Synaptec, the Blog

Yellow Footprints

2008-04-30T16:46:00.000-07:00

Yellow Footprints
Written 8/10/07 Jeremy L. Smith
Published in Leatherneck Magazine; May 2008 Edition

Anxious energy fills the bus
Young men unsure what awaits
Rumors swirl in their minds
Images from movies. Family stories.
Some crack jokes. Nervous laughter.
It is dark.
Bus creeps through the gate.
The sentry in dress blues somberly waves it on.
A faint smile of remembrance crosses his face.
Bus stops. Air brakes release.
The door opens with a metallic ring. Then,
Silence
Silence
Silence
A palpable, unending silence
But it ends.
A Smoky is all they see.
But it’s not what they see it’s what they hear. Yelling.
Bodies tangle. Scrambling. Running. Tripping.
Move. Move. Move.
Descend the stairs. Trip and fall. Spittle in their face.
Teeth. The brim of his Hat gouges a forehead.
They can’t move. Frozen.
This is it.
Welcome to hell.
Get on the Yellow Footprints.

(link to PDF of magazine to be provided later)

CowboyHatCountry.com - my Wife's eCommerce Biz

2008-02-17T08:49:00.000-08:00

For many years my wife and mother-in-law have sold cowboy hats on eBay. They've grown extremely successful in this endeavor, so much that they recently opened their own website:

http://www.CowboyHatCountry.com

They sell customized cowboy hats, hand shaped to look like popular music entertainers like Kenny Chesney, Brad Paisley, Toby Keith and more. They have partnered with Toby Keith's Official "Signature" Hats which have been wildly popular and have recently added the Official Indiana Jones Hat Collections to their collection in advance of the new Indy movie "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" (http://www.indianajones.com).

Their Indy Hat Collection is here:
http://www.cowboyhatcountry.com/servlet/the-Official-Indiana-Jones-Collection/Categories?sfs=9466b3ff

They still operate their eBay business and still enjoy great success. Here is their eBay store: http://stores.ebay.com/Cowboy-Hat-Country

Check them out sometime!

Jeremy

Synaptec V - A Poem

2008-01-31T19:56:00.000-08:00

Synaptec V

This is the final chapter
Our paradigms changed
Our world altered
The course has been set
There is no turning back
Mankind useless
Machines dominion
But is this any different than before?

Note: this poem was published in a Writers Monthly, a local San Diego rag, in August of 2003. It is part 5 of 5 poems within the "Synaptec" series.

Synaptec IV

2007-12-01T20:59:00.000-08:00

Synaptec IV

Things have been changed
The course has been altered
Machines now rule
Machines the kings
Slaves are the men
Our technology robust
Our foresight was weak
Gone is the freedom
Gone is the joy
Gone is love
Remains only pain
We went to far
We should have stopped
Convenience demanded
And mankind responded

Synaptec III - A Poem

2007-10-19T19:24:00.000-07:00

Synaptec III

Advanced immersion of Man
Bits of matter
Forming slowly in my urethral consciousness
Machine Lives
Man Slaves

Serf of technology
Robots fickle fantasy
Ironical verity
Virtual Realty
Sold to the Net

Manipulative Machine
Lethargy incumbent
Destructive widget
No longer captive
Released by greed

Paradigm Changed

Note: this poem was published in a Writers Monthly, a local San Diego rag, in August of 2003. It is part 3 of 5 poems within the "Synaptec" series.

Stop Sign at the Edge of the Universe - A Poem

2007-10-01T07:45:00.001-07:00

Stop Sign at the Edge of the Universe
Jeremy L. Smith

I was traveling normally when halted abruptly
The stop sign said stop, so I braked slowly
I peered up ahead, and what did I see?
Nothingness ahead, Nothingness you see

Was this the end, or only the start?
It wasn’t expected, it tweren’t on the chart
I had no idea, I had not a clue
But hey what the heck, this wasn’t new

I thought to myself, that it seemed a bit odd
“It don’t make sense,” I smartly guffawed
I pondered and pondered, and thoughts filled my head
It was a tad strange; that sign that was Red

