an old writer and his words

  • LACKLAND

    They marched us to the middleof nowhere, sweat running downour backs, our olive drab uniformsnow three shades darker. They handed us a rifle, an M-16they told us in class, with a 5.56round, it would tumble afterit hit its target, good for killing. We lay on the ground, shoulderedthe weapon, aimed it at thetarget, a bottomless…

    Lou Faber

  • RECALL

    It is always odd watching older men gather to talk about their lives, about how much they no longer remember of last year and a decade ago, about the infinite details they do recall of their time spent in the army, air force, navy, the smell of slop on a shingle, the stain on the…

    Lou Faber

  • OLD MEN

    It is always odd watching older men gather, talk about their lives, about how much they no longer remember, of last year, and a decade ago, about the infinite details they can clearly recall about the time they spent in the Army, Navy, Air Force, the smell of Slop-on-a-shingle, of field stripped butts in a…

    Lou Faber

  • KANSAI

    I droplets torn from cloud bed cling to edges of windows wanting to grasp, torn free by wind they are pulled clawing backward. II over Osaka pillars of light rise up through holes in the cloudbank, it is gray rain puddling on tarmac built into the bay. III container ships draw fading wake lines on a…

    Lou Faber