Author Archives

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.

• Dead skin diary

  By Bill Pearse on July 29, 2013 • ( 0 )

  I remembered the kitchen sink was clogged, and knew I couldn’t sleep in, I had to fix it. I don’t know anything about plumbing and was lucky to even find a wrench. I got it apart and emptied the dirty… Read More ›

• “I like the god” riff

  By Bill Pearse on July 27, 2013 • ( 2 )

  

  So I’m a fool I don’t believe in god. I don’t believe in your god that is, I won’t even capitalize it. I mean, I do believe in a god, my god – but it doesn’t matter. Not even to… Read More ›

• A cold and broken hallelujah

  By Bill Pearse on July 26, 2013 • ( 2 )

  

  It’s hard to go inside yourself and not be self-indulgent. Most people don’t, and leave a lot behind. You need to feel the presence of death on you and the dark that comes with it to fully appreciate the living,… Read More ›

• The Meaning of Existence

  By Bill Pearse on July 25, 2013 • ( 2 )

  

  It shouldn’t take more than 20 minutes to figure this out, but it has, and I haven’t still. I walk this same road every day, the same road, but always different. I keep thinking I’ll catch the tail of an… Read More ›

• The crow and the storm water pond

  By Bill Pearse on July 24, 2013 • ( 0 )

  The cats got into a bird’s nest, and now it’s a horror show outside our front door. The newborns plucked off one by one, still alive, Dawn had to finish them off with the shovel. Made us think about eating… Read More ›

• Saved by old times

  By Bill Pearse on July 23, 2013 • ( 0 )

  We miss the old times because we didn’t love them enough when we could, and we know it. We love them from afar, which is easier because most things look better from a distance. Things were better then, because we… Read More ›

• This life is a jacket we’ll take off soon

  By Bill Pearse on July 22, 2013 • ( 2 )

  

  I pulled a Walt Whitman, tripping-out on my back in the grass, with ants crawling up my arms and neck, my ears full of birdsong and dogs barking, something flying by and stopping on my head, plastered to the earth… Read More ›

• The bright, dark sounds of The Red House Painters

  By Bill Pearse on July 21, 2013 • ( 0 )

  

  The grass is going brown already, but I won’t water it. I hadn’t laid on it yet, on my back with the dog in the sun, afternoon wine, nothing to do, nowhere to be. Like the August we went to… Read More ›

• Son, observe the time and fly from evil

  By Bill Pearse on July 20, 2013 • ( 0 )

  

  It seems like whenever I tell someone from San Francisco I work for Starbucks, there’s a moment of internal dialogue behind their face as they decide if they want to say something bad about the company to my face, or… Read More ›

• Confessing to the internet

  By Bill Pearse on July 16, 2013 • ( 1 )

  It’s good to get things off your chest. They don’t belong there: put them on the Internet. Out here, there’s subway walls extending beyond the moon for spray paint, murals, poems. And it doesn’t come off. I’ve been following a… Read More ›