The questions were many, the answers were few
Who put it up…could it be You?
Now let’s get real, it surely can’t be
I don’t believe it, no not me

So why was it here, why did I care?
Who put it up, and who put it there?
The question was valid, the meaning unknown
C’mon someone, throw me a bone

Now after a pause and a nice little nap
I fired her up, my trusty spacecraft
She sputtered and purred and trembled a bit
A loud growling noise, did she emit

About to go home, about to move on
My mind was blank, nothing was wrong
And slowly it came, yes slowly it did
My heart skipped a beat, my brain was outdid

Aha, it made sense! I now know the riddle
This was the place, the place in the Middle
It wasn’t the end, no definitely not
It twere just the start, the start of the Plot

I dropped it in First, my trusty space ship
My hands wrapped tightly, wheel in the grip
Oh what was ahead, what was in store?
I knew yes I knew, there was definitely More

My Questions were answered, the meanings revealed
Truth is now known, my daftness repealed
The sign that was Red, that octagon alert
It’s there just to stop, to stop the Inert

Author Note: This Poem was published in Aug 2003 in WriterMonthly.us. I've reposted it here.

Synaptec II - A Poem (Part 2 of 5)

2007-09-28T07:53:00.000-07:00

Synaptec II

Spine-Tingling Sensation Strangely Translucent
Manipulative Sensor Stealing Memory
Brain Thought falters briefly
Neuron’s Electrical Current consumes
Automatically Rebooting
Pause
Liquidity Lingers, slowly solidifying
Plasma forms quickly
Hardening swiftly
Silicon Brain
I think therefore…

Synaptec - A Poem

2007-09-21T20:24:00.000-07:00

Synaptec

Thoughtless chatter abounds
Thought bullets fly
Mind rages introspectively
Brain merges, technology
Separate but together
Neurologically different
And the same
Mind aches
Mind yearns
For the old days
Brain fuses, technology
No separation, none wanted
Life Alters
Explodes
Synaptechnology

Note: this poem was published in a Writers Monthly, a local San Diego rag, in August of 2003. It is part of a five poems within the "Synaptec" series.

Binary Theory (A Poem about the impact of Binary on Mankind) - A Poem

2007-09-20T07:54:00.000-07:00

Binary Theory (A Poem about the impact of Binary on Mankind)

Note: this poem was published in a Writers Monthly, a local San Diego rag, in August of 2003. I am reposting it here.

01001101011001010110000101101110011010010110111001100111001000000110111101100110001000000100110001101001011001100110010100001101000010100000110100001010010011110100111000100000011011110111001000100000010011110100011001000110000011010000101001000100011000010111001001101011001000000110111101110010001000000100110001101001011001110110100001110100000011010000101001000101011101100110100101101100001000000110111101110010001000000100011101101111011011110110010000001101000010100101001101110111011001010110010101110100001000000110111101110010001000000101001101101111011101010111001000001101000010100100110001101001011001100110010100100000011011110111001000100000010001000110010101100001011101000110100000001101000010100100110101100001011011000110010100100000011011110111001000100000010001100110010101101101011000010110110001100101000011010000101001101111011011100110010100100000011011110111001000100000011110100110010101110010011011110000110100001010000011010000101000001101000010100000110100001010

translation:

Meaning of Life

ON or OFF
Dark or Light
Evil or Good
Sweet or Sour
Life or Death
Male or Femaleone or zero

Interstellar Restroom - A Poem

2007-09-19T06:50:00.001-07:00

Note: this poem was published in a Writers Monthly, a local San Diego rag, in August of 2003. I am reposting it here.

Interstellar Restroom
8/2003
Jeremy L. Smith

Just a small break was all that I needed
A place to relieve, a place please I pleaded!

