This morning the sky’s gutted and fanned out like the beach, the clouds ocean foam, the stars peaking out through the sand, surprised to find themselves with the left-behind junk of man and the creatures and the saltwater pods stirring… Read More ›
prose
This life is a jacket we’ll take off soon
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
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 ›
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 ›
Wait Until Dark
To cut out your sight and go inward lets you tune in to the small sounds that make your world. In the green house, the creak of the structure expanding with the heat, the dribble of basketballs and children’s talk,… Read More ›
Chasing butterflies
Broken down shed at dusk, looking west. The birds light up the trees and the sky goes pink. I could take a picture now with my phone but it would just be a postcard, and say nothing of my time… Read More ›
At home with the sea
The tide pushes against my shins and my feet disappear into the sand. I’m anchored here now, against the sea, with sky, sun, moon, mountains. The water curls around me, tugging, saying You are part of this, too.
Meet The Eye
There’s always more to life than meets the eye. Sorcerers, artists, the criminally insane: they all see the hidden meaning in daily life. You can open yourself to the world’s mysteries or drift through it like a ghost, with no… Read More ›
Last Import
The screen has gone white, and snow is expected to return. The commuters are back, and make sounds like waves against the wall, below. It is just me and the heater, with the tick-tock of a clock, the Christmas tree,… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 