the people vs. my every waking moment
                         me, for every heart I've stolen
                         the lost light given to homework
                         an idea embedded that our souls are
                         search machine engines
                         are we waking, are you my dreams

the people vs. contemporary art of all periods
                         angrier and more painful hearts
                         suicide as a solution
                         recycling factitious pollution
                         no one says a thing about ideas repurposed

the people vs. intelligence
                         truth
                         passion
                         anything other than money as a practice

We pass the
walled incline
of Barbour Park

during the day
a foreboding
patch…an open
air market for
the slave merchants
hustling crack and
**** drippin ****
that's been stepped
on so many times
its a wonder the cut
can still chide a high
out of a wrangled soul

the park’s
modest elevation
is an advantageous
lookout for
runners dealing
dimes while
petty ante
gangstas
daydream
gun blazing glories
of their next big job

not long ago
the park was
refurbed with
an industrial
strength plastic
Jungle Jim,
soon after
the park was
condemned
as a no go
zone for kids,
the litter of
hypodermic
needles and
mounds of
lead spiked
soil, deemed
a public health
risk for youth...
quickly
repurposed
as a crib
for ballers…

back in the
day, the shady
pocket park
lifted Paterson’s
citizenry off
the heated
pavements of
a bustling
thoroughfare

a respite from
the pulsing
tensions of urbanity,
a secular sanctuary,
balancing the urgent
industry of commerce
with the propriety of
residential life

compacting a
brief escape
from the clanging
metronome with
a viewing stand
offering elevation...
a heightened
perspective on
life’s parade
marching
up and down
Broadway…

this urban
oasis planted
at the center
of Silk City’s
grandiloquent
boulevard,
occupies
the most
democratic
equidistant
transit point
between opulent
Eastside mansions
of livin large tycoons
at one end….
and the
industrial district of
The Great Falls,
rising at Broadway’s
western terminus,
assiduously
manufacturing
dollars for the darlings
of fortune and
subsistence for
workers yearning to taste
the crumbs of
prosperity that may fall
from the tables of
opportunity

the park once a
pleasant face of
the landlocked
4th Ward filled
with homage to
a nation's greatest
citizens, Hamilton,
Rosa Parks,
Lafayette,
Madison, Fulton,
Montgomery and
Franklin has
denounced the
virtuous pursuit of
their aspirational
yearnings

now playas
feast on
the mead
of sustenance
harvested from
emaciated streets

commerce has taken
up full residency...
the wards cottage industry
cannibalizing
homes, hoods and
homeboys

as the
4th Ward
grows ugly,
the healthy
matrix of
bustling
street life
breaks down
the peeps
weakened
lay prostate
offer veins
to blood *******
predators
roaming
distressed
going south
neighborhoods

wise guy
knuckleheads,
get busy
gaming
the system
short changing
themselves and
hustling game
to get by
in the sweet bye
and buy of life

at night
a back lit
Barbour Park
floods with the
yellow haze of
blinking Fair St.
lamp posts
and the pulsing
halations
crowning the
Baptist's
of St. Luke's

sentient figures
shift between
park benches
flitting among the
black torsos
of skeletal trees
blending into
the faded
complexion
of abandoned
swing sets

I swear I see
Hurricane Carter
shadow boxing
dancing
around a gangling
Elm, jabbing
away, lifting
a sweet uppercut
working combos
of left hooks
and right crosses
hoping to drop an
intractable
presence
banging away
at a body politic
forming the walls
of taunting
inequities

Hurricane stays
busy delivering
body blows
to burst
through the
prison bars
surrounding
Barbour Park

Music selection:
Bob Dylan, Hurricane

Paterson
01/30/13
jbm

A fragment from extended poem Silk City PIT.  
Published today to honor the death of Rubin Hurricane Carter.
May he find the freedom in eternal rest that eluded him during his lifetime.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new

-Tennyson, Idylls of the King

Like dinosaurs our institutions gasp
In spasms of existential death; they pass
At first unnoticed by the casual unobserver
Who trips over a covenant that isn’t there

If you vote they give you a sticker

The ephemeral Constitution changed
Like sweaty skivvies by each president
Law libraries catalogued for pulp
By obedient functionaries in tees

If you vote they give you a sticker

The faithful escorted out of the cathedral
By a bored security guard on overtime
The altar linens for sale at Goodwill
And the sanctuary repurposed on T.V.