The trip had been long, if I wasn’t wrong
We thought it’d be short, but we had to prolong

My back teeth were swimming, my hair needing trimming
But that wasn’t important, cuz my bladder was brimming

I entered the Way, its Milky they say
But, it couldn’t be found, no not today

So traveled I did, all liquid forbid
Past each planet, all bathrooms were hid

Up, up ahead, I saw what was wanted
Yes, yes it was, the place that was hunted

The restroom was new; and it looked green and blue
So I entered the atmosphere and put on my shoes

I opened the door, and jumped to the floor
I ran straight away, straight to the shore

Finally, Finally, I did recite
Finally, yes finally, relief was in sight

When I was finished, my demeanor diminished
The sites I did take in, my needs now nourished

This place wasn’t too bad, no not a bit, no not a tad
For a restroom that is, for a restroom not bad

I decided to leave, my mission achieved
Earth was all right, but maybe a bit deceived

Just a pit stop, just another hop
Earth was place, where we all had to stop

This Cup - A Poem

2007-09-17T10:48:00.000-07:00

This Cup
By: Jeremy L. Smith
January 11, 2004

Immeasurable weight, ponderous pressure,
My body aches from each sinewy fiber.
The fate of creation, the preordained plan
Rests on the shoulders of this God-Man.

My Blood it doth drip, my pores give it freely,
This task is at hand; Father have mercy…
Abba! I cry; and Father! Exclaim.
Take this from me, my Glory reclaimed.

Crushed on all sides, pressed to my knees
This task is too much! Too much even for me!
Not my will be done, but instead yours
Abba, my father, I humbly implore

The hour is nigh, my betrayer at hand!
It’s time for this King to do what is planned.
Awake yonder men; pray for your souls.
This Cup is now mine; this King must now go.

This Chalice I take, unfettered and glad
This Cross I embrace neither angered nor sad
The scourge I endure, the Nails have now pierced.
My destiny is fulfilled just like You said.

Father, my Father, I can’t see your face!
The torment is too much. All this for Grace?
Yes, Yes, my Son; happen this must.
For if it did not; whom would they trust?

And so it ‘twere so, on that scandalous night
Omnipotent God humbled yet Right
Death, it embraced Him and bore him away
The Cup he did taste, whilst Mary did pray

Glory amazing, the Savior doth gleam
Shout to Lord! Man is redeemed
That Cup was so bitter, the Sins of world
Have all been erased; at Grace now unfurled.

Poetic Inertia - A Poem

2007-09-16T14:55:00.000-07:00

Poetic Inertia

By: Jeremy L. Smith

Blocked Imagination
Stymied impasse
Creation halted
Stalemated design

Pause

Inexorable trudging
Uphill Struggle
Toiling Relentless
Sinking Slowly

Pause

Patience

Travel - A Poem

2007-09-16T14:54:00.001-07:00

Travel
Jeremy L. Smith

Traveling frequently to distant places,
Varied time zones and different spaces.
Airport lines confound reality,
Making me quite a bit grouchy.

Away from home, my kids on the phone,
Wife uses her best fake tone.
They’re not happy, but manage well.
Will it last? Hard to tell…

Marine's who've died - A Poem

2007-09-15T07:31:00.000-07:00

Marines who’ve died

Few have known the highest pride
Earned by those Marines who’ve died.
Battle weary, tired and tried,
The Ultimate Sacrifice was required.

To the battle you did go,
Unflinchingly bold and without show.
Spartan warriors, fearless and brave,
Forsook your own life, a brother to save.

You did your duty. You joined the fight.
Why they asked? Because it was right.
Flag of honor, stained with red.
You died for it; your own blood was shed.

Freedoms’ Bells toll tonight
For the Unsung Hero of the fight
On to heaven the warrior goes
Well done boy, Jarhead’s know…

Author's note: this poem was selected for publication in an upcoming edition of the Marine Leatherneck Magazine.

Hard Work is a Virtue - An Essay

2007-09-13T16:31:00.001-07:00

(Written for dad on Father's Day 2007)

Hard Work is a Virtue

The searing pain shot through my leg like a branding iron, instantly forcing me to my knees. My hand opened, hastily dropping the Senco pneumatic stapler I’d been using to nail-off the expansive garage roof I was perched on. Through clenched teeth I calmly called my father who was simultaneously performing the same task as me—but on an adjacent garage. “Dad, I’ve shot myself in the leg,” I casually mentioned, attempting to maintain my typical high school age “cool-factor” as best I could.

