Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Scene From A Window Not Seen
Old man with curly hair, thick glasses, Mercedes. We play with the hood ornament on the Mercedes: it bends back, then stands up again. He watches us from the window. Wiffle ball in the courtyard, summer. He calls down to… Read More ›
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No Gift Should Go Unthanked
The book is on my chest face-down like a dead bird, a lowercase W, a child’s sketch. The picture of the author on the back, a UPC code only computers can read. A postage stamp I used as a bookmark… Read More ›
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Feeling real, really feeling
Life happens with or without you. When I struggle to write because the ideas don’t come, it’s how I’m seeing life that needs to change. In 1985, I got a job at the Allentown Fair. I worked inside a large… Read More ›
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Bloodshot, Crow’s Feet, Fingernail Moons
I got sick at the campsite. Drew scooped it up with one hand and threw it in the fire before his dog could eat it. It made a hissing sound and sparks, my last memory that night. We tripped out… Read More ›
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Going Back to Hell (End)
Dora the server wears a black vest, bow-tie, thick eye-liner, doesn’t focus right with the one eye: she looks behind me, somewhere. She says how did you know I’m Greek, and I say because your name tag says THEODORA. I… Read More ›
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Going Back to Hell (4)
Sunday morning in Las Vegas, day four of seven. The only people out this early are the runners and the homeless, waking up on the sidewalk as the sun cuts through the gaps between the hotels. Friday night: a midget… Read More ›
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Going Back to Hell (3)
Poets have no business in Las Vegas unless they’re here to write horror stories, or die a drunken, messy death. I don’t gamble, don’t like musicals, don’t like paying a lot for dinner, and I’m married. So I’m holing up… Read More ›
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Going Back to Hell (2)
The plane pivots on its wheels, on the runway, like a cannon butt pointing south. At once we are in the air, lifted, and the sun makes a shadow of our plane on the clouds, a cartoon-plane, and the sun… Read More ›
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Killing Time, Making Time, Wasting Time
I don’t know what it’s “about.” That’s what people want to know when you say you’ve written something, that’s the first question. Is it published, what’s it about? I don’t make time for a pipeline, for blog posts. I spin… Read More ›
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Going Back to Hell (1)
The sales guy wears his sunglasses on the back of his head when he’s not wearing them on his face. He’s got product in his hair, tanned year-round, upper 40s, looks better than me. Doesn’t work as hard. He rides… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 