jared a muscat

a haiku in regards to studenthood

2010-05-06T10:37:00.000-07:00

To be a student today
is to be a professional
to be a professional
today
is to be a student
figuring out what went wrong.

I am a Politician

2010-03-21T21:34:00.000-07:00

I should run for

governor

senator

nay

president!

Why not?

The Cinderella story of

all

Cinderella stories,

better than the

girl surfing with

one arm lost to a shark-

or the boy calling

football games with

terminal cancer-

or the black man

running a country

who never knew his father-

America loves these

America is these

America is a Cinderella story

America has God on its side

America will support these-

like in Israel.

I will run on the platform

if he did

it, so can I-

and by he

I mean the governator

that big sick studly sunofabitch-

if she did

it, so can I-

and by she

I mean the Palienator

that sleek sexy snappy sista-

I am the next

JFK

but not Catholic

the next

Teddy

but not fat

ready to take it on

ready to take the lead

ready to succeed when

I am supposed to fail,

it will be a campaign

in Vegas

everyone will make money

everyone will lose money

everyone will be on a rush

in a blur

fearing

loathing

not remembering

drinking!

Outside E Street

2010-03-09T16:33:00.001-08:00

Seahawks squak man

and a duck dives,

still on you trudge

still in Asia someone is unpaid

in the Middle East someone died

in Africa someone is thirsty

and in Europe someone smoked one too many cigarettes

so in Kansas some dropped a bomb

and in Tokyo some girl disappeared-

and the wise steps

in, to say-

when your young

you drop political play:

be it witty

be it gritty

be it true,

but brue you got to talk

relevant,

you got to spit me and you-

and I thought

about a teacher white haired and full of

robust nature,

and typed out of my mouth-

son all that is true

is relevant to me and you,

all that is real,

we can fael

it is in all the birds in the sky

it is in all the flowers in a field

it is in all the leaves on that tree,

don’t you see

it ain’t true

unless it is all, and it is

all, with you and me

and man that is

true-

and he puffed a poke

and spoke-

ah I see that was fresh,

you paint a picture,

that was real, but man

you got to just feel you got

to just fly…

this is the truth, it is a dove

brother a line free,

to me-

I let fly-

I lean against a lamp pole

and you glean against a wall

smoking a cigarette

and speaking all about

drinking a tea,

and here I am leaning

and speaking,

came out all mad, came out

talking of correcting my mom

not listening to song

man that was cause I had not heard jazz

and had not had tea,

and now

I write

and we speak and it is flyin’ free between

you and me

and man that is dig

cause they was playin’ Thelonius

and I was writing an application till

I heard, and had to write

somethin’ else,

cause man

it was Thelonius and Droopy

was on high

The Giraffe Catcher Poetry Hour

2010-03-07T14:33:00.001-08:00

Listen in tonight for The Giraffe Catcher Poetry Hour on ksdt.ucsd.edu at 5:00pm

also check out THIS.

Eat and Write

2010-03-02T22:09:00.000-08:00

How pathetic it is there be
a professional tour of poker
playing people?
and for men’s sports to be
coveted most?
as if they were female
bodies.
Not to mention, myself, alone,
on a date at a sushi bar-
writing and eating with pity-
going so far as to devour roles with
names of Philadelphia and
California, blah and yummmm!
Jibber jibber new year! jib jib
jib blap bop blop pop!
That’s it right there:
nice jacket, good shave-
good tablet, nice pen-
alone at a bar
can’t buy a beer-
eat and write.
Eat and write.
better than drink and mumble.

a tree said to me

2010-02-20T18:07:00.001-08:00

if you can’t speak

to trees

then how come this

tree in front of

me is asking me

to say hi?

his face is tired

and his shoulders are broad

but hunched

and his mustache

is hardly trimmed

he has eyes cast deep

a nose that droops

and legs limberly

thin strong too

but with all this

to me he

says he is sad

that the building

behind is unkind

and the cars

that roar through

are quite rude

he says the sun

takes time to

shine because of

modern architecutre

and as it sets

off go his bets

but somewhere

i see a smile

a sucked in grin

a reminder to

chuckle

his little tune

ready to be spun

nature’s last breath

he said go home

be simple

Stopping through the Angels

2010-02-05T15:45:00.000-08:00

On an eve, a
great warm wondrous
winter eve,
in a car on
a trip, in a lane
on the road-
stuffy car,
stuffy air,
warm green
saturated, stuffy
Orange county air-
stuffy stuffy stuffy stufy
Orange county,
greedy air-
greed fueled by church,
church field by state,
state fueled by money,
driving through while
stopping through-
nowhere to wash
my hands,
nowhere to go to
the bathroom,
just red lights
and white lights and
honks and burps and
hipsters,
advertising modern-
beautiful advertising-
bulbs of advertising,
bursting with stupidity.

Tonight's Show

2010-01-31T17:33:00.000-08:00

These are the poets who were in the studio tonight...look out for a lot more of these things...also check out their stuff, cause it is really really really, freakishly good!

Ian schimmelfennig

Richard Chiem

Jesus Castiillo

Taylor Katz
(doesn't have a blog yet)

Also, check out the Facebook group page...HERE

Radio Show

2010-01-31T09:57:00.000-08:00

Hola,
Today at 5:00 pm is the radio show: The Poetry Hour! It is not world known, but a few people listen to it and claim to like it, one guy even telling me it was "sexy!" So, I offer you the opportunity to give it a listen just go to ksdt.ucsd.edu and click on the little 128kbps button and tune in for the show. If you want to know what it goes like, listen to this link which is the show from last week. (that is the link)

Hope all is well, and enjoy the show...did I mention yet there will be a surprise?

There Lay an Angel

2010-01-25T13:31:00.000-08:00

There lay an angel
in my bed,
curls of waves of golden
brown flow from her
head to her back
and from her glistens
soft sparkles
of sentiment-
she smiles in her sleep
and moans and groans
and squiggles to get warm-
I look over and
she smiles
I look back to my work
this poem
and she smiles
and says “sawee” for
distracting
and curls up
covering her
bare chest by using hands
as pillows and arms
as blankets
and smiles more
assuring I am healthy
and pills are popped
so I can climb back
and kiss her
more
so that she will smile
while she kisses
and my little sensors
will flutter
like the butterfly
that landed on the flower
in her hair.

The Radio Poetry Hour

2010-01-24T13:22:00.000-08:00

hola dear friends,
Tonight at approximately 5:00 pm I will be entering a radio station on the UCSD campus to host a little hour known as The Poetry Hour, I will be playing some recordings of poetry, reading some of my own, reading some of my friends, hopefully having some friends reading their own...trying a little bit of everything. All that is certain is there will be jazz poetry and good spirits...so tune into ksdt.ucsd.edu and listen in!

ps. there are archives on there to listen to past shows and such...

Alphabet Laws

2010-01-21T18:08:00.001-08:00

I remember the alphabet
like I remember
the world-
backwards and
random:
zippers zinging zodiacs!
yuppies yelling yes!
xanadus xenoning xus!
winds wailing whales!
vepras veering vertical!
universes unveiling universities!
trees tethering triceratops!
sleepers simulating sex!
ringers raising roses!
queens quoting queers!
pastels portraying paint!
omnivores owning owls!
nostrils needling noses!
mattresses manipulating martians!
liquor lipped lectures!
koalas kindling katsup!
jackels jabbing jinxes!
instruments initiating integrals!
hypnotics hypothesizing hyrdonics!
gorillas gargling gossip!
fish frolicking finks!
eagles emancipating engineers!
disks doling deadness!
cars cabooing carts!
bubbles bursting blasphemy!
amphibians analyzing animals!

unholy is the bugger who
disobeys
the letters of
the alphabet
and the law of
the letters
set here,
in stone.

Here in a Circle

2010-01-18T22:16:00.001-08:00

here there is a circle
there are elders
dressed in leather jackets
beards of age
scarves woven of thought
glasses of a heart’s insight
there are youth of age
youth of many means
youth plugged into universes outside
thoughts
breaths
held hands
spanks
blessings
curses
garbage
expensive water
free air
all in a circle
a circle of survival
of surviving sustainability
songs sung silently
as breaths nod understanding
and legs switch to thought
and computers turn off
so that ears may calculate.
I sit and my heart
writes and my eyes draw-
rain batters the outside
so that cold grey
seeps through
ways
yet my stomach is warm
yet my friends’ stomachs are warm
yet my elders’ stomachs are warm
so that their words singe the air
with sage and tabaco and
forest grown veggies
feeding the circle
feeding the circle
feeding the earth-
in my thoughts I can run
in my heart I can sleep
in my stomach I can read
if my art is my love
then my love is the earth’s
soul,
for we aren’t human beings
simply
beings attempting humanity
stepping on broken sharp branches
flooding brown meadows
burning ink of the ground-
a lesson to be learned
hides in the balance of the fires
and stars and moons and seas
not to mention
all the beings.

