Dozing on the sofa on a Saturday with just the sound of clocks and some far-off engine. Days of Future Passed by the Moody Blues and all this rumination on time. The record is draped in the 60s and feels… Read More ›
prose
On the plane to Barcelona
On May 1 I took a one-way flight from JFK to Barcelona but when I landed the airport was closed, the workers on strike for May Day, the only occupants a group of young Spaniards in uniforms with beards and… Read More ›
Ninety-nine words or less
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 ›
Near adults, just kids
I always did mushrooms on an empty stomach. That’s what my friend John Kimmich said to do. We’d sit in that shithole apartment on our recliners staring at the TV waiting for it to kick in. It was always the… 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 ›
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 ›
Middle-age, Death is at the foot of your bed
You stand for a moment fitting your pack and wonder, is it too late for me to set out? The dream metaphor is this: I’m busy packing, gathering my things at the car. I have the lift gate open and… 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 