Bill Pearse

Recent Posts - page 66

• Poem for the days

  By Bill Pearse on November 12, 2019 • ( 16 )

  They don’t matter, most of the days. Don’t matter because we squander them the same as water down the drain thinking there will always be more. The ones we remember are for good or bad reasons but the truth is,… Read More ›

• All of us

  By Bill Pearse on November 9, 2019 • ( 10 )

  How many selves do we get?

• Poem to celebrate an open PO

  By Bill Pearse on November 8, 2019 • ( 14 )

  On the last day before I went back to work I lay on the sofa with my shirt off and the morning sun coming in, playing a record, burning incense, reading poetry. All I had left was to clean the… Read More ›

• Wit’s End, Washington

  By Bill Pearse on November 7, 2019 • ( 13 )

  

  In the mornings it’s so dark I just lay in the den watching constellations and listening to the clocks tick, thinking any day now I’ll start work. I read about portmanteau words like brunch, Brexit, and Microsoft. The word psionics,… Read More ›

• The origin of the word ‘souvenir’

  By Bill Pearse on November 5, 2019 • ( 18 )

  I removed all evidence of Halloween except for the jolly jack o’ lantern with the little electric light. It had no amount of malice, like a kid’s happy face before they’ve learned how to sneer. I left the large plastic… Read More ›

• Your Mom’s Ashes

  By Bill Pearse on October 31, 2019 • ( 13 )

  

  Lily and her friends have formed a band called Your Mom’s Ashes, but spell it in a way that bastardizes the your and ignores the possessive for the mom’s. The four of them circle our property looking creatively blocked, needing… Read More ›

• Lucky man

  By Bill Pearse on October 23, 2019 • ( 23 )

  Another dream where I’m outside the building where I used to work but my badge won’t let me in because I’ve been fired. I took my mom to one of my favorite restaurants but began choking on an olive pit… Read More ›

• The grate-covered mineshaft seam

  By Bill Pearse on October 9, 2019 • ( 10 )

  

  I tried to lose myself in the woods again and came upon the grate-covered mineshaft seam, a grid of rebar set above a dark, mysterious hole. It looked like a mouth in the ground yawning, dripping. I balanced on the… Read More ›

• The intensely masculine act of splitting wood

  By Bill Pearse on October 8, 2019 • ( 13 )

  

  I fantasized regularly about having a good woodpile. For me, woodpiles always represented a unique combination of order and comfort. Everything in its right place. But after three days of splitting wood every part of me hurt. On the third… Read More ›

• The last Sunday in September

  By Bill Pearse on October 1, 2019 • ( 4 )

  

  The drive from Portland to Seattle on a Sunday morning in early fall. Fog lifting, leaves changing, the look of the clouds. Later how the fire consolidated down to a few logs glowing red. The pink in the western sky… Read More ›

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