an old writer and his words

  • PARSINGS

    The old monk sits cross legged on a grass mat, a faint smile dances across his lips. He invites me to sit, our meeting, he says, is notable. I sit, legs folded as best I can, and begin to ask but he silences me, “First tea.”  He sets the cups down on the hardpack dirt floor, there is…

    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

  • TAKING

    You can take my sight, but my mind will still see what it must, and my fingers will become eyes. You can take my hearing, I will imagine what I must, and my eyes will become ears. You can take my tongue, but my body will shout what I must, and my hands will speak…

    Lou Faber