an old writer and his words

  • PUEBLO CHRISTMAS

    The night is that bitter coldthat slices easily throughnylon and Polartec, makeschild’s play of fleece and denim.The small rooms glowin the dim radiance of propane lightsand heaters as the silveris carefully packed awayin plastic tool boxes.The pinyon wood is neatly stackedin forty pyres, some little tallerthan the white childrenclinging to their parents’ legs,some reaching twenty-five…

    Lou Faber

  • AND TONIGHT

    This should be Paris, he thought,dancing alone in the Tuileries, orEngland, looking down on the Thamesperched atop the London Eye.This was how he imagined it, nottrapped in the madding crowd, everyonefrantically multitasking, searchingfor nirvana or a release from boredom,from the quest for monetary meaningthat had trapped them in a maze withno exit or end point,…

    Lou Faber

  • A QUIET CORNER

    He would see the older man most morningsat the small table in the coffee shopoverlooking the street, hunchedover his New York Times, oftenpen in hand on the crossword.The baristas all knew him, if not by name,saved the table for him be various meansuntil he arrived, when they wouldprepare his carrot muffin and cappuccino.He strained to…

    Lou Faber

  • WE ARE SORRY, BUT

    I will take it,the aging poet saidto the ever more sparsecrowd at the weeklyopen mic,as a recognitionis the growthin the qualityof my writingthat I continuebeing rejectedbut now by amuch higherquality ofliterary journals.

    Lou Faber

  • LIONEL HAMPTON AND THE GOLDEN MEN OF JAZZ

    Blue Note, pardonour constructionblack paintedplasterboarda hangingair conditioning duct. Grady Tatesneering at the skinsgrowling at a high hathands shiftingdeftly reaching inpicking a beatand sliding itover the crowd. Jimmy Woodeblind to the lightsslides his fingersover stringsand talks to the bassresting on his shoulder.It sings backbegging , pleadingdemanding as his headsways with an inner vision. Junior Mancesways slowly…

    Lou Faber

  • YEARBOOK REFLECTION

    Knowing that mybiological parents’pictures were somewherein the yearbooksI had before meI thought that Iwould search withoutlooking at the names. No one lookedat all like the meI see in the mirrornor the me I amshocked to seein my own yearbook. Yet finding themby name I quicklyrealized that Iwas their amalgama face neitherwould have recognizedno matter howsmall…

    Lou Faber

  • WISHFUL

    “I will take it,”the aging poet saidto the ever more sparsecrowd at the weeklyopen mic,“as a recognitionis the growthin the qualityof my writingthat I continuebeing rejectedbut now by amuch higherquality ofliterary journals.”

    Lou Faber

  • DAYS LIKE THIS

    Then there are the dayswhen I play the buffoon,the juggler whose ballscome crashing to the floorbringing tears to the crowdof joy or sorrow, I cannothope to tell, for this dayI can only flail about,the circus clown, and youhad best keep your distancelest I break you as well.

    Lou Faber

  • NOT COUNTING

    I have had two,although the first is longforgotten, so perhaps itno longer counts, itcertainly didn’t to her,announcing its endlike the conductorof a train running lateon the mainline to sadness. Perhaps I have not forgottenbut all I see is myselfstanding alone, intoningwords to which the crowdintently listens, much likethe audience at a readingby a lesser known…

    Lou Faber

  • FESTIVAL

    They ebb and flow like tides down the half-empty street from venue to venue, many with that lost look of years in the desert, driven on by promised the land of honey notes, the mother’s milk of jazz. The event passes flap in the breeze created by their wake, some checking programs, their personal map…

    Lou Faber