Not reams of it, but baskets full of bad poetry. Enough to take up the corner of a normal-sized room. Haphazardly put there without regard. Left-behind objects of nominal worth. Left out in the sun or the rain too long… Read More ›
prose
Sunday morning on Capitol Hill
When I came to Seattle in my 20s it felt like anything was possible. We drove from Philadelphia with all our possessions, my girlfriend and our books, jade plants, my two cats Pokey and Sherman. Passing through the last leg… Read More ›
The drive back from Portland
The drive back from Portland is not just a drive back from Portland, it’s every drive you’ve ever made. It’s the roadtrips with the family, the one you made to the Redwoods, the one with a girlfriend in the late… Read More ›
Postcard from pinklightsabre
Woke to the sound of German choral music and then spent an hour cooking a roux. Drove to the park but had to keep stopping to take pictures of the sky. Pink in every direction, peaks white with snow. Ran… Read More ›
Don’t fall on me
If there’s any month in Seattle I really struggle with the rain it’s November. It’s not a mist or a drizzle but full-on sheets of rain, sideways rain, cold, blowing rain. Rain that gets through old roofs and runs down… Read More ›
100% remote
Softly the leaves on the burning bush began to turn. In my mind I pictured it going red then dropping like confetti, like broken glass. No car alarms or sirens in the suburbs, just the sound of our lawn sprinkler… Read More ›
Outposts
When it’s almost dark you can hear the wind picking up across the desert. Maybe a flagpole clanking, some far-off dogs, the day’s last birds. We are in a new development surrounded by farmlands and distant mountains. The ground is… Read More ›
May you let me be forgotten
Finally lying down again. All these cherry blossoms like handfuls of confetti coming down. That and some birds tweeting and the neighborhood kids playing. In spring you forget everything bad it seems. Fall and winter give us plenty of time… Read More ›
Pictures of you
In the den on the bookshelf he keeps a framed set of photos of himself. Starting at 10 o’clock and moving clockwise, he is a grade school student in a striped red turtleneck, the late 1970s. The picture has the… Read More ›
Through the gap in Shakespeare’s garden
A woodsy scent of burning cedar and spice. The languid winter hours spent by the window with the lull of rain thumbing the gutters and panes. “Through the gap in Shakespeare’s garden,” that’s the phrase I borrowed from the guy… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 