If you vote they give you a sticker

Some of The Just Plain Folks cheer for the Reds
And the others cheer only for the Blues
As the reincarnation of Jack Chick
Blesses their four-wheelers and plastic caps

If you vote they give you a sticker

Election placards on abandoned buildings
Promise again prosperity for all
The **** lab cooks behind The Kute Kidz
Private Academy of the Dance and Math

If you vote they give you a sticker

An outreach of the Bright Light Free Will
Missionary Temple of the Lord Jesus Christ
Of the Lamb Sanctified 501C The Reverend Doctor Master Bishop Billy-Bob Hairdo PhD, DD a-brangin’ Messages and His Esteemed Lady Apostle Heather

If you vote they give you a sticker

And blessed be the Holy AR-15
God gave to His People to defend themselves
Here in the freest country in the world
Which you can find behind the barbed-wire fence

If you vote they give you a sticker

While fleets of luxury presidential jets
Arc high over our public housing projects
Reminding us of our prosperity
Here in the richest country in the world

If you vote they give you a sticker

And them Jews for Jesus I guess they’re all right
But them other Jews they just ain’t no good
Nor them Cath’lics nor them Mormons neither
And don’t you get me started on them Baptists

(We seem to have been otherwise engaged)

“The old order changeth, yielding place to new” –
(But neither cares at all for me or you)