Wishing I Were a Dog

2010-01-14T11:22:00.000-08:00

I wish I were you dog,
lying down on my side in a slumped
demeanor
scratching myself and licking myself-
peeing on peoples’ shoes
pooping under peoples’ shoes
still being loved all the same
I wish I didn’t shower but still smelt right
I wish I didn’t have to brush my teeth either,
dog
do you like the taste of balls?
or the chase?
dog
is the bone tasty and satisfying?
or just tasty and bottomless?
like my high school diploma…
how come everyone loves you
and your mistakes are accepted?
are they even mistakes?
I would like to stick my tongue out kindly,
slobbering all over myself and into my nose-
laughing at orders without others knowing-
how come you sniff butts to say hello?
I don’t want to sniff butts,
but I am tired of hellos…

by the way, it is too bad you can't position out things on this blog, because this poem is supposed to be sorted...anywho, here it is

My First Radio Show

2010-01-12T11:37:00.000-08:00

hello friends-I don't know if any of you knew, but I started a radio show this quarter on the UCSD campus, it is called the Poetry Hour, because it is all about poetry. Anyway the idea is to bring poetry to the radio, both past and present. Here is a link for the show I did on Sunday, which would leave me to tell you that the shows are Sundays at 5:00 pm on ksdt.ucsd.edu (I will be out of town the next two Sundays so no luck for those, but hold tight)

Click here to listen, and just as a head's up the first 6 minutes are from the prior DJ's, they were showing me the ropes, truly kind gentlemen.

At Night Re-Write

2010-01-09T17:17:00.000-08:00

tea kettle steaming tops
stops of whistle squals-
ice cubes pop
pop prom plastic-
tea bag dangles warmly dutifully
capturing-
oats brans fruits seeds nuts
white cream of cow blend-
tummy accepts
tummy appreciates
tummy absorbs
tummy content-
books steam
loud stories-
kids pop
dance with groove-
farmhands arise
work without gloves-
clerks designers artists writers activists
concerts decorated with word-
world denies
world defuses
world dissembles
world content-

at night with
things in mind-
at night with
working fingers-
at night with
friends
tea
cereal
fruits and
nuts-
at night with
books
kids
farmhands and
concerts-
at night we
awake-
at night we
re-write.

A Bluejay's Song

2010-01-08T09:28:00.001-08:00

Walk Home 2

2010-01-06T14:14:00.000-08:00

Drawers

2010-01-02T09:38:00.001-08:00

On the axis of the world tips
funny drawers
of makeshift consequences,
teetering to one side,
leaning to the other,
one good
the other
good
neither
great,
all something,
no
nothing-
it is a truly uneven
normality
not in the least,
unbalanced
rather, hypnotic and
humbling and warming,
fruitful even…
uneven based on a simple
equation of math,
some drawers heavier
some drawers lighter
all filled with
whatever
need be
filled with-
drawers are doors
and doors are exits
or entryways
your choice.

Standing In Front Of A Tank

2009-12-27T21:40:00.000-08:00

I have had it, this is enough, no more.
I am tired and disgusted and just plain over it.
No more will I let you just roll,
No more will I let you just burn,
No more will I let you just outman, outflank, outarm, outright pulverize.
I don’t want it, we don’t want it, do you want it?
What better way to die than to tell you to stop.
You probably won’t listen, you never do,
You are too smart, too scared as well.
You aren’t just Judas, you are a liar,
I don’t believe you, and accordingly,
I will stand here, I want to cross the street,
But not if it means negotiating with you,
No, I won’t judge when is best to walk,
I will judge when is worst to walk, when is best to talk.
I will come out and I will decide when you get to cross.

Who said you are smarter or better than me?
Who said you should be in charge of all?
Who said you should shoot at everyone, camera men included?
I sure as heck didn’t, and even more so,
I know thousands of dead people who didn’t,
I know thousands of soon to be dead people who didn’t,
I know millions of long lived citizens who didn’t.
You just take and give orders of confinement,
You feel like you can do whatever, be free,
But you are not you fools,
Because in order to keep me, and those other people I talked about,
From being able to be happy and treated fairly,
You cannot be free, because you have a lot of work on your hands,
You are silly to think that your life is better than mine.
I would not be surprised if you caught me and got really mad,
But I also know that I lived free, didn’t you just see?

-jared a muscat

EPM

2009-12-25T22:38:00.001-08:00

Airport Poem

2009-12-22T19:02:00.001-08:00

I wrote it in an airport during a 2-hour delay

Swing Low

2009-12-20T18:19:00.001-08:00

Swing low
sweet melancholy morning,
blue, but saturated with
the smell of
a far away fire and
draped in
clouds, subtle and
comforting-it is so
easy to hug
mornings like these:
typewriter here, ocean
here, jazz
everywhere-books too.
Who's to say
this is not a
miraculous day? It is,
for if a bird
will surf
a sea wave, and a dolphin
will leap for
the air's
current, one must
certainly smile,
walk about the pad
and sand and sea-
free, also
pleased.

Mind Marathon

2009-12-18T17:02:00.000-08:00

What do you do when your
mind runs away?
Off with your thoughts of
self structure,
and strong willed desire,
and motherly love--
into pits of fiery
compassion
and brilliant masquerades full
of epic tales of years
forlorncand heroic,
romantic streams like these
only run
certain seasons of the year
of life,
glistening as they drift
and weave and
comply to the stautue of the
rocks, leaves, frogs,
sticks, stones and tiny fish
skeleton bones,
to an ending point of
refreshing
passivity, when together you
and friendly streams
from all around join and
provide
and strengthen and shape
this glorious world and
glorious time,
of change.

Nutritious Tangerines

2009-12-17T18:12:00.001-08:00

O how yummy
is a tangerine?
its short and
stout demeanor of
juicy delicious
wholesomeness-
covered by a glistening
moon cratered orange
tarp of hidden
nutrients that only
the looniest
of loons teeth on.

Shit on a Screen

2009-12-16T15:37:00.001-08:00

A turd sits on
my screen-
it stinks through the luminescent
rays, and eeks out
through digital
telepathy-it is large
supposedly in charge
and absolutely worth
less,
so I will grab the
toilet paper woven
of friends, and wipe
that piece of
shit, write
off.

Deeds

2009-12-13T15:26:00.000-08:00

If I told you I wrote
and did not use words,
would you listen
if I asked to read?
And when I spoke without sound
of breath
would you understand
and believe?
Because my beliefs
I cannot speak
and my paintings
can't be written-
and still my heart burns
and mind fires
and feet tingle-
enjoy your deeds.

A Western (lazy) Haiku or 9

2009-12-11T19:01:00.000-08:00

Waltz to and fro,
clothes loose as thought,
brain open.

A bitch blows
strong gales of storm
to unsettle sand.

Listen with eyes,
hear with mouth,
dance with fingers.

Think,
thunk,
died.

Don't study
so as
to create.

Read short sonnets
of free verse
long thought.

Why take
notes on a
pathetic song?

Fake laughs
foster egos
and tickle brains,

Convinced atheists
weep in God's
glory.

lunatic's note: Jack Kerouac wrote what he defined as a "western Haiku," he deemed the original syllabyl laden poems of the Japanese were most certainly marvelous but impossible to match with the English language, noting the "fluid syllabic Japanese" language to be the reason for Japanese Haikus being so short, sweet, and life worthy. Anyways, I think Jack is cool, and so I decided to be a little like him and go after this western Haiku idea, so this is what I did, it was during a meeting that was frustrating and longer than I had planned for-so please enjoy, if it is bad, let me know!

Unlimited Energy Packets

2009-12-10T18:07:00.000-08:00

I wish I had
unlimited packets
of energy vitamins
that helped
me to stay up for
this night, which
I could use for a lot
of art that is floating
above my brain and in
front of my hands-
I could also write
some more poems,
I have been feeling
some
sort
of
rhythm
lately…o well, I
am hungry and for the moment
am truly
enjoying
the kicks-you have
to live in order
to have something
to write
and to write
you have to
fill in
the blank.

Daze (on a bus)

2009-12-08T00:27:00.000-08:00

What?
Why? Yes,
most assuredly,
when?
Swoop, snap!
Wabam! Back
again.
Forward hoe!

