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.



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:

The Mona Lisa’s Legs (or) beginning of Exercise #47

Eight acts of rebellion:
1. Blond haired blue eyed birth
2. Surviving careening sled ending in ditch
3. Touching the cactus and escaping unstuck
4. Staying astride that plastic bucking bull
5. Remaining in the woods until dawn
6. Sipping your beer when you weren’t looking
7. Getting up over and over and over again
8. Sitting on the roof, howling

Eight things I’ve stolen:
1. A Donald duck pez dispenser
2. Office supplies: Pens, paper, copies, hours of time not working.
3. Your number one best lover ever spot
4. The loudest cry/shout.
5. 267 buttermilk pancakes
6. Clean moon cooled air and pine tree needles.
7. About 6,000 cups of coffee
8. Any delusions you had about keeping me

Eight things that were taken from me:
1. My lungs, heart, arms
2. My ability to run
3. My self worth/confidence
4. The way I felt safe
5. The will to stop
6. Your mile long legs draped over mine
7. How to cook for two
8. How to find your hips

Eight things I’ve given away:
1. My ears
2. About 900 cigarettes
3. My winter gloves
4. So many stories
5. My bed
6. My sanity
7. The last piece of pie
8. All the covers on a cold night

Eight things I deserve:
1. An infinite amount of chances
2. The sweet smell of mesquite
3. Somewhere quiet
4. Thunderstorms
5. Your hand in mine and sleeping
6. An aching belly full of laughter
7. To be listened to
8. To be forgiven

This is a free write based on Rachel McKibbens exercise #47.

The Corner of 27th and Sunday.

I was startled earlier, on the street, got out of my car into the chilly night air, and heard a woosh.
I thought my tire had popped or that there was a car coming but it was actually
just water rushing around underneath me.
I really just forgot what those things were called where the noise was coming from – manhole covers?

In Arizona, where I’m from, you never hear such a thing, unless its monsoon season.
So, for a second I smelled mesquite, sage, dust, thought I smelled home.
Thought I smelled like my father.

Instead I was standing around on the corner,
about to get all awkward in front of her friends again
who are my friends
who look at me with worried brows, and chuckle uncomfortably.

How do I do this?
Its been so long. I’m just not good at it. I have no filter,

I have a hard time getting over things.

I stood for a long time in the dark, listening to the engine in my car click and settle
listening to all that water

I imagined that some of it came from the ocean and some of it came from the sky and
I imagined
and I imagined

She wont call me – and thats okay. I dont really have anything new to report except
that I miss her far less than I imagined I would because
of course the minute our lips first met I imagined the water, her inevitable decision that I wasn’t the right one.
Of course, I imagined that I simply wasnt.
I know that she’s not my one – either.

So, Im standing in the street on some Sunday thinking about the current beneath my feet,
licking at my ankles, dampening my socks
smelling like something familiar
smelling like something that is empty

I didn’t wish for her in those moments
and I didn’t wish for anyone else either – I just listened
then I remembered how to move.

Don’t sit. Please, sometimes, hope.

Don’t come (home)

Sit in pews of steeple’d fingers
what you’d always imagined
would be:
ringed and rigid
latticed and lonely
mired, masked.

Please, remember your mother’s maiden name

Sometimes, desperately want your happiness
across desolated plains of missing and
blow away the caps and umbrellas
doubting it.

Hope, the stillness in the air isn’t a sign
your shoe is filling up with blood.


If I were the kind of man who spoke in sports metaphor
I’d say I lost the title. That giant belt
they give you at the end of a match when
you’re sweating onto that big field of blue.
Gold and gilded, toothless and tasting copper.

But, I’m still not sure why men talk about belts and boats
like they’re women,
and women like they’re something to be won.

It seems I’ve always been a better cartographer
than punch puller and
so I write to you about road trips, and miss you
in a way that makes
posturing masculinity seem
momentarily reasonable.

I know you always liked a good fight.


Puffy faced and delirious,
feet smaller, vocal chords
pulling the back of my throat
with every step.

You, at the other end of
sticky fingers, stomach flus,
teenage-I-hate-you’s sunk
into the hallways of
houses where we slept and
never lived.

A tomato soup stained
tornado of learned things.

Please don’t laugh

I’m afraid you’ll