Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 37
Table of

Between Latitude and Longitude

Driving a city highway you are the long thin neural network
running the spinal column of the body electric,
each streetlamp a vertebrae
		each office light a node
each apartment in each high rise condominium
	an input expanding around itself
that you gather into your awareness.
At its core, love is a gazillion bar stools
in ten quadrillion states of mind in the cloud
backward across time held static
                    	hyperlinked perplexity real time.

A car moves toward a tiny town of 200 souls
in western Colorado at 10 p.m.
and the driver is a compound of mountains
with a handful of kitchens and wood burning stoves for heat
he is aware of the Earth and not the grid,
of the network of rivers into lakes and time.

A plane passes over the country
each light below it human consciousness
dreams in a very distant night that breathes.
You think that you are flying the plane
    	just as every other passenger
in all this vastness you follow the lines
and you are on the grid.
  Jared Smith __

Each Crystal Different and The Same

The first snow flake had dead flesh at its core
whirled high above the streets and factories and continents
and ice cased that flesh and swirled down upon us
appearing as a fragile, crystal prism nestled on the ground
And it was the first of many, and one after another
each as different from the other as your DNA from another
they began to form around dark soot and flesh and bone
and they drifted down with a starved child at their core
or the end life of a coal miner from the hills of Virginia
or the drops of oil spilled from cross country pipelines
or a mother’s child grown too old upon the streets and cold
they settled one upon another, and at their heart, the heart
within each one of the heart of the human race caught up
and lifted up, torn away into the sky to dance down
in a cold and sterile blanket indifferent to mankind.

          Jared Smith__

On a Stone Bench Laid Down by the CCC

Western Pennsylvania man, Erie County,
sitting on a stone bench he carved in
the mythology of America, he knew it
took the broken bedrock of men’s lives
to break and shape the bedrock of Colorado,
the song of failed wheat fields and factories,
the failure of Capitalism and Communism,
the triumph of a bully, a dozen madmen,
a bureaucracy built from the failure of all
at the eastern ends of where the railways ran
carrying the hobos and failures westward,
the men who traded nothing to test their arms
to beat against the earth itself in rage and hope
collapsing as a band of brothers and singers
and shapers of a future built of stone…No,
built of a world where flowers and cabins,
walkways and drives built along the edge of sky
where nothing could be seen except the world
itself rolling with the ageless continents was
measureable even though they worked alone
it was enough to send a few nickels home
and enough to keep their wives and children
living long enough to forget what their fathers
eventually would give their lives for…now
turning their eyes toward metal finance and
data driven media our past did not dream nor need…

from Pennsylvania Ohio Oklahoma from Europe
and Asia and everywhere the adventurous failed,
from where the heart of America still had room to beat,
these men caught in the sweep of song and hope set
out across our country, building dreams of stone huts
and of parkways built through mountain passes
all across America, but never more than here in
Colorado where mountains separated man from soul
until they could be sculpted tunneled drilled driven
across the bedrock and the alpine fields opened out…

a nation back then, our nation back then funded that
and out of that the oil and gold that drives us today,
but what of the brotherhood of men that drove them…
too many gone too many bought too few alive today.

  Jared Smith__
Hollow Seeds Inside The Space You Left

Wind blowing makes the house do unusual things.
After a long night of drinking the walls seem to move
and dust rises out of the front range to darken the sun
so that when I hung on the front door jamb my coffee
cup curled in one gnarled hand thinking I heard her
horse coming back into the lower paddock this morning
and saw only the earth moving with the speed of wind
I wondered half asleep whoever built this home anyway
and why would I still think of her here among sagebrush
and dry things that blow away, but this morning that is
what I did, and the windows rattled, my own horse
Juanita shifted in her stall and called to the wild stallion
that last came through these parts at least a decade ago.

Everything poised for something unknown to happen
in this little plot of land where life was getting harder
and the dust was all I had to talk to as the mind woke
and I looked out toward the horizon over arid peaks
and thought I saw well maybe it was just a dust devil
coiled around the bright emergence of sun from cloud
but that morning the ground shook like never before
and the winds of time tore through me I swear I felt
connections to dreams that had no place in time, and
there was a column of fire upon the mountains rising
miles into the sky and I was blinded and the birds
fell into silence and the air glowed and I thought
of gods and devils that dance in the Superstitions
and of Spanish gold and the Lost Dutchman
coming back to search for it and pirate ships
crossing the dark void we had come from
thundering in another time and space
and I cried but nothing happened in that place,
not in that time not far northwest of Santa Fe.

  Jared Smith__