COME CHECK OUT ALL THE POETS TO THE WRITE OF THIS POEM AT THE RUTHLESS HIPPIE POETRY RUCKUS THIS WED, DEC 9, 7:00pm at DUCKY WADDLES BOOKSTORE IN ENCINITAS! Info Here

Week 3 Discoveries

2009-12-04T15:13:00.000-08:00

The ever present luminescence of the stairwells cast shadows of midnight,
while behind blinds sit students playing with their robots with all their might.
As if the success of their life depends on the strength of the robot's mind.
Little do they know that robots are not going to save them from becoming blind;
through the sweet breeze lurks a man not many know,
he approaches the walk with the air of a king many years removed from his show.
"Why do you care that I sit here drinking a beer?" he jeered,
O how pathetic it was when upon his removal the crowd cheered,
and the pace with which they decided he was not fit to join,
when some time ago they described him as a the leader of the battle of Boyne.
So often they tell you to look forward and forget the past,
especially with a man like Tom Robinson, for whom they didn't know the facts.
As the evening draws on, the groan of the highway overtakes the ripples of the sea,
and again everyone remembers that they can not get another C,
here they are to learn the general facts needed to live,
there are the ones though, the lazy crew, who are there to give.
"You are wasting our time," the professors complained.
And so the crew hopped ship and took off on a plane,
bound for countries in need with the goal of giving only more,
and as the plane touched down the professors grew increasingly sore,
for the crew brought warmth to each little town,
planting beautiful flowers in the ground.
Back next to the highway kids felt bent by the rapid flow of necessary lessons,
while their parents sent them fruity delicatessens.
Sara sat in her suite listening to the laughter on the street,
"they don't understand why they are here," she decreed.
A statement with which her parents very much agreed,
"They will struggle to live happy and free, but you will have the money everyone needs."
A day later she sat behind the cat who moved so magnificent,
she hid under a hood of embarrassment,
for she had discovered it was she, not he,
that had gotten the lonely D.
She leaned to the boy asking "how can this be?"
He told her that life could not be taken so simply seriously.
She looked at the boy in a pair of jeans and a shirt rough along the seems,
she questioned how such an image could keep focus on a dream,
as he packed to leave he turned to the girl and said,
“come by my house and I will teach you how to bake complex bread."
The idea seemed strange, but she was far from naïve,
she approached with a mind not ready to believe,
but the rhythm of the boy's dance brought a smile to her face.
"Come sit down, promise me this wont be a race, I like to move at a pleasant pace."
The boy moved pure and free opening cupboards with a style the girl had not seen,
"Please join me, I can not teach unless you join me in the scene."
"Please understand I am not of your kind at all," the girl implied.
"I know, I cant stand your type," the boy lied.
He sang songs, mixed and stirred,
creating poetry without using words.
And soon they moved with the wiseness of owls,
as the girl created beautiful sounding vowels,
and at the top of her lungs she cried,
"I want to tell my parents of all I have discovered inside."
She left the boy with a kiss to inspire a Shakespeare piece,
and phoned her parents to explain the Arabic she just learned with such ease.
"What do you mean you don’t want to go green?"
"Because money is not what I need!"
She now spoke in a tongue they did not know, that seemed obscure,
her parents feared that she like so many dropouts would soon be caught in the blur.
They told her it was all over now,
they told her that she was jumping of the bow.
Back to the boy she ran, longing for the touch of his hand,
he told her not to get mad, and told her tales of a native land,
she moved from her robot to the street,
and soon she had a fluid step to her feet,
the air had grown light and her heart brought others delight.
The boy sat down remembering the terrible fright of the previous night,
when he told his parents the plans for his life.
"You wont be any better than those in the middle of economic strife."
The boy responded with laughter saying, "that is probably what the world needs,”
on he continued “I have what I need, it doesn't involve the ideas of green or greed,"
he painted a life entangled in the earth's weeds,
his ability to use old and new soil to create beautiful trees for incredible deeds.
His parents had no time for the Japanese, "take care of yourself please."
The boy looked to Sara for strength in the knees,
she told him tales of others whose dreams no one could understand with ease,
and how at first people regarded them as a disease,
now the boy stands, with the purpose of a memorial.

-I found this on my computer written sometime last school year, I think Week 3 of Spring Quarter, hence the title

more of someone cooler than me, doing cool things

2009-12-03T06:36:00.000-08:00

This is a link to my artist writer friend (possible rainy day worshiper) Shea Pederson's blog right hither
She is pretty ding dang awesome, super spectacular, and not nearly as nerdy as me. She does incredible art and has a lucky outlook on life...aka she is in Oregon (halfway jealous). Anyway, she lives as she wants to and makes art as she wants to, what is better than that?
O and she just sent me a short story about a freezer...it is really good, and besides, who else could write a whole short story about a freezer?
peas and lettuce create beets

the what?'s

2009-12-01T08:21:00.001-08:00

these are some random
lines, along
with perhaps
things
considered couplets...followed
by more
cool blue
random
lines.
that
might be organized,
or
not...
let your-
self
decide, they do
have to
move.

-----------------------------

Line so clean, spray so neat.
Arm down to left, style theft.

Paper open, wordless,
Pen hyper, organic typer.

Blank, healed to rebirth,
Pastel with pencil, fun, facile.

Word notes, musical letters,
Vibrations of sound, symphonic around.

Air electrical, unplugged,
Some dance, life’s chance.

-----------------------------

Half shoe lace, no shave,

Mouth open tilt, plastic bags of wilt.

Blonde straight, pen pocket, protector,

Tunes on, glasses song.

Homework, cell-phone.

Ponytail, shirt from consignment sale.

Rod for fish and yawns, Vans written,

Music audible, hairstyle applaudible.

Sunglasses black, white cap,

Gelled Padres fan, skin not tan.

Blonde wet, forward stare,

Staff together, skin like leather.

Operation text, jeans sleek,

Side swagger, ain’t no dog wagger.

Dressed Bandages

2009-11-24T13:17:00.000-08:00

There are certain things I’d like to say, show, sing, and spare.
There are more you’d like to hear, view, enjoy, and celebrate
The middle ground is not that far,
Just a mere float,
Or sit down.
Probably escape.
Where does that leave us now?
On a boat adrift?
On a motorcycle in a desert?
Or a sled in Alaska?
Let’s press mute,
Depart and self-heal.
We will talk later,
Dress the bandages,
And go score a goal.

-jared a muscat

8 November, 2009

my friend aaron and I spent Sunday afternoon being artists

2009-11-18T18:18:00.000-08:00

one sunday afternoon aaron and myself decided to create,aaron did the cool heads and naked ladies, I turned a cabinet thing over...

No Stop

2009-11-16T07:06:00.000-08:00

Long hair, circle,
One fin, gusts of wind.

Swinging pivot, peak cometh,
Mind free, full speed.

Shuffle, up down,
Over under, circular cover.

Side to side, lane,
Bottom then top, no stop.

Loose goose, precision,
Bump city, curves very pretty.

Belly down, arm cyclists,
Inside out, inside back out.

More not less, timetable no longer,
Stairway, replay.

Fuzzy peaches, grey seagull,
Wind taker, raw baker.

Cylindrical mass, open,
Line set, not a bet.

-jared a muscat 11/14/09

Those Pests

2009-11-14T09:34:00.000-08:00

Those pests,
Who keep you from a good night's rest;
They nip at you during lunch,
And they do nothing but munch, munch, munch!
It’s a pesky fuckin' group.
Most people look at them as poop.
Well they do provide the fertilizer don't they?
Good call, but wait a second they don't pay!
For what,
I don't exactly know, but lets find out and nip them in the but!
This town is not big enough for all of us.
Trust us, we talked to an expert named Gus.
He works over at the lab,
By the house of the singer from Gift of Gab.
He is pretty smart we have been told,
And we can trust those who told us, because they are wise and old;
And if you are wise and old, then you are most certainly correct.
So, we can be care free, let’s go out and get wrecked!

-Jared A Muscat
23 July 2009

The Sustainable Food Project has a new blog

2009-11-14T09:04:00.000-08:00

Check out the new site for the Sustainable Food Projects...those pests!
http://thesustainablefoodprojectatucsd.blogspot.com/

Chug A Choo-Choo

2009-11-09T07:38:00.000-08:00

You are leaps and bounds
In front of the rest,
A stereotype for success
Marks as such at birth,
A wise and informed human
Noteworthy for your mere presence,
You command respect as a right,
Acknowledged as a marker.
You will get what you want
A receptor of what is good
An opinion of what is fact
A truck will fit only you
A charger keeps you plugged in
A cow feeds you your coffee
And your breaths bring the sun’s rays closer
So keep on
Work like there is no tomorrow
Because
Keep like you are
And they’re wont be.
-8 November 2009

ps. I wrote this poem during the California Student Sustainability Convergence this weekend in Santa Cruz. The timing could not have been better and the solitude I was able to find as well as the warmth of so many friends brought through me so many feelings of joy and confidence it was difficult to not write throughout the weekend. However I did stop talking around people at points to write a poem I just could not let sit in my brain, and this is one of those. I wrote it in the middle of a workshop and it was inspired by a guy names Zac who is pretty much one of the coolest dudes ever, he lives on a green bus. Peace and Love to All.

