Dish Cleaning

Who thought cleaning and a chart could match,
be so well connected,
peas in a pod, guided in spirit of the hands,
hoisted in recklessly green clean.
A world above the real about the real, perfect analysis of it,
where the aura is magnified and purposeful,
and clouds are perfection of poise.
The SSC is who we are
the generation to save is who we be,

Saving the mess of sorrowful fortune we have this day.

-jared a muscat

this poem i wrote after a night with the ssc crew, whilst cleaning the kitchen with a friend, it was an amazing experience

Ors

Sit and drift along,
or converse into the wee hours.
Stand and dance around,
or sing to the highest note you know.
Write and toy with words,
or report the facts of sorrow.
Read and disappear into a theater,
or pass the time educated.
Walk and think not of miles,
or quicken pace to loose weight.
Eat and harmonize with the source,
or chew the red juice.
What options we have,
the list goes on:
mine, yours;
his, hers, theirs, and ours.
Embrace it we shall,
or forsake it we might.
Remember nonetheless,
luck is always on the side of option.

From Which

Up from the crushingly brown granola of the earth;
in which all sorts of unorganized unidentifieds colonize non-empirically, marching too, and fro,
above which the red temple of symbolism handily stands,
below which a smolten cores of redorangeishyellow lava salivates,
through which hands weathered with inexperience or taxed by thorns sift, sew, and sing;
Cultivated beans of energized stem sprout!
correctly organic,
inking tattooed Avocado trees of deliverance.
Roots too!
The source of our food, powerful gripping knuckles of wood,
spread, thinly strong, sustainable in their neutrality,
themselves, everlasting phases of model crop,
Fed by the blink of the earth,
As well as its tears, of gratitude,
weeping tears full of nutrition.

Farm o ye passionate!
Farm with the hunger of appreciating respect!
And! Eat with unimagined resource,
for the resources are plentiful,
As the earth’s soil is cleansed in its damp cocoa state.

-jared a muscat

Flight of the Blinded

Maybe the meetings of connection are skip worthy;
maybe the bills can be spared with the right kind of stingy;
maybe the couches and poor self cleansing will get me laid;
maybe the nights will be foolishly soaked;
maybe the music will demaster vinyl like;
maybe the two of us will feel actually free.
We will roar up the legend,
The gift to America,
The great West Coast.
A stretch full of the sort of mystery that only the bonded truly and fully deep within themselves seek.
Maybe the lines combined will be Burroughs y Kerouac
(except the drama);
maybe the cafes will open arms, ears, and food banks;
maybe the gallons will not stop providing;
maybe the fortress will be without need of hold out;
maybe the batteries will find charges naturally;
maybe this poem won’t come to fruition.

-jared a muscat