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Longmont, CO

thoughtcassette is a lifelong art project created by Denver Lewis, focused on visual poetry & prose.

poetry & prose.

things, happen.

Denver Pittman

Things are Happening; swallowed apprehension. And the seasons change, so - also - motivation. The cold, sweeping motions of calloused hands, (all too often) marking the solidity of mental state. Calm. And Often, when feeling scattered, without ability to produce. Or feel. Written word - bursting inside, emptied out. An emotional hangnail. I will not shake. I cannot shake. For, when Everything in life - transformed digital. In craft, may analog prevail. My person, thoughts - anachronistic, but I stand firmly for handmade. To push forward, that my cold-pressed paper heart might follow suit.


Denver Pittman

Linked together, effortlessly effervescent - this head with this heart.

and seize this season, one before that breath & one long after it has taken wings + legs. 

and walked around for a while, crawling then stumbling then flight.

in the creativity, far above the reality of the blissful pendulum. In Creativity. 

Heavy, soggy dreams slept narrowly beneath the covers, its eyes swollen in vulnerability.

Running & running, + even settling, the effortless effervescence. the lining, unsettled. 

ashore to a beach more sizable than expected, scrapes hidden porous / polymer. Gentle sigh.

come all ye whom are weary & we will give you rest.

is what they said. 

This brain with this body. let the dust settle. 


The Prayer.

Denver Pittman

somewhere in the action of rocking, horses and chairs — found solidarity. 

perceiving growth as glimpse. As a moment affiliated with movement. 


Forward and forward, neon passengers. Escalating an otherwise fluid existence.


salty sweat, sweating down a heavy face for people and places and things.

Common thing. A common moment. An underlying factor. Heartburn, three previous hours — all with normalcy. 

Burned inside, but porcelain without. Within. 

Rest weary bones, oh ye of little faith. Sitting, in another time + place.


And stretch your limbs, eyes peeled to the light. Blink now, and later. Take one gasping breath.

Dear lungs, this is only the beginning.


the middle, not the end. 


Alive and breathing and joyful. Forty eight in constant shift; this cautious tango with the moon.

The Space Between.

Denver Pittman

Grace chases you like a long-winded sigh - it slides through the cracks in the windshield; the lines in your soul. Turn away. grin. Chagrin. Has it been so long, since. What once was, driven by emotional stress. Heavy, upbeat, toothy smiles. And, in no need to be rushed. But - to be noticed. A crazy, full dream - a silent notion. Tearing at an idea, one Million directions. Well, two. We came here so alone &; now, together. At this one place in this metaphorical Universe, we’ve met Time. And now, squashed against reality - we will fight for the Red & Yellow sunsets & scream with the restless wind. For it has never been about the Years ahead, but the spaces between them. 

Liquid Libations.

Denver Pittman

Love—as yellow as Time. And memories, fluid, bitter flavonoids.

Yellow, as thematic, and warm. This liquid libation. It is home. It is healing. Yellow agave, dripping into its belly—instantly devoured by vast swirl. And life, as it swallows experiences. Forever mixed together, this calculated microcosm. Slowly prospering, growing. And such, our thoughts, muddled together to warm the throat of existence. If only one chance to change properties, to take on a completely hydrous state. On a hot summer’s day, under the covers of winter, healing the soul. Of negative capability. I am Blooming Tea.



Denver Pittman

I have never loved another so frozen in time.

married to the moments, light strung across the sky. 

I am, within. swimming inside; an hour without regret. 

One day, to sit. Beyond the Sun.

sunshine - dreams - emotions.

I’ll be there. Equations float. I am with you. Do not be afraid.

You are We. 

Marching On.

Denver Pittman

dark shadows have chased and beckoned the nimble places in the mind.

old tethered ropes swing from the sides of eternity. cut in half.

all together, we have cut them in two.

and one, all for warm sunny days.

all for Now.

oh, Good Graces.

Denver Pittman

typography drips and spills from the insides of a life.

a life, well lived, longs for adventure. No, it will not take.

breathes in, breathes in. oh, Good graces. And the left behind trail. 

Holding its. bated. Exhalation.

state-of-the-art : keys to a City.

Shiny towns, buried in sunshine, laughing. rolling their bodies around.

And not so suddenly, smiles to parallel emotion. straight lines; crooked imagination.

