an old writer and his words

  • CALLING

    As I age, I more willingly accedeto the sirens call of sleepfor as night washes over mepulling up its blanket of starsshe takes me on a voyageto destinations she willnot disclose until our arrival.The journey may be pleasantor the seas of night can beroiling, but her grip is firm.But in her never certain worldage can…

    Lou Faber

  • ETHEREAL

    She appeared without notice,not there, then there, shehalf angel, half siren, half mad. She appeared like Casseopaiea’sfaint shadow taking form,stepping out of the sudden fog. She was nymphlike, sylphan,demanding attention, cravingthe eyes of all who passed. No one spoke to her, whetherout of fear or disinterest and shegrew angry, larger still, until the full moon…

    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

  • RENTAL

    The mountain reachesup grasping clouds.The river no longer runsred down its flanksnow traversedby a black ribbontwisting upward.The Hertz rentalhas a warningtaped on the glove boxdriving above 5,000 feetis prohibited, andat the driver’s risk.The Minolta sitsin the trunkas I denythe siren’s call. FirstAppeared in Raconteur, Issue 3, January 1996.

    Lou Faber

  • AN INKLING

      He says he has discovered that the best way for him to write is to ignore the pen totally, to just let it lie on the desk doing nothing. It should be in close proximity to paper, for pens need that to complete their existence or at least to give them purpose to go…

    Lou Faber