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Establish a research and development facility tasked with recycling 100,000 commonly used household goods or packaged products back into the original base material needed to remake it into new product packaging. Pass legislation requiring all companies selling products with packaging to buy their source materials from a registered public-private venture allowing any firm willing to participate to do so. Companies must then manufacture packaging locally using source materials supplied by one of the public-private companies. Companies will also be required to hire locally using a diversity and economic income model incorporating or locating the participating companies in the poorest rural counties in the state.










Society grows great when Old Men plant trees.  -Socrates
hanaz Apr 2018
I apply I apply, Yet, No reply No reply,
I apply I apply, Yet, No Interview No Interview,
I believe, I believe, I will get hired,
I believe, I believe, I will shine,
No matter how many times you reject, I apply I apply,

I linkedin, I linkedin many recruiters,
I throw many applications in Dice,
People say a friend in need is Friend Indeed,
A friend indeed found a job in past,

I wonder i wonder, all these job sites really work,
I wonder i wonder, all these job sites really work,
If you want to prove it right, find me a job where i sit tight,
If you want to prove it right, find me a job where i sit tight,

Job seeker, Job seeker, where have you been,
I have been to all these websites, but in vain,
Is there a train, which can find a job for my brain,
Time will reveal when will be sun shine!

I believe, I believe, I will get hired,
I believe, I believe, I will shine!
This poem is dedicated to all the job seekers!
Sparrow Junk Jun 2017
Once again I must assess options
Put my workings up for auction
For despite my attempts of caution
I'm losing it all again

This working life keeps changing
This working life keeps breaking
This working life is unchanging
In the way that it keeps degrading

I feel guilty about the stealth
But really, I can do else
Brush my shoes and shine my belt
It's time to hunt again

This hunting life is relentless
This hunting life is offensive
This hunting life is intensive
It's enough to leave you senseless

I wonder maybe this is the one?
Now all my analysis is done
Do I get to stay with everyone?
Or will it start all again?

This working life is tiring
This working life is hiring
This working is inspiring
me to begin my retiring
I was recently made redundant for the fourth time in a role. Needless to say, it's exhausting
H  ow is it possible to have so much hate
A  midst all of those that I’m ordered to love.
T  orn by the need to stay here and fight-
R  eeling from weakness I thought I’d outlived,
E  dging towards a fall I must stop, I’m
D  odging the arrows, to keep keeping on.

F  rightened that I’m not as young or as smart,
O  lder than I ought to be at my age, I’m
R  emembering when I wielded weapons of youth.

M  y  armies of wit were were invincible then,
Y  et now only shadows of warriors past.

E  nemies bumping the sore spots they caused me, with
N  ever a thought or respect for my toil, I
E  nvy their callous neglect of my pain and
M  emorize odes to the loathing I feel.
I   light bonfires of hatred and hope not to get burned
E  scaping through tunnels of madness and fear into
S  afer environs where I can breathe free.
ljm
I love acrostics and have written many of them.  This was written after a VERY bad day at work.  For James.
CK Baker Jan 2017
leg on the table
you red face recruit!
put on the offensive
and break down
the bolted door
you are the soul saver
the peddle maker
the calibrator
with colored handbills
and front line
rhetoric

join the masquerade
in ivy league style!
politicking with
cunning guile
invisalign smile
blackened vile
bleeding the funnel
with gold plate omegas
and crocodile shoes

get on stage
and dance you fool!
you are the headline maker
the pantomime juggler
the compromised closer
pull out that 5 page review
(bullet points only please)
and polish those weathered lines

did you give it your all?
the door tags
and candies
the tidings
and clippings
the irrevocable claims
and postured blames
all the impressionable basics
put to the test?

you know the call
(straight from
those cold academics)
the pie chart gurus
and contract killers
(complete with bone in finger)
whipping their
frenzied crew
in an all night
charade

old yellar
and the gatekeeper
sure seem amused
(sharpening their inquest
behind closed doors)
firing up the **** storm
with hostile ******
and a slew
of insatiable
cures

there’s laughter from the back room:
the dripping nose
and wavering hand
the cut white lines
and checkpoint tales
the pipeline romance
and lacking form
(of a basic essential
character!)

soundboard
and narratives
for logging time
slouching on the
steel case
over moot points
ready to play
the 3 weight
butter card
(if need be)

might I remind you
it’s only an inquiry
(with a slight hint of concern)
surely no
malfeasance
or deception intended
so step back from
the melt down
and cut to the chase!

headlines to breadlines
penthouse to outhouse
those immoral pursuits
have taken their toll
(haven’t they?)
madman or rogue
(you take your pick)
for the scores
and tabulations
are final

shame on you
for the foul play
the bold hypocrisy
and order desk games
the back stabbing blames
and spurious names
just sign on the dotted line...
this banter
is killing me
Jason Harris Sep 2016
There were four of them dressed in loud yellow t-shirts
and muffled white-washed jeans. Three carried rubber
ended stick-picks and sand crusted sky-blue buckets  
for hypodermic needles and diapers and condoms.

The last of them, an older stocky gentleman with thick
red skin and no more than ten years left to live maneuvered
a grass-green, six-cylindered, diesel-powered tractor with
an old metallic rake attached to its bed across cold soft sand.

These four men are the edge-of-morning-heroes,
– they have to be the edge-of morning-heroes,
these four men, the beach combers.

My friends, have we appreciated the fruit of their labor?
the outcome of their edge-of-morning-efforts?

It was because of them that I was there, because of them
that the great lake was enjoyable, swimmable, because of them
that my heart had become a poem whose first stanza opened
with a young man staring off into the open, ocean-blue horizon,

water birds skipping, circling open-winged with webbed
feet behind him, his brown legs nestled firmly in the swash,
where to the left of him, a couple, neck-deep, was making love
between the familiar crest and trough of a wave, making love

between the familiar beginning and end of something
– going deeper, under still as a plane hummed overhead.

My friends, will the future appreciate the fruit of their labor?
the outcome of their edge-of-morning-efforts?
Nico Reznick Mar 2016
Suddenly aged and prickling inside drab suit
(that fits in every way besides the one that matters),
sip stewed tea, UHT milk, and
be gracious about it.
Faces requisitioned from Head Office
ask questions like the answers you give
could possibly mean anything.
Try not to act bored or high, even though
you're both.  Pretend like
you could belong here.
Don't let on you think thoughts that are in breach of the House Style.
Don't, under any circumstances, let them
find out you write
poetry.  
Don't give yourself away.

Afterwards, brittle and weary outside,
notice how it feels like
your feet inside your good pair of shoes
are nailed to the asphalt reality
of this bleakly nowhere estate; you're
crucified against the
indifference of the afternoon,
bled out by another day of attempting to
sell yourself cheap and still
not closing.
You learned to walk upright for this.
Even the sun looks old and done with trying.
If a stranger offered you a cigarette right now,
would you break your two-year streak?  


The phlegmy rattle of builders' vans;
soft pale smell of saw dust on damp air;
that sense of inevitable mutual rejection.
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