I, who have not found the way. marbled, stoic, frozen, thoughts. a pensive mood.

this monkey mind, trapped by devotion. 

a life, well lived, longing for adventure. 

a graphological tale.

negative space.

Denver Pittman

I will start with morbidity. Our time will run out: footprints, mirrored neurons, cautionary tales. Leaving behind our tries; our chances; (our creativity). ExpectationsPerspectivesMoments. In the past and the future (and the present). All at once. Read these directions :: We have to stop this––this lackluster angst. This regret for what was; worry for what will be.

Your past is preparation. For opportunities. And growth. Not unknown curses, but Adventure.

Embrace impermanence or you will be swallowed whole. Shake a nervous fist at the sky, but latch onto emotion. We want to produce great art. But the hours are long. In our drive-thru world. The days, the weeks, the months. Mundane. Maybe this is more about growing up than growing older. Maybe more about growing older than growing wise.

Or maybe just pure intentions and how we decide to make them a part of our lives.

We are pastel boxes at the foot of a bed and books stacked, misplaced thoughts atop one another. And like clockwork, reevaluating ourselves. Rereading our own pages. The books, flying wide open. Page four. And disinterest. Slathered on top-lacquered shell and only in the closest distance, their passage, cognizant. Written inside, scenes forgotten to regret. stuffed inside our bodies, the tissue overflows & spills out. The past devours the weak mind, guilt (like confetti) expelled into negative space.

Of negative capability :: beauty is truth, truth is beauty. I have believed in such things. Papier-mâché. A story written by memories. Freshly painted emotion. A funnel, small/poignant/important. & as paint, duration smears its face down.

And the Old shines through. Immaturity : a lack for directional spirit, lost/frozen thoughts. Thoughts on thoughts of other thoughts. the melding of iniquity, protrusive reputation trails like a stench. monkey-mind.

But wake up! One’s past is shape-shifting. Don’t you know its importance?—Or, rather its peculiar (monolithic) magnanimous breathing? Heavy, shallow, breaths. Caverns shaken inside the intestines, uneasy recall. This is non-fiction. Do you have a scratched complexion? Say Grace

Be Grateful in gradience, when all but a few pieces, not in disarray. Remember ––it is the journey. This journey. A path as comforting as it is alarmingly – beautiful. I know not what is asked of me, but what I have tried. I know not when I have tried, but how diligently. Crusted earth presses its heels into my spine. I lean forward, looking up. Behind me, the shadows deepen and bleed out with the people and places and things that I was. The people that I am. Multifaceted coincidences, and I meet (me) again. Say hello to yourselves.

Travel (kindly) and lightly, through the valley of ashes, but do remember not to forget where you’ve been. This. whimsical. little. tale. Your life, like the insides of a lightbulb—even when dark, wired with potential. We are Creatures rolling around inside our shells, some feasting on others. Most, sharing mutual existence. I am facing growing old, walking backwards. As to make sure, no single gasp of intended glamour is missed. None considered null. In the beginning days, too bright to see. But now, clarity, as if the day I was born. Right in this Present moment.

Follow these directions :: Be Kind, Be Kind, Be Kind.

And consider this of your worries > You are not drowningbut waving


Denver Pittman

This has been my experience.

I am running directly into the rain. It is wet and dark and frightening. I am lost and simultaneously found. In one deep (crippling) breath. I travel around dark corners and squint, trying to catch up. And shadows haunt the footsteps. Waving at the past, gasping for the future.

I am a breathing time machine. Listening to a radio.

And then myself, in the mirror, growing older––Exhale. I cannot pinpoint a destination, that overarching bellyache. Time is on our side. My heart beats forward. My steps, heavy and uneven. I am wearing large shoes that I cannot seem to fill. I find myself forcing fate. Or in a consistent attempt (contempt). The sun tries to shine; I stand behind a dirty window. My thoughts are clouded. The lights from the streets are piercing, I am trying for this destination.

I am sometimes lethargic, often optimistic. I flex my muscles, they are sore and weary. I have stretched my mind. The sky above, my dark green soul, bleeds teal Blue floods. Oh my eyes, what have I perceived? In the perception, we weep ourselves clean. Frozen rain. All of the struggle, and fruition? What of this has Meaning?

