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)


Happy Nat’l Poetry month, Y’all. I’ve been all over the place lately, poeming with sweet friends and comrades and loving it. This past weekend, we took a trip to Bellingham to do a few shows for Bent and had the best time. It was wholly inspiring, and just really holy to be in the company such incredible talented hearts.

The road to poem bliss

Of course I’m gonna try my hand again at this 30/30 deal. Here goes (day one, yesterday)

I would be red,
sweating and blistery,
blustery and brand new under the tips of your fingers.
Vibrating through the peach fuzz on the backs
of your hands and whispering more clearly
than ever before that I
I want.

You smell like a tree I’d crawl up and sleep in and I’d
rather walk to your house barefoot and bruised
everyday than
steer clear of that way of you;
all easy laugh and careful planning.

I would be red,
deeper and deeper until there was nothing else.
Edging under the corners of your comforters
warming the flush of your cheeks in the dark.

I don’t even know you,
but If I weren’t this way I’d tell you:
I’m ready.
I’m ready.
I’m ready.

Also, you should watch this video of my dreamy friend Elaina Ellis reading a piece she wrote about bears that makes me swoon with poemantic love:

For That Which We’ve Been Longing (15/30)

The ways we would wear it.
Cropped close and singing in the wind,
long notes heard on other side of telephone lines.

How many pairs of boots, cigars in ashtrays,
flannel shirts hammered and hidden,
woven into the promises of our grandfathers.

How many miles wide
our grass covered plains
smoothed by oceans
no longer
full of fossils and
forgotten things.

How many hours in front of mirrors,
necks creaking and pulling and
straining with each new sprout.

We’d garden each other into it.
Take each other to the barber shop,
the hardware store,
the bar.
Spin our stools around and point
ring our mirrors together,
spill ourselves over with revelry.

For all the first times we’d feel our bodies
lined up just right against yours.
Bristling and strong.
Just children in the night.

For the rooms full of lifetimes full of you listening,
us more boring and you sweeter with
every knuckle and knee, every bicep and backside,
full of that thing that made us

For all the ways
We could wipe it away
Shaving it close, plucking it out by the root.

about the ways we had to work at it.
Chide each other about where it came in.
Each strand
more important than the last.

For how just when it might have
been perfect
it would begin to wane.
How we’d go to war in the dark
ashamed and without history books to
reference a battle strategy.

How eventually,
we’d lose.
Get rid of it, or leave it cornered and
whispered behind our ears, a memory in meters.

How you’d let us rest our weary parts
in your laps and pretend
You’d never heard a sadder tale.

For the way we could never make it up to you,
and for the way we wished we could.

The Year We Did Not Get Married

I wished you into the dock over the lake
on the day I was born.
Cities blinking back told me that fall
was a season I could count on.
Like your lips on my shoulder,
my hands in your hair.

I put roasts into the oven of you,
Scrubbed clean and safe and new
My brain spinning birds nests of songs.
Banjo Sunday sun ripe and worn, my hands
Stoking something warm.
Something I deserved.

Drunk on dirt roads
and piled under blankets
we slept closer to the headboard.
Pushed our barnacled, spindled posts
toward the salt spray
of the wintered city
through the burning blue of
your eyes and mine.

Blooming, thunderous, and green
never getting over it,
Sheet music and four stanza’d feet
keeping time.

I wished you into the summer time
Placed mason jars full of lemonade lightning bug promises
into your sock drawer.
You used your teeth and your lips and your spit
To stain me, proud and glorious on
the back porch of our bellies stretching.

You put on your earrings in the hallway
and I put on my jacket on the stairs
and we walked down the street holding hands.

Magazines full of white dresses
next to open windows
sailed into something that
lake wasn’t large enough to hold.

Little, Lit and Left

Walk out and look over the lost moon,
the caustic light dim in the murk.

A river deep in the burned morning countryside,
smoke standing at the edge of winter.

Rough boys open up the ground to light for warmth
Like great men have no evil, only the burning twist.

(day two early, tomorrow is a busy one)