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

  • CRIME SCENE

    It was far and away the worstcrime scene he could rememberand he had been at it for many years.Over here were the bodiesof anapests and dactylsmotionless where they fell,oh how he wanted to pulla white sheet over themfor his sake if not for theirsfor they were beyond caring.By the wall he saw a trocheehalf draped…

    Lou Faber

  • SAVANNAH

    The morning clings to youlike a damp sheet, the foglifting slowly, a magnifierpulled away from the square,the live oaks edging into focus. You sit at the table, wipingthe crumbs from you reallydon’t want to know when,a steaming cortado waitingpatiently for the first bitesof the large scones onthe mismatched plates. In the background a cry,“vanilla soy…

    Lou Faber

  • MAP STORE

    The bride walks down the aisletrailing a veil of tearsrolling in the dustof too many centuries,encrusting the virgin. Albert Einsteinpurchases a map of Taos. Bookkeeper hunchesover ledger sheetstallying night winds acrossthe frozen pond, logwedged in the ice. Douglas Macarthurpurchases a map of Hue. Monitors blare newsfrom other worlds, flickeringacross cups of half emptycoffee and cigarette…

    Lou Faber