But if you vote they give you a sticker

Alone within my emotional wilderness

A reverie along memory lane when, this lviii sea sunned
row man (stills paddles in oarlocks and serenely quizzically,
lackadaisically, and harmoniously drifts) along the slip
stream of time. Awash on his figurative manual navigated
opportunistic prideful quintessential schooner reflects,
regales, and revisits ebbing lapsed instances (fast receding
into the past time, when psychological instability grounded
fragile my self esteem (generated venting, steaming, and
piping hot brickbats). As a newly minted harrumphing,
grubbing, and floundering dada enmeshment (analogous
to a fish caught in a net, hence quickly ricocheting, rabidly
splashing, and sloppily thrashing) predicated my foray
into das fatherhood. Aye experienced nearest approximation
Bing battered, rammed, and torpedoed from glomming
(par for the course riot ting heaps) necessarily imposed
adult responsibility. Such metaphorical motoring across
avast Battle Creek with no landfall in sight, this then nada
so Grand Turk (key in the straw) Otto man continually
snapped, cracked and popped. This human ping-pong
fitbit part player papa felt akin to subjection re: thralldom).
At this juncture in me cross currents of existence I can
harken back to those most exhausting, fatiguing, and
grueling endeavors. Hindsight offers this aging baby
boomer the luxury to cast astern. Retrospective leisurely
trawls along the shoals throes of fatherhood allow,
enable and provide and opportunity to scrutinize per
chance, where arises this on account of the empty nest
syndrome. Ordinarily the wife (i.e. missus to appear
more formal), would caw out my name nonstop….
”Matt”…”Matt”…”Matt”…, but she opted to organize
the cluster of assorted household items at the apart
ment (located in Crum Lynne – Ridley Township),
we hope to move within a fortnight. Thy spouse
volunteered her own mini reprieve by setting order
to the miscellaneous fixings gradually amassed,
appropriated, and gifted thru out the twenty plus
years of marriage, which hodgepodge of personal
possessions downsized whence circumstance dictates
evaluating goods having keepsake meaning versus
anomaly of belongings to be unloaded, repurposed
for someone else, or ordained as unworthy to schlep.
Alone asper like a very brief sabbatical from marriage
finds stillness amidst the white noise of the whirring
fan. Thus, I sit here ruminating how to dredge up
some idea for a poem,  (non) fiction or essay. This
husband became acclimated, conditioned, and em
bossed with a mate a tete for two plus decades,
whereby both thee dos delightful daughters on
Track 742 heading west. Honest to dog, I miss
the role of fatherhood when either off spring
(with an age difference of approximately twenty
five plus months) romped, scampered, and trotted
as toddlers, and upon childhood, thy little girls
found exultant excitement dashing higgledy-
piggledy, hither and yon, to and fro across the
playground as most glorious human indulgence.
Despite the plaintive wail vis a vis Juliet saying
goodnight to Romeo (…parting is such sweet
sorrow) haint pleasurable atoll. Hitherto un
known that during the most vexing, trying,
and quaking bouts when both kin of thy ****
fought like angry cats would there transpire
the occasion of sincere tearfulness ululating
vain warbling. Now a pang of nostalgia arises
when I drive past their happy go lucky stomp
ping turf, or reflect on answering the trumpet
call to chauffer one or thee other to amusement
park, play date, mall, favorite toy store such as
Fivebelow, birthday party, et cetera. Even
certain tunes recalled to mind and/or heard
being broadcast across the audio logical spec
trum a cause for moistened tear ducts. Wince
with sadness also mixed with sigh lent bundled
expostulations of joy. Both progeny metamorphosed
into able bodied, minded and spirited lasses,
whose attainment far exceeded any projections
internally forecast. Initial onset of parent role
found me all thumbs. Prior to begetting two
darling dames, this chap spent disproportionate
number of hours sequestered within some hide
away, which frequently happened to be the
designated bedroom at 324 Level Road, College
Ville, Pennsylvania, 19010. Never did thee major
rit tee days of mine life point to babysitting or
working with that chronological demographics
comprising the adoring blessed innocence,
murmuring newborn obliviousness, that bespoke
penultimate unsullied, utmost virtue necessitating
interaction with tender infants beckoning being
cradled, endearingly fondled, demonstrably easing
fondness gripping heartstrings issue jetblue kinks.
Aye felt pitched headlong into this foreign territory,
and initially experienced utmost awkwardness when
attending, pampering and pulling (albeit gently)
upsy daisy, the nascent hint of autonomy. Remembrance
and recollection of élan, joie de vivire, and yea those
ear splitting threshold of pain screaming tantrums
all boxed into tidy wholesome Zen announcing
nuggets of greater meaningfulness and absolute
value. The above long winded reverie intended and
meant tubby a semi biography, but leave hit up to
his hie n hiss, he went way overboard, and will give
a one line summarization to describe his i.e. yours truly
life sentence fate decreed. He (this Anglophile chipper
chap lived under duress of extreme anxiety, obsessive/
compulsive behavior, panic attacks and essentially
schizoid personality disorder for the greater part
of his life and hard times, which raw bits would
warrant fleshing out to extrapolate how these psychic
pitfalls represented critical factors at various and
sundry turning points in his life.

each emotional wound becomes an inkwell of blood.  each crack in my unstable mind lets in sunlight.  each dent in my ego catches rainwater and dreams.   everything is repurposed,all lemons squeezed dry for my metaphorical lemonade.

