKS

    She said I should be thankful that I am not a rice farmer. She said that I should be thankful that I am not over seven feet tall, and not less than four feet eight inches, although she concedes that four feet nine would not be cause for celebration. She says I should be thankful…

    Lou Faber

  • NOM

    He is fond of the name Alejandro Carlos Ernesto Rodrigo Guttierez. The fact is he loves the name. He knows it has a certain nobility to it. It embodies and conveys strength and character. It is a source of pride and great satisfaction. The name makes him taller, bolder. There is so much in a…

    Lou Faber

  • WAITING FOR

    It was lying there, on the ground, waiting to be noticed, unsure of why everyone walked by, some glancing, most lost in thought. It hadn’t been there long, but certainly long enough to be seen, of that it was certain, yet there it lay staring crimson at the sun overhead, and even the one passing…

    Lou Faber

  • HOWL

    Tonight a blood moon will rise. This isn’t about lycanthropy although the moon will have the fullness that metamorphosis demands. The sky will be clouded the now crimson moon, the planet that wears the palette as its nature will lurk out of sight and we, lost in dreams, will imagine what our eyes are unable…

    Lou Faber

  • CITY OF FORGOTTEN

    The lake in Central Park and its cousin rivers reflect the gray of a cold sky, an April afternoon. None of this is seen by the multitudes traversing the streets and avenues, a people who barely remember the sky.

    Lou Faber

  • AFTERNOON STORM

    From twenty stories up lightning rends the fully fogged sky, a translucent gray curtain hung from an angry black ceiling. Nearby buildings and the streets below fade into misty oblivion. Even the approaching dusk sits back in wonder.

    Lou Faber

  • WITHOUT WITHIN

    When you peer through the glass are you looking out, or are you looking in, and how would you know which is true, and does it matter. When you walk through a gate are you entering or leaving. If you ask where the gate is located, you cannot find where you are going, for all…

    Lou Faber

  • PREPARE FOR LANDING

    And then there is the abyss where it all comes crashing back down on you and there is nothing and no one, and you grasp and find only yourself at the bottom and arise, crawl up and out, and nothing has changed except the face of one who saw you fall. You say words meant…

    Lou Faber

  • THE SAVAGE BREAST

    You must pause and marvel, if you will, that only the flute – from the simple wooden to the most elegant metal – when played by skilled hands, can transport the listener. Some would say to heaven, others to hell, and often at exactly the same moment.

    Lou Faber