Three hundred and sixty five days.

Plans for the year are cementing themselves, though maybe more like femo? Not as solid, malleable and full of all kinds of good intention. I’m starting a few new creative projects and one is Project 365. Im excited to see photos I take in full-size instead of only on the tiny screen of my phone for once.

Come follow me.

365 Project flickr or on instagram @cowboycass

In addition, my plan is to pick out some photos to post here with some writing. Not all (b/c I can’t be too ambitious, can i?) but a few, here and there would be more than I wrote in 2014.

2014 was a year that happened I guess. I’m struggling to maintain an interest level with re-hashing it again. Some high/low-lights:

  • r’s recovery from her accident
  • a’s cancer
  • getting engaged
  • traveling to europe for the first time
  • biking all summer
  • buying a house
  • my mom’s continued decline
  • that beyonce album, y’all.
  • deleting facebook


Here’s a picture from day 3. Its the psychedelic spaceship jukebox at one of my favorite haunts, also home of the best nachos in town.


Our House

Its still all, love notes on the dresser and beignets on special occasions. My lady and I are project heavy and wanderlust ready, meaning, change is a-foot and all is well here in ole’ PDX. Having this person to adventure with, to learn with, to create with and get into trouble with is incredible. Having this person to come home to, to eat with, to make things dirty and clean up with, is absolutely where I want to be. I can’t wait to see what comes next.



Four Miles of Sky (You and I) Flying

Joni Mitchell singing ’bout blue and thats all you could see really. Blue.
I was driving so I didn’t look down but
I imagined the road, the big concrete feet holding us up.
All of it made down river somewhere called tongue point.
Everything all caught up in my chest and Joni crooning, helping me to make something

Im better talking after I wait a minute. Clearer, calmer,
apt to let the sky sooth that sharp twist of words over my tongue.
Better, but often not patient enough for it.
Taking the bridge into the sky that day on top of all that
deep green and steady rush below,
I let your hand on my chest steady me into flight.
I offered you the same.

We’ve been here ever since,
Daytime and sun-drenched, hand-holding, sweaty behind the knees.
Later cold-nosed under blankets in the night, softest clutching I’ve ever.

You always telling me where you are going,
even though I won’t remember. Even though I know
you’ll always come home to me.

Every bridge arching and aching for our crossing.
Every mile one that I want to take with you.

Sunset on the A-M Bridge.

Sunset on the Astoria-Megler Bridge.

30 Letters: More from last November

More from the vault. Two letters. Two different days. From the same room. We are still so good. Notes in the morning, notes in our sleep. All the ways to say we are full of joy. Its still so good to love and be loved. Every moment. 

i’m hanging out in the cafe at elliott bay bookstore, and you’ve just stepped away for a second to go to the restroom, after we were just probably the cutest/most disgusting two humans in here: laptops side to side, cuddling during brunch, talking closely. 
i just called you a creeper and you just said, “takes one to know one.”
it’s only been two days together and i’m so balanced and so filled up by being by your side, so complimented, so completed. i can’t wait to spend another few days here, then our trip together. to have 11 inseparable days. yes. 
hey, let’s go grocery shopping and hold hands and be goofy and in love. let’s stare at each other from across a room crowded with friends, let’s sniff each others’ shoulders in public and kiss. let’s sleep naked and wake up in a tunnel of warmth under the covers. 
i’m obsessed with you.
Another, several days later: 
My Love,
Its very early in the morning and I am sitting at the desk in my room writing to you. You are just a few feet away sleeping soundly and I can hear your soft breath just above the sounds of the keyboard. It was all i could do to get up this morning, to wrench myself away from your warm, sleeping skin and into this computer. There is some minor crisis happening with a client, so I’m glad I listened to my alarm but so so sad not to be continuing to sleep soundly next to you. I am so glad you are here. Every time. I feel this immediate sense of world is right with you, and am overjoyed to wake each morning with your body wrapped around mine in an answer to my, ‘are you there?’ with a resounding and beautiful, ‘yes.’
I cannot wait to kiss you good morning, to make you tea and hold your hand, to talk and laugh and learn from you and with you. You are my one. 
I love you.
Lover's locks.

Lover’s locks.

30 letters: Number 4

Last night we talked forever and it felt like a revelation. Some of our discussion was about creating, about art, about making things together. My sweetheart and I are going to launch a small project together, and it reminds me of a similar time/collaboration we worked on last November – creating things together is something I cherish.