The reaction was priceless. In a fluid motion, dad dropped his staple gun, face paling in the desert heat of an Arizona afternoon, and appeared to fly off the roof and down the ladder in a single bound, the nail bags at his hips appearing to act as wings, guiding him safely to the ground. As he raced to my side, a cacophony of nails, pencils, a tape measure, a square and other items that live in the nail bags of expert carpenters flew from the bags falling to the ground in a scattered fashion.

Some kids get to experience “take-your-kid-to-work-day” once a year. For me, it was a regular occurrence—in fact, it was my job. On that day, take-your-kid-to-work-day had resulted in my accidentally shooting a 1-½ inch staple into my calf. From as far back as I could remember I’d been on the job with my father in some capacity. Pictures of me from ages 4 or 5 where I am literally tied to the chimney of a house my dad was roofing have surfaced. In our elementary years we picked up nails for premium of a penny a nail.

As a general contractor, my father runs his own business, building houses, garages, decks, or performing extensive remodeling jobs—whatever it takes to earn an honest living. A master craftsman who defines the word carpenter, my father’s reputation for quality has no parallel. Simply put, you cannot find better.

My brother and I were expected to work with our father, performing numerous tasks from construction site cleanup at an early age, to full-blown framing as teenagers. We were taught how to layout a wall, how to stick-frame that wall, raise it, plumb it and eventually cover it with siding, even adding windows and doors. We’d roll the trusses (usually with me perched dangerously at the top of the truss, hanging many feet off the ground, “running the ridge” as we called it) and put plywood on them, black-paper and even install shingles—a job I was not fond of.

I can vividly recall digging concrete footers through ground so hard you could have built the house without pouring a concrete slab at all. We hung cabinets and ran trim—another task I especially despised. Occasionally we’d do plumbing, or hang sheetrock, but often we left that to the “pros.” We did it all, learning the finer and not so finer points of construction from a tradesman skilled enough for his own TV show.

It was here where my first lessons on the value of hard work, perseverance, initiative and diligence were learned. A hard, but fair employer, quality was expected and openly demanded of all employees—children included. We were taught the importance of hard work; taught to appreciate it and respect it. We learned to stay moving, to stay busy, to take the initiative, and to hustle. In fact, the precept often echoed by my dad was: “Do something…even if it’s wrong!”

Though always willing to patiently teach and educate, he demanded 100% effort. Sloppiness, or half-hearted effort was simply not tolerated. We would do it over if it was done wrong. This was his reputation and it didn’t matter if siding could cover up the mistake. Right was right and wrong was wrong.

At lunch, or break, we’d casually sit amongst the crew, feeling almost part of the team of surly men, who lived paycheck to paycheck, physically exerting their bodies on a daily basis. An occasional word of wisdom or a Bible verse would break the relaxed conversation as we munched on fruit or sandwiches packed by a loving mother. A small respite from the demanding tasks that lay before us, these breaks were tiny benchmarks to break up the 10-hour day.

You felt like a man, physically driving a nail into a piece of wood or muscles straining on your bare back as you lifted a 40-foot wall in unison, each man depending on the other to carry his weight. You were sun burnt, lips chapped and tired. When leaving, you would gaze upon the jobsite, sun setting in the background, silhouetting the accomplishments of the day: a house’s walls, or garage’s roof. It was tangible, direct feedback to your body’s aching muscles and calloused hands. Yet, when you got home, you’d take a shower, eat a sturdy meal and somehow feel alive—refreshed, knowing you’d put in an honest days work, a feeling unmatched by any office job.

Dad wasn’t teaching us to take over the family business; in fact the opposite was said on many occasions. He didn’t want us to suffer the same ups and downs that come with the seasonal nature of construction, to endure the physical damage a body like his has endured with a lifetime of sun, physical exertion and long days. He didn’t want us to have battered and permanently calloused hands or joints that were continually stiff or the potential stress and heartache of the unknown. He wanted us to find a different profession—yet always appreciate the value of a hard, physical, honest, day’s work.

We did appreciate it and still do to this day. The values and principles that were both taught and lived by my father have left an indelible print on the blueprints of our lives. A fond memory of a sore calf muscle triggers memories that can only be summed up with words like respect, admiration, and heritage. You see hard work is a virtue that can only be earned, never given. My father had it but most importantly he ensured that his children earned it too.