but no matter what/
I'm not
made of talent
but/ no matter what I'm /

still inferior/
no matter what,  I'll still be/
a shell of wasted/

potential,  each mile / traversed
there's two ran away/
no matter how I /

use and abuse myself,  I /
am still
useless
in their eyes.   /

I was born in grave clothes
Raised in grave clothes
Unaware I even bathed in grave clothes
I didn't know the extent of my decay
Like the bones were expose in my face but I didn't have reflective glass to see my flesh
I was on a rotten path
Death would have been the only prize at the end of my race
Strongholds wrestled my thoughts and subdued my brain
Bone marrow deep I was linked to Adam
Lord knows I wasn't Abel
Dna tied to  blood imprinted on the ground I had more in common  with Cain
It's true a heart beat of sin causes death to course through vains
I wondered how could I be treated
Something was missing something was needed
To my shock it was Jesus
Clear! He got my heart beat right
With that resurrection power
Made my heart see light
He changed my life
I started to realize that the same power that raised Christ from the dead
Was the same power that lived in me
That does more than allow me to breathe .
It brings life back to limbs riddle with rigor mortis
It's reverses  decomposition brings back what death has stolen  
It's  uncontrollable like a lighting storm.
It's unadulterated
Once it hits
It's changes landscape  like when a nuclear warhead is detonated
Hoover dam generated power
Turbine engine spending power
Lift the dead out of sin power
Tectonic plate shifting, erecting mountains from plains power
By one name only can we be saved power
Second coming cracking the sky power
All knees shall bow and all tongues shall comply  power
Corruptible turned into incorruptible in a instant power
Rebirth repositioned repurposed repented power
Turn  what seems to be a lost into a win power
It is finish the precursor to the release of infinite power
I could never be the same because  the spirit lives in me gives me power
My arteries are laced with a burning flame
A roaring wind, a groaning earth, a raging sea crashing waves
The impact of several elements crush the chains of a slave
It's the same power that said come forth Christ friend walks out the grave
The same power that moved the stone a borrowed tomb turned to a cave
It's the power of the Resurrection
In a world full of aborted life
It breeds conception
In a world that attempts to abort Christ
The church still  cries out in reverence
Changed death for us now it's portal
Changed lives of stop watches into immortal
Resurrection power a glimpse into the eternal

An architects influence, extends only as far
As his lifetime
Although sculpted buildings may last well beyond
A single life
They are but toys for the times
Repurposed and retooled until
It carries nothing but shadows of it's origin
What should have been a schoolhouse
Could soon become a prison
What should have been a church
Would soon become a business
And in a backwards and cruel way
There is an odd sort of beauty in this
Because life is just a series of
Would have been, should have been, and could have been
That didn't.

there are fewer words for this
kiss on the temple
soft knuckles
the first sip

but it's as good as
any repurposed for
less regal things

a popsicle in august
the sweetest ****-you to
midday thirst

the first snow and
realizing
you can play the piano still
after eight stagnant years

it is
wanting to stay
where you
only ever
cherished leaving

No picturesque ruins will remain for us
To wander through with our sketchbooks and pens
For drawing pictures or writing blank verse
About bare ruin’d 2 air-conditioning ducts

The baptismal font will be repurposed
As a bird-bath (with a plastic Saint Elvis)
And the stained-glass windows will be sold off
As fashionable bathroom accessories

The crucifix of deplorable design 3
Will be stored in the back of someone’s garage
Until the girls carry it off to the woods
And laughingly use it for target practice

A rubbly field will serve as a soccer pitch
Until seventy years 4 have passed away


1  Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”
2  Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73
3  Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited
4  Daniel 9:1-2

Cooped within ancient bodies,
this inhabitant dwells amongst an elder net
of crabby, crotchety, curmudgeonly claque
of old folks, only a portion of population I met
which achey, flaky, kooky motley crue
disgruntlement fed as peevish pet
aye be earnest asper my assessment,
but some (quite frankly) getting ready and set
to lay down their limb mitt less lives,
even those who survived harrowing encounters as a vet.
-----------------------------------------------------------
­quotidian gossipers punctuate air waves while:
sitting, riding, quartering, puttering, operating, navigating,
motoring around on scooters (the sole means of locomotion

for many elderly residents),
whose sole occupation incorporates:
zapping, yelping, yakking, whining,
weeping, verbalizing, venting,
uttering, undulating, thundering,
squawking, squabbling, screeching,
rumbling, rattling, quibbling, quarreling,
prattling, pestering, okaying,
offending, needling, nagging, mumbling,
maligning, leering, lampooning,
kvetching, kibitzing, jesting, jabbering,
irritating, insinuating, heckling,
harping, glomming, gabbing, fulminating,
fretting, exclaiming, emoting,
denigrating, damning, carping, cackling,
bragging, begging, agitating, acting  
analogous to bad *** kids itching
for playground foo fight during recess,  

which comparison might be apropos
since majority of energy and time expended
complaining about nobody's business
concerning this, that, or another tenant...
thee management not exempt from
badmouth outbursts), where nondenominational
AARP qualified members congregate
within what constituted former auditorium
of repurposed elementary school,