The still fluid movements of people, the differences, the stories. The sickening longing for adventure. And then thinking to yourself, everyone is just the same and different. And the same. And that is the duality of it all. The paradox of happiness and grief. Place the books on the table, look up from the stacks. Lists. Always growing and changing; yet, constantly remaining still. And in the stillness, there are things that are fathomed. Phantoms of Passion. Be still and listen. The dynamics of the warm sun as it, like clockwork, reddens your insides. Ready. Creep under the covers, but do not hide. Because it will find you. It will bury itself beneath your skin. It will scream, like white noise around you in an E-Flat minor. Low and rounded, but, noticeable.

I have wrestled with this––the way we brush against time. The quickness of it all. Like clockwork, the days shift. The nights grow colder and our hearts follow suit. When I am blocked, I am useless. But time continues. Around, spinning. I, a loss. Pen to paper, but the pen is not smooth. Bleeding fingers, typing, but the sound is too loud. And it melts inside of my ears. Until I cannot think. I cannot think straight. A piano somewhere in a distant room, books and the sound of pencils scraping along a long hallway. In the rough hands of a child. With a knack for words. And it is me. And it is then that I remember, this is a gift. And the presence is then, colorful. Meditation, my cure. My pen moves. Inspiration. It comes in waves and it dilates. It smooths my edges, these circles & shapes.

Poetic reference, the writing process––analogous. Hoping for a clear lens, but basking in the rain. Cleansing and powerful–– its cathartic promise. I write to be free, to uncage the words. I live inside chapters and typography, I will squeeze my life of the magic. For each day, I have only gained more emotional wealth. And the process itself, like the rain, slow – steady – with a pleasant stench. I am a fragile moment, chasing a tragically beautiful existence. My whole, only the sum of its parts, exploring the inconstancies, analyzing the often ironic beauty found in the Now.  This lucid writing process, a slumber, not to be woken from.

I will simply live out and tell these stories; I will seek to understand something bigger. I will cherish the words––Thoughts on Cassette. I am taking the long way around; I am running directly into the rain.

All is well with my soul, I will belong to creativity and creativity will set me free.

Ramona, For Goodness Sake.

Denver Pittman

a liquid stench stood naked in the harmonic melody, swept away by a contagious gasp of breath and incantation. Try as it may, no oxygen left for stumbling. The room, spinning the haunting ethylene and chlorine echoes, weaving fluidity, its beating chest.

floating language saddled to an incandescent dream-state. Sticky bodies swaying, without reason; with rhyme. free, prose. free for the taking and devouring, like a sweet delicate dessert. And the poets, all the same. Mesmerized by the incoherence, but all the same delighted in its fervor, Fist(s) full of swoon. Surely, not just two, three,

seven. boats. beating against the current.

ashes to ashes

dust to dust 

all for not

if not for all of us. 

for crying out loud, strangers. delivered & (intertwined) into a magical happenstance. a near miss. 

Ramona Geraldine Quimby, just behind the window on Klickitat Street. Nothing ever turned out as you expected––this, Hollywood horror. Say goodnight, my dear acquaintance(s). Surely, You have the worst misunderstanding. Lock my wicked heart in this rickety cage. 

This is not first, nor last. three hundred and sixty four bones, tapping truth. Thank god for the bystanders, innocent as they may be.


we’ve got to make make make the best of our time.

paper birds

Denver Pittman

"my cold and rusty winter heart blew bubbles and sank deeply into the Fall disguise," he sighed. breathing ever heavily into the pockets of thick (thick) air that so significantly surrounded his furrowed brow. upward motion and smokey, flat breathing. the kind that swirled around your eyelids and implanted wet creases. poetic, he was. and he would be, inside a poem. as bleeding is made for those who bleed, and most of the world had bandaids. cutting him open, slicing word veins. there would be no longer the moments that felt poignant, for those moments were gone. crumbling up the poetic fervor, paper birds ignite.

the boy that was, is.

the boy that is. changed

as a world patched with bandage birthed a boy born to bleed. 

Denver Pittman



a long while

into the ashes.

and, alas–––

at once, I



sunset soundtrack.

