an old writer and his words

  • NIGHT AT THE ALLUSIVE TAVERN

    He had been sitting there for hours, days,how many “last calls” had he heard?He watched Beckett and Eliot come and gobut he sat waiting, patiently, no Godot for him.He had long since lost his now empty pen,his pockets grown stuffed with damp cocktailnapkins, the story of his life bleeding slowlyinto the worn fabric of the…

    Lou Faber

  • SLAINTE

    Ireland should have felt alien,but it never did during our visit,nor had Scotland years earlier.And it wasn’t that I loved Scotchand Irish Whiskey and Guinnessalthough I did all of those, andtraditional Celtic music to boot.What I didn’t know then, whatI wouldn’t learn for a decadewas that my taste for thingsIrish and Scottish was woven,twisted into…

    Lou Faber

  • NEATNESS COUNTS

    Ice, he said, is clearly an inventionof Satan, the ice cube a scaled downversion of that corner of hell of whichno one ever speaks, so little known. And stop and think, we got by wellfor eons without a cube of ice, unlesswith blade we chipped it froma nearby glacier or left water outin the dead…

    Lou Faber

  • REQUIREMENT

    She moves with the fluidity that suggests she has been trained as a dancer, though she denies it, says that she has no interest in dance, barely tolerates music and then only because it sometimes is a requirement. She smiles, though it doesn’t seem at all natural to her, more another thing she does because…

    Lou Faber