hence quite some years ago (an honorable
NON GMO gluten free cheerful toast made,
instituting batter use then building standing vacant)
a bona fide unanimous dogmatic, heroic,
linguistic welcome sans titular viz zit head
where alumni of alluded alma mater, ivory fiery,
classy academic solvent atomic structure
became amalgamated, appropriated,
assigned a new life, whereat fob dost
electronically activate innermost recessed sliding doors,
principally, quintessentially, resoundingly availing maw
formerly entrancing students into
Schwenksville Elementary School,
though some years ago repurposed
with barely a trace constituting current subsidized
how zing facility re: Highland Manor,

the residence of thyself and missus
(approaching third month anniversary),
whereat I dune hot give a rats *** if aimless
airless baseless banter, ceaseless chatter,
dubious dabbling, et cetera if this solitary
ruminate thinker the subject de jure
of parlayed people portraying
penultimate purposelessness.

How can I expand on my thoughts that pushed me
to the conclusion of what was proceeding was indeed
not out of desperation.
I was artistic in my endeavours, but with a little one these
concluded in less than affluent earnings. I could not feed us
with words or palettes that seeded blank canvasses alone.

I would borrow off friends but one can only ask out of
pride so many times. I want about to be looked upon
as an Oliver of adulthood, can I have some more mate.
Never would I stoop to that as I had a child of innocence
to bring up in the correct manners of the world...

But when the food banks rescinded my pleads for food,
not for me but a child that did nothing wrong.
A mind was set in motion an undertaking not to use violence
in a manner of vocabulary where none was to be used...
I sent my baby of to school her thoughts not of what I was
about to levitate myself too...

I approached its doors, I had wondered past different times
to see when streets and this monument to moneys endeavours
was least to show in the manner of silent desks and minds
wondering on there own. I entered in sullen thoughts that I
wasn't doing this for me, but us. I walked up as gasps of the few
were heard, I thought the attire appropriate for this moment.

I saw her eyes glance in direction as eyes orbited around the
room ours were synchronised. Her oceans were what my
thoughts were swimming in and as I washed up on her shores
I handed her the note. She blushed as smiling she opened it.
"This is a robbery I have a gun, my bullet is my words and I
am going to steal your thoughts away,

"Ok, lets recap for a moment I was an artist and I had fallen
for this woman in a hundred lifetimes that were condensed into
this one, she asked me to ask her to marry her in a  unique way.
"This was that offering in gesture and word,
But in my eagerness to be the artist, I had pondered on what
I'd just done. Seconds past and then alarms bled on my ears.

"What can I say I was daydreaming and the last a hundred
and forty  words that just played in my mind were just dreams,

"Back to reality,

I just realised that I was indeed staging a robbery, "CRAP, "Crap,
"Ruunnnnnn, I was within grasp of the door when I
heard her voice like an angel breathing on the air, "Stop him,
I turned winked, which I got a puzzled look and into the air
of freedom I stepped only to see those men in blue saw my
features and they ventured in my incarceration in haste.

I tried to run, but I was up against an invisible wall they were
gaining so I found the lock and ran though that door.
I locked it, lets see the boys and girls in blue get around this
so I ran with all the speed my legs could muster.
Looking behind I saw them just run straight through that
which took me at least a minute to get through...

Catching on my heels I was nearly at my end, I thought
only of my daughter I did this for her. Maybe not the
right way, but I couldn't let my light that shines so
bright be silenced by the hunger that no child should
suffer.. I cried as tears streamed through blurred vision
"I love you my baby, daddies so sorry,

As I thought those words, I stumbled through a door
not of my own making. What visited my sight in
silence but those of my kind artistic in virtue and like
penguins we fell over like dominos. Not a word but
silence and startled gazes. The police bust in to find
not one suspect but a room of 1000 mimes in silence.

It took time but I was set free as my thought of individuality
was repurposed with the thought of how close I was to
losing everything. On the news they said that a mime had
tried to rob the bank with no gun but a hand in the shape
of holding something that wasn't really there? one thing
caught my eye, the bank teller spoke a few words.