Denver Pittman

the light goes out in the city without sound. receptacles, brimming over belongings. belonging to stuff, stuffed inside boxes, memories. damp & wet, brown, tears. cleansing. If it could, the street, folding itself away. tucking, taping boxes. retracting, as if not in fear, but surrender. and if only, just to throw its proverbial hands to the sky. watching on, the horror. arms, hugging, and breathing. one large inhale, the city sleeps. swimming emotions, tapping on the sill. only to escape, the eyes peer outside, the brain peers in. voyeuristic ears suctioned to radio waves. television signals and everything is ok. ok. ok. go inside now and be with one another. be for one another.  the light returns, sun reveals heart.

one, beating heart.

soaked hands locked together, be not alone.

you are not alone. 


Denver Pittman

I have been so afraid of consuming.
Of swallowing down a life. Wings and all. Of swimming into my own thoughts. And of abrasion to what has been. I. Have been so scared to breathe in the transgressions that they have for once, inhaled me. Smoke rings, they smell like my clothes and my emotions smell like the past. Clinging, clung to droplets on the outsides of a perspiring jar. And I have seen these thoughts from the outside. Wooden panes, cracked and soiled with what looks and feels like tears. But is actually rain; just precipitation. And our participation in that, over again. Cracks in wooden surfaces remind me that I am not bereft of this. I am not changed from this. I will live with the thoughts. Fish bowls of circumstance: and I will be better. Now. And only now. That is what I’ve come to know.

Denver Pittman

Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
— Sylvia Plath (via lungs-)

rain /\ .

Denver Pittman

buckets. and slowly, over time, refilling themselves. savior-like attributes to a rusted lip, wet and smoothed with water. curved and flowing. an anxious Ebb and flow, just as if everything—solved, by bowing to the alter of greed and timetable. with my eyes, that more and more. it rained for what felt like hours and then. it rained again. let it go. peer over the edges. for that, [that] which you were living for, in turn, lives on without you. 

ten thirty p.m.

Denver Pittman

waiting on its arrival, there it was outside. the foliage shaping its face and arms, heat permeating from its spirit. knowing not how many times it had been there before, or peeked through the panes of glass. panes stood tall and wide and smeared with prints of fingers, fallen & gripping against. pain, shining prints, swirled, tightly wound. and emotions, a similar mess. and now, to go Home. To go, for once, to the place where headed. surreal, locking eyes with the one at the window. water runs down burdened cheeks. laying out paths, traces. and rose-colored creases, an old familiar grin. chagrin. purple-patterned quilts, woven by those who knew the one and saw the prints. and cried the same. pianos reeling melody around eardrums and they have burst. bleeding out memories, plastic memories. in the yard, by the fence, by the old sign, in the middle of my life. what has set me free has been inside this box. and, suddenly out. everyone is breathing heavy and fogged. and there you are, just the same as you were. and hopefully, for a while, to bid adieu. wring out heavy lids, get some sleep. there is only that.  


Denver Pittman

pastel boxes at the foot of a bed. and books stacked, misplaced thoughts. afar, the books, rusty. slathered on top- lacquer shell and only in the closest distance, their passage, cognizant. Written inside, scenes forgotten to regret. stuffed inside a body, the tissue overflowed & spilled out into a low, dry, humming abyss. These things eat the mind, guilt (like confetti) expelled into the contents of the pastel boxes at the foot of the bed. Rarely, stumbling blocks. Concrete, at that. Papier-mâché. Story of a girl’s stale memories. fresh paint(ed) emotion sloshes inside. A funnel, small/poignant/important. & as paint, duration wears its face down. Old, Shine, Through. Immaturity : lack for directional spirit, lost/frozen thoughts.  the girl wonders, spine-numbing. thoughts on thoughts of other thoughts. the melding of iniquity, protrusive reputation trails like a stench. The hidden drawer holds no secret, but an echo of who belonged to the body that tends to open it here and there. And fill it, again, with black. The drawer thinks out loud to itself, will I burn myself alive? Fahrenheit 451. remove my existence, this body- angered and hollow. And then, drifts again to remember, one’s past is shape-shifting. It’s importance—lowly to some, but Oh, the rather peculiar (monolithic) magnanimity of its breathing. heavy, shallow, breaths. caverns shaken inside the intestines, uneasy recall. without the drawer, the girl- not herself, rather a fictional story.  Filling blank (white) pages backwards, a scratched complexion. ripping away, no carbon copies. Carbon. And solid. So, not to come from the past, but forwards to it. like light, I, the girl, must run towards. I prepare myself for departure. the Voices, loud & clear. This is redemption.