Titles? Caps?

If you’ve read some of my work, you’ve possibly wondered what my deal is with titles and caps.

I don’t generally care to use titles much. I feel like it can set a tone that I would rather let the body of the piece reveal. No preconceived notions is often a good place to start in many endeavors, not the least of which being these poems.

Ok, so what about capitalization? Meh. Oddly enough, I don’t have a clear answer to this. Maybe some day I’ll figure out the greater reason I feel this way and I’ll post something about it. What I do know is if you see caps in any of my poems, rest assured there is special meaning.

Poetry is something I kind of just feel out. Did it? It just feels right this way.

 

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Scribere (original poem #5)

moleskine
 make me your initiate
mark me among world makers
 hemingway
  van gogh
   matisse 
my predecessors
make them pray through me

moleskine


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Wiki on moleskine notebooks

Untitled, original poem #4

just what are we trying to say
we breathed that breath in renaissance
and we can't even laugh anymore in the modern age
 about
statism and
 conspiracies and
court appointed homocides

murray rothbard

murray rothbard understood
 abstract art


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About Murray Rothbard

William Was Right (original poem, #3)

maybe william was right
and we wear ourselves as windows
lighted
 fractal
  dynamic
set in spectral myriads
 betwixt blind suns and moons
so every thought
 which pushes pens
  is bound by blended hues

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About William S. Burroughs

untitled, original poem #2

we come
 through fitted foam rubber
  and self-lit star groves

we come toin droves

to dance
 slinging loose steps
and seek to free ourselves
 from our souls and hot shoes
exposing nude feet
 unshod and protected
pounding
thus praying dirt dreams
 to the earth

and to hide
 from the very stones
and sand grains
stardust
that so lost and long ago
 had dreamt us



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Bizarre structure one-ninth the size of the total known universe

A Somewhat More Conventional, Inaugural (almost) Post

“I’ve made this site mainly for myself. But also for you. Even if it’s just you. Maybe you will find an answer in here somewhere.”

Welcome. Whomever you are, I’m glad you’re here.

This is something I’ve wanted to do for years. I haven’t until now because frankly, I’ve been an introvert in most settings, for most of my life. Sharing my inner world with others has never been a natural or comfortable experience for me.

That is until I discovered poetry. I don’t mean the stuffy, frilly prose (not usually a fan) your teacher pushed on you in your propaganda prison days. I mean crazy shit like Celebration of The Lizard by James Douglas Morrison. What a mental turn-on that kind of reading was.

 I was in my very early teens when I found writing poetry allowed me to express my inner world. Thoughts, dreams, observations that other people I knew didn’t seem to have, or at least appear to have an interest in. Big picture thoughts.

While time fillers, details and duties of life, (like school or baseball or telling somebody what I wanted to be when I grew up) bored me; I found an outlet for all of my big picture kind of thoughts in poetry. And that made me feel alive in a way nothing else ever had. Unlike homework or friends or grand ambitions, writing poetry had no rules. No expectations. The beat poets had taught me that. I could draw way outside of the lines. Not boring.

At some point, I began writing poetry that would take me days to figure out what the full meaning was. One such piece had bore insight into a question I had been pondering, upon re reading much later. So what had seemed like nonsense lines earlier weren’t so nonsense anymore.

Writing poetry became much more important at that point. It wasn’t just a tool for expression anymore, or something I could tease girls with. It was an oracle. My own, personal cosmic computer that crunched the numbers for me and spat out code. Code that I could hopefully interpret and work into my life and worldview.

It’s as though the work comes to me from another plane or higher dimension. Transdimensional. From a place of greater scope and perspective than I have as my mundane, human self.

I’ve made this site mainly for myself. But also for you. Even if it’s just you. Maybe you will find an answer in here somewhere. Even if you’re the only one who reads this work, it’s worth my effort. Maybe you’ll be inspired yourself to produce your own puzzle piece. Maybe nobody but the NSA, FBI, DHS, CIA and some militarized, local police with too many toys will read. I don’t know but, here it goes.

– JL Harrington, TdP

untitled, original poem #1

this is me and my words
these are my spells
this is the whole of my heart

mark these gifts with grit
 and bones
scribe them into your soul
my gravestone

how could you ever know
 i
  am a dead language