A font which you may once have read:
is called, for some reason, Georgia.
The place in the U.S of A
is named for some fat cat old king.
The one from back when,
the much older one–
Who even knows, man.
It’s got a long history
with death and rebellion.
With conflict and pain,
and growth and regression,
with food and with wine and with Stalin.
Its press pretty free,
Its wine old as hell.
Its politics Western
Its PM–no joke–
So what’s the relation, I wonder?
With the font which you currently read.
Well Georgia was drawn
by some white dude named Matthew
who lives in a house right by Harvard.
He’s got a MacArthur, he’s from London town,
And oh yeah, his last name is Carter.
He named it for jokes:
A tabloid that read:
‘Alien heads found [down] in Georgia’.
Georgia the state,
not Georgia the country,
which seems pretty weird to consider.
When Georgia the state
is so very much younger
than the country with history its own.
And oh Georgia the state,
it has its own life;
it has its own tale
yes of course.
But how could it measure?
And is Matthew at leisure
to make us type words which refer
Aren’t I, writing this, just the same?
I subject you to my choice of font.
I press upon you, thou bound readers of verse,
to choices that I make alone.
Then why should Georgia the state
be less than the country?
It’s not like
The serif is drawn,
ball terminals proud,
I talk to you all through a code.
of thoughts turned to squiggles,
who line up at loosest command.
Yes, I think
The crime of falsehood is mine:
I choose all the words and I order these lines
To make of myself something other.
The me that emerges on pages and ink
Is someone that isn’t quite me.
So maybe the me who you think me to be
is as false as the typeface named Georgia.
Maybe the I who I feel I to be
is dangerously un-self-aware.