Sandy Lot

2009-11-03T18:47:00.000-08:00

Sitting in damply frozen factory hand me downs they look through everything,stone-cold eyes.
Pointless paychecks are written by the recipients, proudly non-conversive green
uniformed men waltzing in place.
Black dots in the mirror blue ocean begin the mill of rumors and forget the pulses of the earth’s heart.
Jogging along the bikelane of all bikelanes in tight pink warmth mothers draw their conclusions with less than a turn of the head.
A big ferocious dog curiously sniffs, controller not paying attention.
The SUV’s of our proud nation chug a choo choo haze like puffs into the morning’s stiff crisp air.
I in my black business attire wig on by shoveling through the thick shoreline sand of the parking lot, desperate to disappear behind a curtain.

Cultivation

2009-10-25T09:39:00.000-07:00

Sitting in a nearly hypocritical room of brilliance and change,
I dig into and out of hillsides of revolution.
Consciously aware it is nearly time,
I let the drip tape of my heart and mind time itself, letting the seeds soak as they may.
Wetsuit line, farmer glorified I accept;
Appreciate,
And desire to cultivate.

-Jared A Muscat
October 24, 2009

The Board, The Seed, The Entryway

2009-10-07T19:48:00.001-07:00

Part I
It started on a notion,
A notion from an adrift mind,
Lost in a movie from a ’73 Maltese.
The idea was simply to be simple,
One fin, many lines of rocker balanced barrels,
Short trunks, long hair, no realistic cares.
Then she finally came,
There was the love from the ocean, a well-folded tailbone, returned by ink,
Declaring the gift.
The idea had been passed around,
The persuasion glided with ease,
A rack was built, well calculated and relatively sturdy,
A room became a boy’s bay, covered by the perfect yellow soy base;
He shirtless with coffee based homemade shorts, eyed, analyzing respectively,
He eyed the measurements, from the footprint type storybook scenes curves were sanded,
Happily breathing in the garments of the new ride, pride filled his lungs.
With the aide of a freely owned, friendly borrowed car, the canvas found its way,
A more professional shaping bay became a temporary home,
Decisions settled, money transactions of trust took place,
Surfer to surfer.
Then eight days of patienceless boyhood joy ticked away,
With another friendly borrow and grand thank you,
And the same kind of sea salted trust the glass was covered.
His hair was longer, body fit, wetsuit picked, and so he drove,
He flew with the windows down and with Jimi blaring, all that was left was a change,
And a scamper, he could tell;
Life was about to change.

A Mature Ode to you: My Momason…Theresa Marie

2009-10-04T17:04:00.000-07:00

20 years of age on the 6th of 1989’s best month, August, we had a love affair, you could not stop saying the magic three,
The three we have said so many times, and meant every,
You kissed me all over my big baby skull, and smiled over my tiny baby heart and tinier baby fingers,
the ones typing this poem, and sketching the past sketches, the Bruce and Cape Cod and Evan.
You ran with me under doorways, protecting the first and at the time the only, protecting me with the most loving of fear,
And sang Danny boy as well as Take Me Out to the Ballgame as well as the National Anthem as well as The River,
And brought me to games and parks and hikes and…the beach, spilling mustard on my shirt, and chasing after my chase of a dog, and backing me around Heaven on Earth, and helping me see the waves as women.
In Rhode Island you found ways to keep us warm and found my Montana yard and knight gear and Will Clark connections.
You dressed my blisters and bought me an athlete’s tie and red batting helmet, letting me enjoy the living room with a fireplace,
And showed me how to draw, laugh, take my own style on the bus, cowboy boots most especially.
You flew me out to the OC and mystified my eyes and ears, once again with the Pacific, who I now found your eyes and voice and glee and plainly comforting childlike giggle;
O those stories you told and images you showed! And then,
The boy you birthed, the little tiger, the initials on my ribs, the reason for fighting for a future,
You gave us separate rooms, and a bunk bed, and costumes of sync and youth naivety,
costumes we were complemented on, compliments we took to ourselves, like the compliments on our looks and fashion we get today, however raggy or uniform colored it may in fact be.
O and the way you love that man named Frank, our father, dad, Pineapple-punching bag,
The hero you made him, the hero he is, and the way you showed us to just give, give what you got for what you love.
And the pickle you gifted us and the Gould boys, the pickle of Artistic Baseball, the Muscats are at the game type ball.
Then the final flight out, to the MC, the place where the world visits and Dad was born and you told your mom it was where you would live, when you were nine, like I was at the time, going on a Rich Aurillia goateed ten,
The 2 mile an hour drive in the fog, on Tam, above Marin, overlooking our clay, where we would play into our non-existing molds.
Molds not permanently casted cause you won’t let us, you showed us not to, and how not to, and why not to.
You then played us Wildflowers and took us along the mile of miracles to the School of San Rita, the holy, where stickball reigned supreme and the sentiment was not just Catholic, but education and being nice, like a family, like our family.
Then it was the school in front of the beach, the beach that would not have mattered had you not submitted to being a morning person and picking up another son and believing to pray for no sharks,
O the blue and gold technology! The found somewhere in your bosom skill!
And O! The non stop commitment to the teams and the school, the tolls to succeed! Whatever that may be, because like you said we define it ourselves, just like we fail, ourselves.
You hugged me through the four and stayed there whether or not it was great, you never let it go bad, your smile wouldn’t let it,
even when I was a storm trooper and I had to take the test again and I was not perfect,
And you told me location mattered because passion could not be left behind, especially the passion you gave, surfing, the root of my life and its cause, the blurry and accurate one, stuffed with blackberries and clouds and your care, as hidden as that care may be,
the care that is in the 7 day boxes and keychain and timelines of sleep and newfound love of beans, snappy as they are.
And remember that research, it felt so long ago, back when I was a teen and saying good bye was about to be fun, but you did it, for yourself, for me, for the opportunity to keep the good bye fun, new sheets included, and hanging tools, and magic bullet,
Especially the art pieces and that freshly opened spot in the heart for another woman to love.

Mom, I look to you like I look at my favorite book,
Or my favorite surfer,
Or wave, or song, or artist, or poem,
Or Bruce,
I see the pureness of motherhood and friendship and nature and young love and art,
I see you, blond haired, blue-eyed, and gorgeous, the woman my father chose, the woman I would choose, the woman who is in my poetry, book, painting, sketches, barrels, and sighs.
I love you mom, you are my reason for now.

-August 12, 2009 -Bugs…Jared A Muscat

Meditation at 2:46 am, July 27 2009

2009-09-29T03:38:00.000-07:00

Feet nooked into crooks of unorganizable tradition,
with ins of the ocean blues and outs of the sky reds,
pointed by a south facing compass,
directed to a linear north,
we sat hovering over chakras,
breathing in the most particular of subconscious states,
we sent pulses back and forth through the triangular third eye,
in effect, pulsing our rigid and loose spines.

The beyond countless inorganic sand beads clogged our pours,
cleansing our skin;
And the ancient cliff condom canyoned out the cold of the breeze,
warming our flapping garments;
And the moon shone through our sleepily aware eyelids of screens,
animating our beings;
And the waves of little form, all integrity, lapped with our lungs,
releasing our irevrent tensions.
New things I thought,
and decided upon.
New things Leah heard, and then thought,
Remaining decidedly undecided.

Those incremental clicks of nostalgia ticked round and round and around,
glistening in the moonlit shadows,
beseeching that loss of conscious awareness.
I, restlessly calm, raking the true grass of the earth,
Leah, withdrawn in listening contemplation,
never to submit, always to insight;
Us, together, unattachable by non-connection,
sifting through spirit’s many unnecessary files,
doing away with the bad,
retaining and criticizing the good.

Bows were bent,
Quotes to marvel at,
were spewed forward;
Lines to be remembered, forgotten, fittingly rearranged
were then remembered;
Rants symbolically perfect in length and complexity,
were made images of purity,
Salutations to a vacant sun were made,
and,
Purpose of life was felt.

-Jared A Muscat (and Leah)

some quotes happened upon by the crew that week
“If it is remembered to be forgotten, it is correct it was not forgotten to be said.”
“It is impressive to perturb.”
“It is in moments of random spontaneity, that true brilliance is organized.”

cool people

2009-09-18T23:06:00.000-07:00

so i have decided i would start putting up links to other people's cool blogs...or at the very least cooler than my own...
these are people i look to with great respect and draw upon for inspiration and advice, people i can't imagine having never known, and will most certainly work my best to always know...
to start is this pretty cool surfing/girl/mermaid who lives above me in my wonderful housing complex...she reads a lot of my poetry and gives me a lot of advice and surfs a shit ton better than i ever will...and better yet! she started a website trying to plain and simply spread the joy of being one of mother nature's most pure of girls...so without further ado here is the website:
http://themermaidchronicle.com/

September 15, 2009

2009-09-16T13:04:00.000-07:00

Waking up to pee without being plugged in,

Wearing clothes no longer tied on to,

Walking with calves pumping no longer by battery,

Drinking a cup no longer self poured,

Making meal decisions because I am lazy,

Reconfiguring a map so belovedly excited for, freshman like,

Conversing mind purposefully backward and confused,

To love the complex neutrality,

like a two year old giggling,

or,

a teacher learning,

and a farmer snacking,

Not to mention the stubbed toe and its ecstasy.

