an old writer and his words

  • QUARTET

    An evening summer retreating in the face of autumn, two garnacha, a piano, bass, drums, her voice lifts the weight of the sky and we float up on a melody, unchained. In heaven George and Ira smile and we, here, smile with them.

    Lou Faber

  • ASKED AND ANSWERED

    This morning I made the mistake of asking where the coffee beans were. My spouse didn’t hear me, but Siri offered her opinion, leaning toward Guatemala. That didn’t set well with Alexa who said they were either in the cabinet over the stove, of in Papua New Guinea, since she prefers lower acidic coffee. Probably…

    Lou Faber

  • ANCESTORS

    He clearly remembers standing on the edge peering down into the almost bottomless canyon, listening to the narrow river slide across the rocks thrown down by its walls over millennia. He was a visitor here, knew he would stay only briefly, then leave, his spirit hiding among the rocks in the nearby mountains, staring down…

    Lou Faber

  • SEOUL MUSIC

    The hardest part of getting old isn’t the near constant aches and pains but the senses that slip away, replaced by an ever deeper truth. She says to really play the blues on piano you must have Seoul and listening to her, you agree, although you aren’t sure if hers is Gangnam-gu or Jung-gu, but…

    Lou Faber

  • RELATIVITY

    I can no more imagine a lack of freedom then they can imagine the freedom I assume. It is always like that imaginings are real until you try to make them corporeal, then the evanescence is all that is real. It is easy to ask how can they live in such poverty, and had they…

    Lou Faber

  • CENSORS

    They stole his words, carefully sidling up to him when he was distracted, and plucking one left hanging from a pocket or in his room at night slid one from the dresser. He never saw them and never suspected. They toyed with him, for a while taking only verbs, leaving him transfixed and cursing his…

    Lou Faber