Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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The art of disassembly
I dreamed my way through those days, propped myself up like a scarecrow, couldn’t fool the crows. If you want to know how something works you have to take it apart first, which applies to people, too. That’s what therapists… Read More ›
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The low-level anxiety of modern life
I’m now assigned to a new project that will go the next two or three years, and I’ve been on it a year already. We had our kick-off meeting this week, had two meetings prior to that, to discuss and… Read More ›
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Suburban alternatives (2)
Dawn thinks Ruby has an enflamed rectum, which starts when she makes skid marks across the carpet with her rear-end. We hold her over the sink in the laundry room and run the water over her fur, I can feel… Read More ›
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Suburban alternatives
The dog chews the back of the cat’s neck and when she does, it’s like the cat is caught in some embarrassed state of sexual arousal. The chicken coop needs to be extended so I can park my tractor under… Read More ›
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Collector of small things
The poet is a collector of small things who says Here, and holds out her hand with something found on a walk. It’s a leaf that could be a flame it’s so red, or a piece of wood that looks… Read More ›
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Beach became sky
This morning the sky’s gutted and fanned out like the beach, the clouds ocean foam, the stars peaking out through the sand, surprised to find themselves with the left-behind junk of man and the creatures and the saltwater pods stirring… Read More ›
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The tip of my finger, the iPod dial, the distance of convenience
Convenience sucks: it’s why we throw so much crap out at Starbucks, at McDonalds. The single-serve American dream of instant gratification. Email thank you notes, Tom Riddle’s diary: “friends” guiding you through a phantom-life with a divining rod, by remote… Read More ›
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What’s worse than the crooked verse
The earth leans into the sun like a chicken on a rotisserie, like a pig on a spit. Most of what I think or write I keep to myself, which is probably best. I thought that up on my morning… Read More ›
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I hear sadness
You can hear what you want to hear – or if you’re not lucky, you can’t control it. I like the sound of sadness, when it’s based in love and celebration, a last goodbye, until next time. So I hear… Read More ›
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Four years ago today
It hit 103 in Seattle and we got on a plane for Germany, for a three month stay. I wrote my first blog post, featuring a picture of my mom and step-dad and him holding a bottle opener I still… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 