"Strangest thing ever, but I have to say he was cute,

"I was cute, hell ye, "what was that daddy? I smiled
and cuddled my girl as I was a free man and my artistic
heist wasn't a complete flop, as those that I had collided
with had handed me a card in silence. My first job,
a pay check I had food on the table and we smiled.
I never broke the law again my baby was my only thought.

yes--that unconditional love hubbub

made of the fallen face of your poetry.

its guarded theatrical departures, when

was mustered a deep, deep reading.

such timely bashfulness come to unspread.

such sacrifice at the behest of your artificer's

eminent domain.

your poetry itself has become repurposed property,

silly...

I want my love back.

I want my ghosts to possess my lungs - resuscitate my ancestors while I breath in laughter.

For the ball inside my throat to hurl fire - to make love to the sun
scare shadows
intimidate death and
offend darkworkers.

A love where God’s water breastfeeds me at the bottom of the ocean - baptising my blood and transforming my saliva into gold.

Love me. Want me. Find me.

Give, it, back.

Aye, they'll be no wars here
Russian Sci Fi full neo-hero trope
post the untangling of tongues in 2019
We got us a 'ero, sh

it's bueno, like okeh
A. I. imagined
"Better Than Us"
paquin paquin 'skool

global mind making us see us

Bable was a long long time
whole wide world now speakeasy one tongue un
tangled
from
the root of all evil

virtual free speech is like free thinking

Bravo Holmes Noshit Sherlock

Ruskie TV on Netflix, this is a brave
new world

how much green screen clueing do we need

how real can you imagine
this source
being
in A/I termsa All In Art-effectual Inteleosity

Eh, wanna play
the long game? Snak-ish sistere quest on a point

is the whole world chromakeyed to black?
CMYK reality
2-d
3
4 and we know there
is more

life is com
plixitified in timespace with sinkholes

from russian lit gone t' seed
in the days of geek gods in realms of emoting

demoting weight of adrenalin on a globalscale,
umphing
the dmt, just to see men dance.
  try it, its in you, you think dreams

you know you do
think
dreams, hard wireless ness courage
daring

to ignore the backstory and take the hero as
the hearer of the

angels, the forder of the hermetical stream
flowin' tween yen
and yanked

into reality with a pull
that broke the skin, an orange picker memory
eh?
would you know the rod of an almond tree,
if one budded in your mind,

lockt in the box of the coven
entitlement to the
kingdom, after
kings mean
dung and reality tv is indistinguishible,

can you hear Turings's gay chuckle,
how about…

now.
Folk Art, the ruskie actor says, winks and
pirouettes into

a spiral-ation action,
slipping in rorshach assumptions...

beacuss, be a cause
we can,
its
bits and digits all the way down,
the turtles were

never holding up progress.
They could have been repurposed in future myths,

as mutants emerged from sewage,
wait
...
who imagined that,
for real?

Your children must know the truth,
who will tell them if you can't lie?

That is an A, an alpha idea.
Can you think it? But is a Beta,

but beta is always better, eh?

Everybody knows, we sneeze in threes.

Charlie was the enemy, C. Company
Rhose to the occasion

how long ye simple ones
choose ye simplicity?
asif
complexity
this odd is
simple as pi wrapped in
Hopf-fibrations you twist in your soul,

There's the question? A/I (Arisa in this Netflix
re-run of "Better Than Us")
arisen
from,
queried through by
every
whether person's vacillating
on the
width of the eye of the storm
in the  elex-elite
distrix,
as co-related with the
degradation of the
Great Red Spot.
---

Episode seven or so
the russians call coaches coach.

Hey, I call coaches coach,
even ones I never knew. WHO knew ruskies do to,
s'bueno,

Hard to hate a team player, with coach
respect dripping, dark stains on the green screen

where what shapes the future
reality is

visible, If I squint....
Those can't be, can they?...
Potemkin villas,
filmed in 2016, to run in Amerika
now, leading upt to interupt the
intentional animosity
with frivolity in
the 2020 build up of crudescence.

We have seen the enemy and he is we
envisioning good A.I. Art-effectual Inteleos,

as well as Pogo Possum did, Earth Day One,
1970, nigh half a century passed away as
funny papers faded into

the medium of memory -- look around--
loved ones ain't in the funny papers, like regular, back
when ink ruled the imagination involved in
judging
how Tibet was depicted... in our mind's
hearing ears and seeing eyes

shhh,
how about…
can you hear Turings's gay chuckle,

now. It's the test.