The most pure of a high I will ever know.

To think with this I could write.

-jared a muscat

this poem i wrote my first night alone and with friends after having awoken from a near death nine day hospital brilliancy...many more will come to follow as my instinct and pen meet paper...thanks for the patience (not like you needed angst anywho) much love for all the support, it is what brought me through

Dish Cleaning

2009-08-23T12:24:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-12T23:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-03T00:13:00.001-07:00

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

2009-08-02T09:30:00.000-07:00

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

La Milpa Organica on a classic Saturday eve

2009-07-22T16:09:00.000-07:00

La Milpa Organica, what a glorious hiatus of that innate fresh purity.
The evening of gather,
where music overtakes ears,
and food’s variety and bounty and generosity romance the earth’s air.
People of all makes and sizes and religions and diets,
All slightly less careful,
Attempting foods, old with the new, assuredly healthy and flavor blasted.
Poets close by, great conversing.
Farmers all over, splendid ways of exchanging.
Parents lounging, proud of their kids nicks and scratches, dirt filled yet clean.
Friends scattered together, overjoyed whilst appreciating.
Scenes of how it is supposed to be,
repeated from Saturday past.
La Milpa on this Saturday eve,
the one place where the foods of the day should be and are comfortably free.

The Reins

2009-07-18T11:12:00.000-07:00

I am growing quite tired of being let down by those above me.
Those who chose this year’s room and next year’s offices;
I feel like I need to step out from under for a little while.

I don’t have a phone so at the moment it is difficult to call,
but it honestly doesn’t matter knowing that wouldn’t help,
purely a matter of finding somewhere I can live and give.
Somewhere where there can be breezes of land and sea,
where a community awaits, ready and willing to accept,
where literature, music, and art are the norm,
where surfing and hacky sack are daily activities,
where my typewriter will rest and jazz will play,
where I can dance to the song, singing wildly and naked,
where I can stretch my heart and thought,
where eating is not a chore nor a task of money,
where poetry and books will flow from my brain,
where my fingers won’t tire as I slave away at my self created machine!
Undoubtedly such a place can exist in this ball of varied clays;
and I honestly know I will find it,
with dedication and steez.

There are a lot of other kids looking as well, I have heard;
unbeknownst to those at the tippity top.
We are finding each other gradually gaining natural muscle.
Some of us see the place with different faceted themes.
They see dive bars next to coffee shops where the unholy dig day and night,
they see University lecture halls crowded, eager to be informed,
they see orphans in Africa laughing as they play soccer with volunteering students,
they see parades of civil rights and peace, flower power’s third go around,
they see labs of science with beakers of naturals and harmlessness,
they see gardens in their backyard and dotted all over the city,
they see a revolution of peace backed only with wordy guns,
they see youth hostels of penniless travel,
they see rent paying jobs as the best way to get by,
they see the world,
like me.

There are things that those above us don’t fully comprehend.
We are unorganized, willing and even more so unified.
We don’t listen to them how they want us to listen,
we are a beautiful batch of pickers and choosers,
we break the laws that are beyond ridiculous and ultra lame.
We only try as hard as we need to beat the sytem, not work with it.
We give everything we have to what we feel we need, what we love,
we put ourselves into the earth, the poetry, the literature, the music, the surf.
We are wise and live on instinct and notions of right versus wrong.
We have the world wide web, cell phones, and deep voices.
We have educated ourselves on the greatness and horrors of substances that alter the mind.
We have a narrowly open eared view of the system.

We see no choice, people on the top, things need to change.
We want to fix the fixed system and find that area where we all can thrive.
We all can see it,
it won’t come by mending things,
it will come by changing things.
People on top,
give us the reins, we will take it from here.
Please.

-jared a muscat

poets

2009-07-05T13:54:00.000-07:00

poets intrigue his or herselfs with aspirations not normally considered as incredibly logical in the non-traditional senses of pre Civil Rights Movement American machinery,
rather diving into opinions and disciplines close to lands running parallel to lunatics and scientists,
creating artistic connections of friendship and educational experience,
inhaling their storylines and drinking their bio-diesel.

-jared a muscat

(might be expanded upon)
(is on the sketch of the random dude)

allen ginsberg sketch and poet doodle/quote/poem

2009-07-02T12:34:00.001-07:00

gerry lopez painting and surfing sketch

2009-07-02T12:32:00.000-07:00

bob dylan painting and sketch

2009-07-02T12:30:00.000-07:00

A Surfing Summer Sunset

2009-06-30T15:44:00.000-07:00

What magnificently metallic golden aqua silk screen.
Incredible ripples,
glittering mirrors.
Here and there batches of soothing,
tumbling energetic cotton,
clouds above, spotty,
holy.
Glances of an orange circle of life.
Tracking of Apollo’s accomplishment.
A pulse,
from many leagues South
rises, hesitantly
lumping into
a form fit to bop.
1,
2,
3,
4, 1, 2, 3, 4.
Strokes, carefree mind looking elsewhere,
thinking here,
left foot first,
“getting
back
where it all begun.”
Ahhhh…mother nature.

-jared a muscat

blackberries and clouds prep doodle

2009-06-27T10:22:00.000-07:00

jimi prep doodle

2009-06-27T10:17:00.000-07:00

help (part of)

2009-06-25T09:13:00.000-07:00

this is an excerpt from a poem titled "help" it is a super long poem so here is part of it (if you care, probably dont)

I hurried over to the academic advisors just the other day, the ones who are there to help plan my career,
They know what I need to set me on the right path, the trades at which I will succeed, with their help I can go places,
They have done this routine before, it is how they became such wise advisors, it is why they know what I need,
They work in an office of pleasant comfort, it is cleaned nightly, and when a student enters it is an inviting place,
They trained, studied, talked about, thought about, mapped out how to do their jobs they made certain they had it all figured out,
They are good at what they do, they have done it before, they have done it for themselves,
They have done it for the sluts, the jocks, the populars, the presidents, the hippies, the frats, the sororities,
They have done it for the nerds, the ugly, the good looking, the incredible looking, the closet dwellers, the well dressed,
They have done it for the gays, the Jews, the blacks, the Mexicans, the rich, the Native Americans, the Europeans,
They have done it for the insert your name here’s, Asians, the pot smokers, the coke snorters, the anorexics, the fat, the obese, the toned,
They can do it for anyone, they have done it for everyone, they will do it for whomever, they know how,
I walked in hoping to find a plan fit for me, when I entered I felt welcomed indeed, but they were not there, not to help me,
They had a good reason, they had very important matters with which to attend, there were changes being made and they needed to direct them,
They who know how best to sort us, they know the correct schedules of classes majors internships and job fairs,
They who live in comfortable houses earned by their experiences in college, in neighborhoods with all its gardens trimmed,
They who voted for the correct measures, who made the correct educated decision, who are model citizens,
They who drive cars fit for the time, or the cars that have nice flash, cars that can do much more than get them to and from their homes,
They who have created the model for the school, who wrote the sample essays that we should model, who decided what needs to be known,
They know more than what needs to be known, they have studied that and more, that is why they are here,
They know much more than us, and accordingly know the best way we should go about learning what we need,
They can tell us it is not through drugs or sex or drinking or activism or self expression or revolutionary thought,
They know because they didn’t do it that way, and if we did it that way we would be great failures,
We would be those who are slumped up against moss covered brick buildings, we would be those who clean their offices,
We would not know what is needed to be a good citizen, the facts that provide us with what we need to know,
We would not read the news, we would do even worse things than the generations before, we have a big burden they tell us,
We cannot let ourselves be swayed, we must stay straight, not all of us can let ourselves expose ourselves as gay,
We need to reproduce the next generation that will be the true saviors, we need to breed the minds they have bred,
We who have conformed rebelled invented and run away, we who have done so much yet done so little,
We who do not know the true meaning of life, who are forgetting the religions, we who have become so lazy in our ways,
We who do not go to church or temple, we who do go to church or temple, we who don’t believe in anything at all,
We who believe in nature, we who believe in Allah, we who believe in civil disobedience, we who believe in terrorism,
We who spend too much time on the technology they made, we who spend too little time on the technology they made,
We who aren’t willing to earn money, we who are too greedy, we who are spoiled and don’t need to make money,
We that no longer dedicate ourselves to the military, that no longer vote read or appreciate classic music,
We have forgotten proper manners, we have become too good at cheating, we are starting to understand the system,

