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Longmont, CO

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

poetry & prose.

stream of consciousness.

Denver Pittman

By the stream. Stream of consciousness. 


First and foremost, I am a writer. I live inside paragraphs and contempt of motility. 

I can’t tell you how long I’ve tried to live outside of that paradigm. 

If only life would lean my way, I suppose I would leave this frame. But time closes me in. 


She was more aware than I. Her Peace. Things that intrigued her before had been rekindled by a few new acquaintances, including myself. If you were quiet enough, beneath everything. You could hear her heart. A Prepositional Phrase.


She was on the computer. She was lost in her mind. She was running forwards. She was stepping over rocks. She was ascending. 

Xylophone. Rain. Her.

We feel lost, but the trail markings tell us that our path isn’t self-designed. I can tell by the way that her body moves that she is thinking. 

I know never to discount the Body and the way it speaks. 

 IP. NP. N. Paragraphs in structures bent her memory in half. This was all so familiar. She was in more trouble than she remembered. Human interactions. Dirty hippies. Transportation stations. Stationary. Yet moving. But nowhere fast. Peace.


Be still, my heart. But it beats. I hope she doesn’t understand the patterns of my breath. I am uneasy.


“If I could only go back. Or go somewhere.”

No geographical fix. Negative Space. Keep it simple, because simple is good. It all seemed more quiet when it was snowing. The heat brought on noise. Cacophony. Since we had traversed here, moving our lives, our hearts elsewhere, the climate had drastically changed. New. And cold. 

And It wasn’t just the place.

Dreadlocks wound around her neck, sweet with summer sweat. But knots could not hide the naught. 

She disproved, for me, my theories. Oh, and I had many. Where my solace lived in my own world, she brought me to the outside confection of joy. Trees reached their shade into the depths of my soul. 

Her strong legs climbed above me, her ankles were beautiful. I liked the way she always changed; I adored that she always stayed the same. 

The truth was, despite how it seemed, she missed home. Every road she had taken to get to this place had taken her a little further from the things she had once known. But she wouldn’t have shared this with me. She would request that I feel it instead. But my life had been numb.  

I liked to watch her, reading. If I stared long enough, the fragments of each word would swirl visibly around her black strings of hair, blonde roots peaking through. Blonde reminded me of a harder time, calloused. And color was important to me. Thank god, she always changed.

She handed herself out like pages of a book that everyone sought out to digest. Eat my words. I wanted everything from her. I could not manage to reach her. 

Dial tone.

You always get what you give. Wrapping herself into tiny boxes. Unconventional. Happy Birthday. She’s going to leave me. My mind bounced around on a seesaw inside my own brain. She loves me, she loves me not.

I couldn’t tell if it was the rain or the stench from our sweat that smelled so sweet as we hiked our way into that first evening. We had been hiking now for quite some time and I could feel that she was alone. Though I was with her. And I would always be with her. 

“Let’s sit,” I said.

But she didn’t seem to hear me talking. She was in her own world. 

The same one that I had no idea would soon consume mine. 

I am a writer. I live inside paragraphs and contempt of motility. But today, I am alive. I am with her.