Yellow Footprints

2007-09-13T16:25:00.000-07:00

Yellow Footprints
Written 8/10/07

Anxious energy fills the bus
Young men unsure what awaits
Rumors swirl in their minds
Images from movies. Family stories.
Some crack jokes. Nervous laughter.
It is night.
The bus creeps through the gate.
The sentry in dress blues somberly waves it on.
A faint smile of remembrance crosses his face.
The bus stops, air brakes release.
The door opens with a metallic ring. Then,
Silence
Silence
Silence
A palpable, unending silence
But it ends.
A Smoky is all they see.
But it’s not what they see it’s what they hear. Yelling.
Bodies tangle. Scrambling. Running. Tripping.
Move. Move. Move.
Descend the stairs. Trip and fall. Spittle in your face.
Teeth. The Smoky inches from your forehead.
You can’t move. Frozen.
This is it.
Welcome to hell.
Get on the Yellow Footprints.

Fettered - A Poem

2007-09-13T16:21:00.000-07:00

Fettered
J.L. Smith, 2007

The deity Desperation plunges her deep talons into the soul.
But first, the seductive goddess of Pleasure dances exotically, ensnaring many.
Slowly luring the unsuspecting suburbanite into a slave-like existence of material wealth.
Attractive mortgage rates, easy loans. Trophy wives and flashy cars. These too can be yours for the affordable price of your soul.
The fettered souls march onward toward their impending doom, oblivious to their gruesome fate.
Your happiness is temporary. It is a distraction from the real game.
It ends. Your ecstasy ends with a bang, a sudden collapse.
Turn and worship your god! Desperation calls your name. He knows you by sight and smell and taste…
The stench of failure absorbs into the pores. It blots out all. It demands your attention.
A sickly sweet aftertaste overwhelms the pallet. Ubiquitous want turned into temporary joy turned into hollow desperation.
A fetter.

Jazz Fiction - A Poem

2007-09-13T16:19:00.000-07:00

Jazz Fiction
J.L. Smith 2007

Jazz rhythms riff with storied nuances – each a different tale
Subtle narratives barely related
A dusty bookstore of hidden gems waiting to be read
The piano introduces a grand plot – romantic. Beaches and tears.
A solo trumpet elbows up to the counter
It starts its tale – an exciting adventure novel. Action packed.
The trombone sneaks up, not to be outdone
But his story is more somber – depressing. A drama.
The tension rises.
A cymbal raises its hand – a little tentatively – like a haiku
The piano wants back in – she has more to tell. So much more.
The horn sits down. He’s not done, but he’s a gentleman.
Love. Wine. Roses. Happily ever after. The piano’s story is predictable.
The drums don’t rest. They never tire. Theirs is an epic. An anthology.
Neither does the bass. A seedy 40’s crime novella drips off the strings.
Sexy.
Smoky.
Cagney.
Yeah, I dig that.
The horns chime in - interrupting each other. The plot thickens.
They fight and scrap, bruising and bullying each other in a cacophonous battle.
One for the ages.
The drums call a truce.
The piano is embarrassed – She whispers the rest of her tale, blushing.
But the cymbal gets the last word. A sage parable as the bookstore’s shutters close.
Jazz Fiction…

(All Rights Reserved by the Author 2007)

Coffee - A Poem

2007-09-13T16:14:00.000-07:00

Coffee

The meaning of life is still unknown

People constantly try to unravel the threads of mystery

Asking deep questions, thinking deep thoughts

Books have been written, studies performed

Men have experimented

Men have tried and tried and tried

The meaning of life will probably never be found

But who really cares when you have coffee!

Welcome

2007-09-13T16:10:00.000-07:00

Hello! My name is Jeremy L. Smith and this blog will be the online home of my many poems, essays, scribblings, and so on that I've accumulated over the years and continue to write. I have an inordinate amount of material, most of which is quite poor, yet I will post some of it (in small doses) as well as the new stuff here.

Thanks and enjoy!

Jeremy L. Smith