-jared a muscat

Chemistry

2009-06-11T15:11:00.000-07:00

Chemistry,
Thank you for what you have done.
The complex theories for basic classes,
The simple exceptions to the theories,
The two sided propaganda symbols.
Chemistry you are a good class.
You teach the TA’s,
You use a lot of chemicals and math,
You write tricky tests about already confusing material.
I owe you big time,
I am organic.
And it is because of you,
I am lazy with numbers,
Am bitter about facts that I’ll never use.
Chemistry you are America.
You use too much,
You need to be the best,
You have so much to be achieved,
You have achieved so much.
Chemistry I feel like you did more good than bad.
True one time you made me look like a blundering fool,
And you caused unnecessary stress,
As well as many wasted hours.
But it’s because of you so much has changed,
And I can’t even really see it,
I just know it.
The strenuous tests designed to fail,
The ill prepared professors,
The randomly appointed assistants.
It is a really beautiful fiasco.
You fight battles overseas,
You stay up late in secret guard,
You appoint brains to high positions.
The nation is not divided on you,
Nor am I.
Chemistry you were the worst best class I have taken at UCSD.
You really had it all.
Without literature you ignited soul searching,
Aided by ridiculous timing you dismantled sleeping patterns.
Chemistry come on,
What is this all about?
Why the medians?
The averages?
The fifty percents?
I read your book,
And it doesn’t make me think,
It doesn’t help me understand,
It makes it hurt more.
Is that how it is supposed to be?
Are the professors only researchers playing professors?
Are the TA’s relearning because it is that unimportant?
Did I not use anything from A in B because I didn’t need to?
Chemistry I think that all this is true.
Chemistry I don’t think you meant to but you changed me.
It wasn't the rules or eguations.
It might have been how you taught me what is needed to do science,
It might be that you overworked me,
It might be the lack of point and merit.
Chemistry I don’t mean to be harsh,
But you failed.
Not I,
I am back on top.

-jared a muscat

evan muscat, allen ginsberg, bruce springsteen

2009-06-09T21:37:00.000-07:00

the decision to hack

2009-06-09T20:44:00.000-07:00

The incredible moment of possible depth, diving into a plan of action leaving the conventional plains of Ohio,
Tossed into a free verse song as I roll along flowing polyurethane green with flying strands of symbolism,
I duck through a green, beige, mixed browns and orange spotted tunnel of revamped lyrical milky ways,
With loose hinges of gears, loose cloth of green flaps recreate the motion of a clock pushing the inertia forward,
Twists of the torso and lifts of the arms act as needle and thread weaving through the low concentrated solution of a crowd,
Now upon the massaging cobble stone pathway of bookshelved art foreseeing the dismount as I study a circle of physics’ bounces,
A rapid slideshow of the morning’s efficient rise that culminated with the number powered call for companion shutters through my eyes,
Kidney beans from childhood create squinting eyes of hazed enthusiasm laughingly translating a desire for sacramental communication,
Like the Beats of old gestures of brethren welcome the heating costume of now raw accomplished pride in decision,
Skips, hops, scoops, stalls, crosses, high tosses, and hustle bop about the center of academic integrity,
Perfectly hectic connections of joy magnet together, positive to positive, creating a strong force field of free restriction,
Graced by rainbows of a purple based ever transforming oval six pairs of feet dance artfully about the balls of creativity,
In a seemingly predicted link of chains time played endlessly on evaporating into a bank with insurance and full of history.

-jared a muscat

waiting room poems

2009-06-05T12:32:00.000-07:00

i wrote some poems at the start of the quarter while waiting to get a cut on my hand sewn up...they were written in boredom and with touches of sarcasm, i kind of just think they are interesting pieces that really are only worthy of a fun read and maybe a little analysis, anywho...

waiting room 1

“Do you use recreational drugs?”
Yes, all of them.
It began with beer, but in short time it was gin
I didn’t care about what it was, as long as it made me grin,
It especially didn’t matter when people deemed it a sin.
It wasn’t long till I was over that stuff,
It played with my mind and made philosophy tough.
I wanted flowers and songs, floating high above.
I figured it would make everyone care only about love,
I guess I should have known,
That too much of anything forces you to loose touch.
So now we are sitting here,
Looking at a world leaning on a crutch.
They called it medicine to help people feel sane.
To me it looked like clear liquid that would never touch the brain.
All I knew was that it was another stupid part of the game.
I sit here hoping my fate is not the same.
How often does a man need to be told what to take?
The stuff they put me on is going to make me break.
It all feels like some giant restrain,
Each one of them pills is making me wait.
All I ask is, you let me take a shot,
And not from that gin you bought,
I would prefer to feel the clouds beneath my feet,
Let my breath run free,
Like a wind blowing through the trees.
All I really want to do is please.

waiting room 2

“It’s going to be awhile,” she said.
“I hope you can rest your head.”
I told her it was, I had no commitments in the mean time.
But what I was feeling, was that the longer I sat there, the more I would lose my mind.
The floor was like many I had seen.
The chairs and the nurses all just complemented the scene,
Some guy was sitting there without any bondage or disease.
I don’t know what he told the doctor, but to me he was merely weak in the knees.
Behind me I heard some conversation
“I am so disgusted to be a part of this nation!”
“Well we are pretty lucky, don’t you think?”
“Say what you want. But I just can’t stand this place! I need a drink.”
It seemed funny to me they didn’t want to know, why this guy in front of us was putting on a show.
He was ranting about why he was mad,
All I could figure was that somewhere inside he was sad.
To me there was nothing a doctor could give,
He was going to have to leave this wretched room, and just try and live.
Behind the desk I saw a different scene,
Everybody was content to play their part in this scheme,
They were smiling and laughing while just across the way, there was a group of ailments,
That ranged from nothing, to affairs that would last for days.
All they wanted to do was sleep.
An order that made everyone able to sleep.
They prided themselves on being the enchanted, and one of a kind.
That only made me question the idea of unique blindness,
Because to me that was what made them so proud and happy all the time.
How many times they had heard “thank you,”
I figured left them immune to making certain they received appreciation,
When it was their turn.
The mark they left on most was a burn.
Being a part of such a machine caused me to long for the day ahead,
When to me the machine could be dead.
When the soft rain would nourish the soil,
And the gentle touch of sunlight would be all that was necessary to settle any turmoil.
“Please come in,” I heard
And soon I was done waiting,
I was now moving along with the herd.

-jared a muscat

give peace a chance

2009-06-03T21:10:00.001-07:00

bob marley doodle

2009-06-03T21:09:00.001-07:00

original "chants" and "compassion found again"

2009-06-03T21:08:00.001-07:00

Utopia Tease

2009-06-01T23:20:00.000-07:00

So close,
So far.
Almost,
Not quite.
This will end at some point right?
At some point things will just fit into place?
Like the cinder blocks of the new housing buildings.
I just want to get there and settle down,
Find that right state of being.
The one where I don't have school,
Like the summers of junior high with great novels to be read.
That would be a wonderful little treat.
Just need to keep working that is all,
Putting together all the different little parts.
Soon it will be all systems go,
Like the Apollos of the space race.
So close,
Not so far.
Almost,
Soon enough.
Patience young one,
That is all.
Patience.

-jared a muscat

Chants/update on life

2009-05-31T11:32:00.000-07:00

i read last night at an open mic presented by The Giraffe Catcher Poetry crew and it was quite a lovely evening...i read some poems that arent up here, but will be sooner or later...i didnt read this one so i figured i would put it up...its titled

Chants

Listening to the Buddhist chant of the monks of India,
I stretch reflecting upon the six hours of awakeness.
Happily I sift through positions of balance and silences,
The mysterious mind aiding echoes of prayer guide my conscious.
Into literature I dive becoming a kid on the hillside.
My hair soft and fresh hangs in front of my eyes adding to the shade,
Soon poems of the night before play quite confidence.
Without anticipation flow breaths of humming tones deep and fitting.
Crossed legs fit together as legos providing base for arch ways.
Into my heart spiritual ecstasy runs tuning me into the flowers.
New lines of compassion form baskets of pillows.
Sudden visions of self create heart beats of open strength.
With unaccounted for gales of freshness my lungs take to pulses of thought.
Uniquely simple splotches of airy alarm bring me to shine.
Forward I migrate towards patience of fast exploration,
Studying alongside tradition I transcend into beautifully written anarchy.

-jared a muscat

Compassion Found Again

2009-05-28T09:51:00.002-07:00

From cardboard of creativity,
Into the ears of my mind comes story of zen passivity,
Fueling long paced loud breaths of personal mirrors,
Sewing together words of belief and unexpected hums of patience and forward thought,
Revealing inside senses with worth pride and temporary inspirational fulfillment.

