Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Not yet remembered
Then let it be like that, reduced to this: in the dark corner of some forgotten jacket, crumpled like a dead spider with its legs willy-nilly I will pull it out and hardly recognize it for what it was or… Read More ›
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Testosterone in pink
This shirt is salmon pink, a new, tight-fitting shirt for a man. A man bold enough for pink, for a stiff collar and a tight weave. Who conceals the limp from his plantar fasciitis on his way across the grocery… Read More ›
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When someone great is gone
There is a dip in the yard where a large root sack rotted out a long time ago. It sunk more and more until we got nervous and had to call someone out to look at it. But it was… Read More ›
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Remembering why
Why all the ice cream truck drivers in Philadelphia deal drugs. Why the dog looks like a coke addict with cat litter on her snout. Why the cottonwood blooms gather in clumps by the curbsides like snow. Why our kids… Read More ›
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Memento
We are trying hard to belong here by collecting what we can, to remember where we’ve been.
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But no urns
Mid-morning naps by the window with my hands clasped. The clocks and dog beside me, clouds kneading the sun. This is the way they’d try to make me look, peaceful and serene, flowers by the entryway, a boxful of tissues,… Read More ›
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PNW
We are in the backcountry Lewis and Clark style with natives and small pox and crows the size of canoes.
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Feed
No one uses the dining room for dining, the dining room is a joke.
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How soon is never
It’s sad when an artist you loved so much is still around when you sometimes wish they weren’t. But it’s easier to blame the creep you fell in love with than to take responsibility for your own decisions.
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Promenade in green
In some ways the body was just an instrument, one you could play on a street corner for tips. And he had more body left than mind, more body left than soul.
Bill Pearse 