an old writer and his words

  • FORWARD

    As a child I was quite fondof staring into the futurefor hours on end, whenmy parents told meto get my head out of booksand go outside to play. I never could see muchin my staring, thoughtI was probably myopicbut my parents said Icouldn’t need glasses, theycost far too muchfor someone my age. I realize now,…

    Lou Faber

  • RETIRED

    God sits at his easel, brush in handand thinks about the butterflyalighting on the oak.This man would rather paintthe nightmare of hell, buthe has been cast out andhis memory has grown dim.He remembers being a small childamused by the worm peeringfrom soil in a fresh rain and howwhen he split it, both halveswould slither awayin…

    Lou Faber

  • HE WAS

    He was a writer. That is what he told people who asked what he did. Although he said it was what, no who he was. He said he wanted to be the sort of person that Stalin feared, a man of ideas, maybe someday, in an Alexieian world, charged with a crime of holding an…

    Lou Faber

  • ORIGIN

    I am told that I should writeabout my origins, that is the stuffthat long poems are made of, orrather the soil from which they bloom. I have written about my birth motherand visited her grave in West Virginiaseen those of my grandparents, meta cousin, I’ve written all of that. So its time to write aboutmy…

    Lou Faber

  • CHARMING

    You said it was a lucky charm,but I know my cereals and itclearly wasn’t that, nor was ita faked foot of some leporidaesylvilagus, even you would neverbe that cruel, you are a veganafter all, even your shoes aresome unholy man-made material. And I don’t believe in luck,I’ve never had it, good or badalthough I do…

    Lou Faber

  • PAPER CUTS

    Paper is at once boththe cruelest invention a writermay have stumbled acrossand also her salvation. The blank page invites,often demands the penand is unjudging, yet the poetmay change or deletebut the paper retains the originaland throws it back in his face. The computer, many say,changed all of that, backspaceor highlight and delete andthat mistake, misuse,…

    Lou Faber

  • ASHES TO ASHES

    He says he wants to knowwhat I want done with my ashesknowing I want to be cremated. I tell him I need to thinkabout that for a while, knowingthat “while” could be an evershortening lifespan, but Idare not tell him that, itsimply wouldn’t be acceptablehe would respond, setting offanother endless discussion. I don’t say that…

    Lou Faber

  • RENTAL

    The mountain reachesup grasping clouds.The river no longer runsred down its flanksnow traversedby a black ribbontwisting upward.The Hertz rentalhas a warningtaped on the glove boxdriving above 5,000 feetis prohibited, andat the driver’s risk.The Minolta sitsin the trunkas I denythe siren’s call. FirstAppeared in Raconteur, Issue 3, January 1996.

    Lou Faber

  • CITY OF (TRAFFIC) LIGHTS

    It is incredibly sadwhen all you have seenis Paris from a taxi hurtling towardthe center of the city, becauseyou are late for a meeting, and thenyour view out of the conference roomwindow is another glass buildingwhich, if you lean your headfar enough right gives youthe reflection of the Eiffel Tower. As the meeting drags onyou…

    Lou Faber

  • WINTER?

    In the early morning, beforeI open the blinds, beforethe sun approaches rising,I imagine the chill envelopingeverything outside, Octoberslipping quickly towardNovember, to the possibilityof rolling snake eyes, to snow. Winter always came that way,unannounced, and at leastby me, unwelcomed, thelast of the crimson, flameorange and ochre leavesdragged to the earthand buried ignominiously. But I know when…

    Lou Faber