Willing now to nakedly collapse into the fields of flower and knowledge,
Singing expression enveloped in remembered compassion and unrelenting will,
Effortlessly thanking outside powers of informality,
And finally un-closing the shade of retreat,
Laughing with hearts of activity.

-jared a muscat

Standing Up

2009-05-28T09:51:00.001-07:00

Here I am,
Standing in front of you.
With painful scars visible and hidden,
With strength noteworthy and exposed,
I stand not alone, I stand alone.
To one side are legions of supporters,
To the other are legions of opposed.
Both, with so much to say.
Both, stubborn as mules.
Neither is wrong,
Neither is per say, correct.
Embarrassed by radicals.
Embarrassed by slackers.
Here I stand,
Free to criticism,
Free to praise.
I stand as an activist,
A failure,
A gay,
A straight,
A slut,
A virgin,
A Hispanic, Asian, African, Muslim, Catholic, Jew, American, Buddhist.
I stand as a farmer,
As a paper firm,
As a meat lover,
As a vegan.
I stand before you offering everything,
I stand before you offering nothing.
I am a soldier, seaman, fighter pilot,
I am a protestor, communist, peace lover.
I don’t drink or do drugs.
I love beer and gin, as well as vodka and tequila.
I do LSD,
I snort coke,
I smoke pot,
I shoot heroin,
I deal pounds,
I listened to my parents,
I ran away.

When will it be obvious?
When will the world get along?
When will we say sorry?
I am not going to say sorry,
I act in the name of the Holy Lord, Allah, and the United States of America.
I am a doctor, I know how to heal,
I am fat, skinny, sick, in shape, infected, and need medicine.
I practice yoga,
I use herbal remedies,
I go to the gym,
I bike in the park,
I run on the sand,
I sit on the couch for days at a time.
I don’t want to let the Mexicans in,
I want to help the Mexicans assimilate.
I want to cut back spending,
I want to better education,
I work for my work I share,
I work for my money it’s mine.
I think the planet is getting too hot and it’s your fault,
I don’t worry about global morning, I wont be around.
I stand here seeking judgment.
I dress in fashion,
I have piercings and tattoos,
I dress with mixed patterns.
I have a 4.0,
I got a 2200 on my SAT’s,
I am on Academic Probation,
I drive a bus.
I read the news and know the events of the world,
I don’t read the news,
I read the news and have no clue what is going on.
In front of you I stand,
In front of you I am not noticed.
Until I do something wrong,
Until I cause a ruckus,
Then, I will be in the news,
Then, I will remain exposed.

-jared a muscat

International Walk

2009-05-21T00:18:00.000-07:00

Sit along I-Walk on any day of the studying week, Sunday through Saturday, and you’re sure to receive a genuinely warm hello,
It is truly a magical stretch of well placed squares of concrete creating a path of great intrigue and distinction.
There are the lovingly long conversations in the varied languages of the world,
There are groups of kids weighed down by backpacks of books on their way to life’s lessons and life’s classes,
There is that crazy crew of boys playingly dancing with that colorful noisy little ball creating a scene and a roadblock,
There are the cigarette butts of heavy sticks of unrelenting nicotine resting on those comfortable dually colored concrete benches,
In the windows are lazily hung flags of many nations and proudly presented posters of political thought and streaked blue and gold paintings of Triton Spirit,
In the windows are small gatherings of friends spread through the common dining room living room kitchen area going about their collegiate ways,
In the windows are happily prepared suppers from foreign countries hastily found on the cook books of the world wide web,
In the windows are endless rounds laughter, scholarly debate, tears, spiritual speech, beer, marijuana, and liquors of all different alcohol percentages,
Across the walk flow shouts of the night’s plans and the day’s jokes from window to window,
Across the walk march students, professors, janitors, public citizens, incoming freshmen, gym employees as well as goers,
Across the walk fly conversation waves transmitted from the laptops adorned by the network of Facebook,
Across the walk are Toby Plate Drop Off Spots with bins overstuffed flowing and stained with the grease of the incredible delicassies from Café Ventanas,
During the nighttime on the weekends kids huddle into small patches boldly conversing in the open air with special plastic red recyclable cups,
During the morning there will be a mystical air of silence invading the walk as individuals go about the start of their day and others finally head to bed,
During the afternoon discussion sections in Asante dismiss and flood the walk with complaint of the general ed known as MMW,
During the afternoon the janitors will eat on the benches laughing happily, the kids will talk with the janitors and the other kids, and those boys with the ball will be running around playing through the sunny stretch of day,
It really is a noteworthy place that really does deserve its fame,
It is a place with a fast growing tree planted by Jane Goodall and overhangs willingly rented by our Authority,
It is where great friendships have been made, legendary stories have occurred, hearts have been broken, and hundreds of cigarettes have been smoked,
It is a place where childhood themed parties carry into the morning and are well documented by many digital cameras, happy RA’s, and RSO’s with birthdays,
International Walk lies between the buildings where young minds are allowed to travel the world,
International Walk is the runway for those nervous to study in the great abroad program of the great university system of California,
International Walk provides soap boxes for impassioned speech and a theater for willing ears,
International Walk will give you a hug or a kiss on the cheek or a hacky sack to the noggin,
Sit along I-Walk Sunday through Saturday and you will be happy you did.

-jared a muscat

ps thanks to anyone who came to SLAM tonight, it was my first reading ever so i hope i did alright, hopefully i will be accepted to some other ones...got a lot more of the book done and quite a few new poems that should be coming up sooner or later

Random Order

2009-05-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

The mind of a man,
When scattered about,
Will leave his actions aloft.
From the collage,
Can be found an order of creativity.
But, in reality, what is order?
(it could mean there is no disorder).
But why is it better than random?

At a moment,
There can be great wonder,
Flung into the air.
And immediately thereafter,
A heavy comforter may be cast upon the mind,
Forever smothering that moment of splendor.
(blankets are tricky things)
BUT!

Why say good bye?
There most certainly will be another encounter,
For in a world of such little structure,
There will most certainly be another run in.
Brilliance is too bright to be completely dwindled.
How strong it will make the mind feel,
The images energizing!
The empowering motion of memory!

Labels could most certainly pursue.
Names both false and verified,
The purpose will ring loud as church bells.
The rhythm, well, that is to be decided on the spot.
The message, delivered with open ends!
For a moment of brilliance confined to a package,
Is no better than the comforter,
Keeping the mind in bed.

-jared a muscat

a failure of a writer

2009-05-06T12:33:00.000-07:00

ok well...i havent written a completed poem in over a week...i will be straight up honest, i got stuck writing a book/still am writing the book...i have some almost completed poems i might post soon, but i havent been able to tear myself away from my story long enough to translate them from paper to computer and even if i could my hands are so tired from typing that i would refuse to...i am going to submit a few poems for publication that havent been posted for that reason...so maybe someone will think i have some sort of skill and decide to publish them, that way you can see them...otherwise just stay tuned and someday a friend will bring a camera and there will be some decent sketches on this blog as well as some decent poems and maybe a short story or two...who knows really?

cheers

the seagull leader

2009-04-27T08:19:00.000-07:00

Above me glide seagulls of considerable size,

Poised in the air they tread forward.

Suddenly, without the slightest inclination,

The leader plunges towards the glassy ocean surface.

A perfectly circular splash explodes into the air,

Ripple waves lap against my chest.

Pop!

The seagull rights himself,

Smoothly, not hinting as to the outcome of his dive.

Rather, floating along as if he hadn't a care.

Soon a runaway appears,

And the gull, with a quick flap of the wings,

Is back into the air,

Ahead of the pack.