I’m going to be posting a few letters from our first creative project here as a way to movitvate moving forward into a new thing we are making. First, In light of all the wild political things happening lately. I thought I’d post this letter. 


I want you to know that I loved this letter when I read it the first time. Have loved all of them so far, read them multiple times, am so glad to have this record of us, of you and all that you are thinking and doing in the world. You are a dream boat.
I have started my day with leftover chili colorado and a big helping of MSNBC election coverage. Its sort of boring so far in that, its just another big pile of speculation since we dont have any returns yet. Apparently just over 30 million people have voted, which seems like a sad number considering the size of the population. Then again I don’t have a feel about what the usual percentage of voting is. Im feeling tentative about the whole thing, nervous, and as if elections and politics and stump speeches aren’t real, nothing tangible will change regardless of who the president is, whether or not gay marriage and marijuana are legal, etc. I know it will, but it doesnt seem like it. The world is so vast and full of stuff, how is it that this can be real for the individual? Esoteric revelations for the win, I suppose. 
Tonight I’ll be at my favorite bar with some of my favorite people steeling our clenched knuckes into the possiblity that elections matter, and we can count on each other to be good, to be reasonable, to be fair. 
In celebration of these feelings, I’m going to go to therapy in an hour.


There was that time in the cab, nearly kicked out. Something about our credit cards, or the way our voices burned too bright, something about your charm kept our seats. We stopped at every intersection, but just barely made the turns, holding on to each other and cackling til’ we almost puked. Spent too much money on cocktails and imagined bar fights. The bartender hugged us on our way out. The night like a medium weight blanket, air still and salt smelling.

Your family was my family and my arms were your arms and I don’t know when you’re working anymore, so am not sure when to call. Which is a shitty way to say I can’t remember the way your car smells anymore, am always cooking and never bringing the wine, have lost track of which Murder She Wrote episodes I’ve already seen.

That conversation in the italian place, some crinkled corners of eyes, a promise of new into the world. A promise to figure it out. I’m still here and all of these words are stand in’s for stories we’ve yet to tell, voices breaking over sunset after sunset.

Your heart was my heart was your heart.




Since moving here I’m nothing but honeyed with promise. Shut
away from my failings like a thicket of blackberry blush. Your
cheeks on my chest, your sweet sweaty hope on my tongue. I can
smell you, hair stuck to forehead and pumping each gear of
those hundred mile legs. Just a few whispers north of my
stumble, shake, and steady.

Since moving here I am anything but movies alone, more like
April rain, perfumed. More verse than riddle.
You’ve offered me trowel, said,

“This fertile part, that’s ours.
That’s the way our names sound together.”

Since moving here I am everything if not heavy breathing and sprint, no longer
a crawling season, heating up to overflowing and


Every liter of the root of us blooming.

(c) David A. Pike (dreamboat)

(c) David A. Pike (dreamboat)


Never out of breath we
gasped into the night sky for the fun of it. For
every promise we kissed into
each tore up road sign. Every
in God we -suddenly- trust                            near miss.

That lanky turn of highway
we’d cross.
Your feet on the dashboard,
car doors full of empty soda pop cans.

like we ran out of gas, laughing like
we’d never seen this rest-stop
before, like we’d always find a way to

keep driving.

My two-fingered whiskey grip on your hips,
cheeks flushed –

                              thighs stuck to thighs
stuck to thighs stuck to
every mile we’d yet.

Your hands all over my chest,
bumper bruised with your name.
Right up on the edge of the best view –
a star scape of your eyes reflected rear-view
and my heart beating back.

Never out of breath.



(c) RRG

(c) RRG

Bridge City Blues

I’ve been working on some goals lists – and this little blog came up a few times. My lady and I are working toward things, together and separately – cheerleading and winning every game.It feels really good to have a partner in crime who is a multi-creative and motivated person. A person who always wants to see more making of things by me, a person who says “I love your poetry.” Who says, “You make me want to write.”

The last six months have a been a whirlwind of changes for me, and as I write this I find myself at a new job, living in a new city – with nearly endless opportunity stretched out before me. I’m enjoying the struggle to find my place, am comforted by the anchor in my beautiful and supportive partner and friends here in the city of bridges.

I’m letting myself fall in love with Portland, slowly, tentatively, on each date we have. Every morning light streaming through my bedroom, every daffodil sprouting next to the front door, every time I bike over the Broadway Bridge, every time I watch a rainbow break through the sky from my office window, every crisp evening on the bluffs with her hand in mine , every time she says my name before we drift to sleep. Image