an old writer and his words

  • OCCASIONALLY

    I can still remember that dayin San Francisco, on Columbusjust down from City Lights Books,a young man sitting on a milk crateanother in front of him on whichhe perched an old typewriter.“A dollar buys you a poem”he said with a mix of hopeand resignation, his fingers poisedover the worn keys, their lettersfading as was his…

    Lou Faber

  • FROM THE ASHES

    I would like to go backto the days when,after a fire reduceda commericial buildingto charred rubble,the onlookers andthe gawkers wonderedif it was an angrycustomer or employee,or sloppiness orpoor maintenance. Now, we watchas the fire marshalscomb through the ashesand the rubble, lookingnot only for the sourceof the flames but alsothe accelerant, alwayswondering as we dojust how…

    Lou Faber

  • THE FIRE THIS TIME

    He said he did not want a funeral, certainly did not want to be buried. It would be a waste of wood and metal, and its only purpose would be to enrich the mortician and it is not like he will run out of customers any time in the near future. Not, at least, until…

    Lou Faber