With the same poise he had earlier held,

He leads the others along, searching,

For a cool breeze, and some fish.

by- jared a muscat

an excerpt from (for now) untitled

2009-04-27T00:06:00.000-07:00

turns out, nothing is coming about for today, all that i can work on is this piece i started and dont want to post on here, but will wait till later
anyway here is an excerpt from another poem with the same life story...this little piece here is part of a poem that has many different stories, so here is one of them
the poem also doesnt have a title yet

untitled
back next to the highway kids felt bent by the rapid flow of necessary lessons
while their parents sent them fruity delicatessens
Sara sat in her suite listening to the laughter on the street
"they don't understand why they are here" she decreed
a statement with which her parents very much agreed
"they will struggle to live happy and free, but you will have the money everyone needs"
a day later she sat behind the cat who moved so magnificent
she hid under a hood of embarrassment
for she had discovered it was she
that had gotten a d
she leaned to the boy asking "how can this be?"
he told her that life could not be taken so simply
she looked at the boy in a pair of jeans and a shirt rough along the seems

she questioned how such an image could keep focus on a dream
as he packed to leave he turned to the girl and said
"come by my house and i will teach you how to bake complex bread"
the idea seemed strange, but she was far from naïve
she approached with a mind not ready to believe

but the rhythm of the boy's dance brought a smile to her face
"come sit down, promise me this wont be a race, i like to move at a pleasant pace"
the boy moved so pure and free opening cupboards with a style the girl had not seen
"please join me, i can not teach unless you join me in the scene"
"please understand i am not of your kind at all" the girl implied
"i know, i cant stand your type" the boy lied
he sang songs as they mixed and stirred
creating poetry without using words
and soon they moved with the wiseness of owls
as the girl created beautiful sounding vowels
and at the top of her lungs she cried
"i want to tell my parents of all i have discovered inside"

-jared a muscat

update

2009-04-26T21:47:00.000-07:00

sorry the poems became a little off and on over the last week, life got a little bit busy.

also apologies for the lack of art being presented, i just need to find someone with a camera (there are so many people here with cameras it is ridiculous, i just need to make friends).

there will be a new poem up tonight, an excerpt from a poem i have been working on for a while might be posted as well, we shall see. i just have a few i have been working on behind the scenes and might be waiting for bigger unveilings (not that anyone would really care).

stay stoked and i promise that by the end of the week some new art will be posted an poems will be abundant

until then

-jared

thumbs interlocked

2009-04-21T22:14:00.000-07:00

Smooth meets weathered,

Warm meets cool.

Laughter flows through,

Strength gathers,

And passion blossoms.

Very few stories to be told.

Friendship of many years,

Ideas meet warmly.

Eyes lock purpose,

Risks assessed and taken.

Hours of wait.

Frustration sags.

Deja vu's of disappointment.

Bonds formed and worry forgotten,

by the way, "accomplishment" achieved.

-jared a muscat

red as a cardinal

2009-04-19T23:21:00.000-07:00

Burning like a fire,

Stoked to be have been there.

Enchanted once more!

A chef with a purpose,

Happy advertising kind of like the red campaign, but green.

Onto creative naming,

At least 5, impressive indeed.

A valley below the campus calm in the spring.

Cleanse the dishes,

Head to bed;

Think its time to be enchanted,

Images to behold will now fill the head.

-jared a muscat

you're sat's dont mean a thing

2009-04-18T22:49:00.000-07:00

Your SAT’s Don’t Mean a Thing

They are only going to help for a short fling.

Or, a long one if you choose,

But to do that stay away from booze…

Unless it is a beautiful affair.

Like tonight with all the unseen birds and crickets harmonizing the air!

Nothing could really have gone wrong,

No one cared about whether or not anyone was wearing a thong.

There was Big Jim, Weathered Wil, and No-Nonsense Nick;

Laughing at the time they were having with only an orange and a stick.

The scene was truly something to behold,

And so it was only meant to be told.

Bags of purple weigh down,

So it is best for a night away from the town.

For more reasons than one,

Besides having already had plenty of fun,

Sometimes, it is a good thing,

To just, not flap your wings.

It is a hard concept to be understood.

Because, from a young age, you kept going like the little engine that could.

But go a head and give it a try,

I promise you will not die.

What to listen to for bed is always a tough task;

No matter what though, don't hit the flask.

-jared a muscat

answered questions

2009-04-18T17:23:00.000-07:00

It always feels good to know you are there to help, but they already know what to say.

So you are really only there, to hand out old pieces of sport.

And at the end of the quarter, you will spend a night to sort.

It’s an interesting position to be held,

It makes your head feel like ringing bells.

Got something you want to do?

Well this should be good enough for you,

You attend a college that’s one of the best in the nation,

But be careful, if you are not attentive, there will be an invasion.

Don't get the kid wrong, he appreciates the flow,

Because from what he hears his parents have no dough.

But something better would make things quite nice,

He would care even less about the price.

A job is just the most important thing,

It is what makes gospels sing.

You absolutely need it to be happy in the least!

But make certain you don't get swept up by the beast.

He is a bad man, so very greedy,

And you don't want to become needy,

So, even if your job is lame,

Remember it is just one big game.

And yes, you must be a part of it!

Why? Because otherwise you won’t fit.

You really need to get better with what you wear,

You dress and act, as if you forgot what you learned from dare;

Your teacher did,

And no one, wants that to be his or her kid.

-jared a muscat

funny to me

2009-04-18T01:40:00.000-07:00

It is funny to me,

The way certain people love, to love a tree.

In some ways it is just a tease,

But, what isn't, is how it feels to create your own gale,

Doing away with the thought of a scale;

A line high and zippy,

The spray looked o so pretty.

Not to be left to wonder,

He decided to risk a possible blunder.

He took to the race like a horse bred of the finest kind,

With songs, light, and vision in his mind,

Like a chemistry test he had not known,

He came out of the magnificent zone

With effort concentrated and free.

He had forgotten he had to pee,

Aches and pains, and lion sized yawns

Led him to know he would not wake at dawn.

Unless he kept himself up late;

And ate, ate, ate

Then he would have to wake up,

And pour a little cup,

Go for a nice time gliding upon the waves,

And then, retreat for the day into peaceful enclaves

Of great scholarly thought,

This way he would not be a robot.

-jared a muscat

ps i decided to put up pictures of the boards i have surfed as well...but that will have to wait until i get a digital camera...so stay tuned and enjoy the daily poems

the bummer

2009-04-16T22:22:00.000-07:00

It is quite the bummer to me,

When you look upon someone you admire with sizable disdain.

It will most certainly bring reasonable guilt and shame.

The best you can do, is sit and hope that hero gets it going,

And comes up with something worth showing.

He is a man of great pride,

But sometimes, he must get shaken for a ride.

It will help him to right himself, and make for the better.

But what is better, does it apply to anything, other than the quality of a sweater?

Anyhow things will move along,

Maybe to help, someone will suggest to him a song,

And for him it will provide great insight,

Keeping him happy for the night.

-jared a muscat

those pests

2009-04-15T22:19:00.000-07:00

Those pests,

Who keep you from a good night's rest;

They nip at you during lunch,

And they do nothing but munch, munch, munch!

It’s a pesky fuckin' group.

Most people look at them as poop.

Well they do provide the fertilizer don't they?

Good call, but wait a second they don't pay!

For what,

I don't exactly know, but lets find out and nip them in the but!

This town is not big enough for all of us.

Trust us, we talked to an expert named Gus.

He works over at the lab,

By the house of the singer from Gift of Gab.

He is pretty smart we have been told,

And we can trust those who told us, because they are wise and old;

And if you are wise and old, then you are most certainly correct.

So, we can be care free, let’s go out and get wrecked!

-jared a muscat

ps i am pretty desperate to get my new pieces up, but i dont have a digital camera, and although i dont think anyone is desperate to see them, they will be up as soon as i find a friend with a digital camera...HINT...peace and love

reason

2009-04-14T23:31:00.000-07:00

The best man,

Can he do what he wants because he is just that good,

Or can he do what he wants just like anyone could?

Is what he does always backed with great reason,

Or is it, to put it bluntly, simply treason?

My dear god what it feels like to have these thoughts!

It leaves the muscles in your legs in many knots.

Time to go to bed, need to look nice and fresh,

It’s breakfast silly, got to look your best!

-jared a muscat

better

2009-04-14T00:12:00.000-07:00

“You think you are the only one in this world, but you aren’t!”

I thought that to be very well put, and probably should be said to certain people;

But to give me that label? O, please go pray at the steeple!

I most assuredly know why I am here,

And it is to experience life, but not drink too much beer,

Or none at all really.

In the morning, I think I will have granola with toast and jelly,

That will certainly aide me in my work for Spanish class;

I wonder however, what I shall have when I leave, only to get kicked in the ass.

-jared a muscat

ps please let me know if you would

wether or not any of this is good...

the best way would be to ask for more

just kidding i am not trying to become a store

bob dylan prelims, bruce prelim, mp sketch

2009-04-07T23:31:00.000-07:00

the start

2009-04-07T23:24:00.000-07:00

i decided to start a blog because i do a lot of free thinking and a lot of random art, and usually i like to share what is produced from these sessions of creativity...it mostly centers around surfing and nature so i decided to call this harmony with nature (i reach for that goal)

anyway a few things of note

i am enjoying my classes this quarter and did quite a bit of chemistry this afternoon...

which i followed with some work on a big bob dylan sketch i started this morning...i am psyching on the outlook, but it wont be for a while, this is going to be the most detailed piece i have yet attempted

lastly i will try and get some art posted in the next few days, i dont have a camera so it will only be things i can scan for a little bit until i can find a friend with digital capabilities and the time to help me share my art (i feel its worth it)

stay stoked

jared

ps there are some previews of the dylan sketch coming tomorrow