There was nothing more of it left at the end, the day got sanded down to a pile of dust smaller than the shape it started. The dishwasher ran and the rain looked to stop for a minute, but only… Read More ›
prose
Fireflies trapped in a jar, the days, prose
Some of the days flew by so fast, others you could trap in a jar. They were on the internet or in your computer on a spinning carousel, going back as far as you could right up to the present…. Read More ›
Portrait of a house cat eating a bird one Thursday
Charlotte and I sat at the breakfast nook eating frozen pizza and watching our cat Roxy eat a bird. I watched Charlotte watching Roxy for a few bites before she realized what Roxy was eating and was glad when she… Read More ›
When they slide that heavy rock slab across your lids where will you sit, with what you’ve done?
And were we like those same straps they used to hold up trees, that look like slingshots tied from the trunk to the post—were we that same post for our kids, meant to just stay there in the ground long… Read More ›
A stream of consciousness, passing through April
We felt it winding down, that April. Who gets to be in Europe for nine months like that? I had no business complaining about having to go, it was time. It was starting to leaf out on the trees along… Read More ›
A different kind of blue | rain prose, 29 März 17
Double the average, normal rainfall for the month and year so far, double. It makes the trees look distorted like they’re rubbed out by TV static snow, makes the same crackling hiss on the ground and pavement. The static snow,… Read More ›
All the men at the bar bent over their phones
All the men at the bar bent over their phones and me among them, with Jimi Hendrix and sports recaps playing and the dull chatter that burbles and rolls like the tide spitting up their remains, making it all disappear… Read More ›
Just because you put it in a book doesn’t make it any better
On that last day of winter the sun finally came out, and though the cars and rooftops were covered in frost I walked to the far fields with my coffee where there’s still horses, on Rock Meadow Farm. It was… Read More ›
Pipe cleaners and cats prose
The tree limbs had the same shape as pipe cleaners, the pipe cleaners Dawn got at Michaels for some school project but the cat co-opted them, figured they were toys designed for her, batting them around on the wood floor… Read More ›
And now, this is what 8 o’clock feels like
In 1994, Bukowski died at 73. It’s hard to imagine we have so many days until we don’t. He said don’t die before you’re dead, hold your head under the water, play the violin. Plant tulips in the rain. But… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 