an old writer and his words

  • THIS IS NOT: AN APOLOGY

    This is an apology I never wantedor thought I would have to write butnow, my grandchildren, it is necessary. This is not the world I wantedto leave to you, what I had hopedwas a world at peace, a world whereyou could be anything without beingjudged or shunned, where wordshad meaning and books were treasures. Instead…

    Lou Faber

  • WHAT ISN’T LEFT BEHIND

    When a poet dies they will be mournedby those who loved them,those who admired them.Obituaries and eulogieswill be offered, tearswill be shed and memorieswill begin to slowly fadeafter the short possiblesale spike has run its course.I am no differentthan all of the other mournersbut I take an extra momentto mourn all of the wordsand the…

    Lou Faber

  • SAYING AND SAYING AND SAYING

    At least once again this morningsome talking head commentatortold me that it goes without sayingand then said whatever it wasthat went without sayingfor ten minutes, twice repeatingthe thing that went without saying. I trust he will become awarethat he and his ideas will,henceforth, go without seeingby me and hopefully others.But I guess that last commentwould…

    Lou Faber

  • TALKING ART

    The good and the bad of acquiring a new work of art is that you have to listen carefully when it tells you just where in your home it has to be. You may have other ideas, but it is best to set them aside, for ultimately the art knows far better than you. All…

    Lou Faber

  • PICTURE THIS

    Words failed him again. They did so ever more often it seemed, but it was possible it was merely that he was trying to express ever more complex ideas ideas in terms others would comprehend. A picture might not be worth a thousand words, but if you had that many, odds are some would be…

    Lou Faber

  • TAILORING

    My adoptivegrandfather could take bitsof cloth, a needle, threadand with magiclygnarled fingerscreate a garmentfit for royalty, to be wornby the old womanliving in the walkup down the street. I take wordsbits of ideasand hope,and with manicured fingerscreate whatI can only hopepasses for poetryto be ignoredby thoseliving nearbyin my suburb.

    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

  • WORD

    If I asked you for one word how would you answer? In your dreams, do you have both arms, can you write your thoughts on a scrap of paper and tuck it away? You had a lover, once, and he would trace his finger along your thigh. Do you miss that touch as you rub…

    Lou Faber