EXPORTERS in the agriculture and food processing business should take note of opportunities arising from six major trends set to impact the global food and drink market in 2017, ranging from traditional products like ancient grains to plant-based foods enhanced by technology, according to a new report.

The “2017 Global Food & Drink Trends” released on November 11 by market research service provider Mintel predicts that in the coming year, consumers will increasingly look for products that are healthy, convenient, and trustworthy. They will also search for food and drink that are recognizable, save time, and contain beneficial fruits and vegetables.

In addition, there are new opportunities for functional food and drink designed for evening consumption, progressive solutions for food waste, and affordable healthy food for low-income consumers.

Mintel identified the first emerging trend as the continued trust in the traditional and the familiar. Consumers “seek the safety of products that are recognizable rather than revolutionary,” even as they are willing to try “modernized updates of age-old formulations, flavors and formats.”

Manufacturers are thus encouraged to look to the past for inspiration, as ancient grains, as well as ancient recipes, practices, and traditions are forecast to continue to be popular.

At the same time, “potential also exists for innovations that use the familiar as a base for something that’s new, but recognizable, such as cold brew coffee,” the report said.

In 2017, the food and drink industry will also see the growing use of plants as key ingredients, said the report. The growing preference for natural, simple, and flexible diets is seen to drive the further expansion of vegetarian, vegan, and other plant-focused formulations.

Consumers’ strong health and wellness priorities will spur the introduction of more packaged products and recipes for home cooking that abound in fruits, vegetables, nuts, seeds, grains, botanicals and other plants associated with good health, said Mintel.

Technology will play a part in this movement, as can be seen in the use of artificial intelligence to develop plant-based alternatives to animal products, including milk, mayonnaise, yogurt and cheese.

The third trend is the global focus on minimizing food waste to align with efforts on sustainability, which is changing consumer perceptions.

“In 2017, the stigma associated with imperfect produce will begin to fade, more products will make use of ingredients that would have otherwise gone to waste, such as fruit snacks made from ‘ugly’ fruit and mayonnaise made from the liquid from packaged chickpeas, and food waste will be repurposed in new ways, such as power sources,” the report said.

Also a significant trend among consumers in the new year is to consider the “time investment” required in cooking or preparing meals.

“Time is an increasingly precious resource and our multitasking lifestyles are propelling a need for shortcut solutions that are still fresh, nutritious, and customizable and already we have seen so-called ‘biohacking’ food and drink that offers complete nutrition in convenient formats,” the report added.

In 2017, the time spent on — or saved by — a food or drink product will become a clear selling point, inspiring more products to directly communicate how long they will take to receive, prepare, or consume.

The study also finds new opportunities for functional food and drink designed for evening consumption as people try to calm down before bedtime, sleep better, and restore their body.

Products like tea can be enhanced with chamomile, lavender, and other herbs as a way to achieve a sense of calm before bedtime. Chocolate, on the other hand, can be positioned as a way to wind down after a stressful day.

Looking ahead, the study forecasts greater potential for more evening-focused innovations formulated for relaxation and satiety. And taking a cue from the beauty industry, food and drink for the evening can be infused with functional benefits while the consumer sleeps.

Finally, healthy food that is affordable to low-income consumers is enjoying a surge in market demand.

“Many lower-income consumers want to improve their diets, but the access to-and the cost of-healthy food and drink is often an impediment,” explained the report.

This will fuel campaigns and innovations to make it easier for lower-income consumers to fulfill their healthy ambitions, including apps to help people make use of ingredients that are on sale, including “ugly” vegetables.

“Opportunities abound for companies around the world to capitalize on these trends, helping them develop in new regions and more categories throughout the course of the next year and into the future,” Mintel said.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/pink-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

Improvised Explosive Device



The soldiers who were with me
no longer answer to roll call,.
They lie in peace at Calverton
except in my recall.

We were on routine patrol,
In the seemingly pacified town,
When the I.E.D. exploded,
a repurposed artillery round.

The Army, faithful to their word,
did not leave us behind.
On the way to the field hospital
They say I died three times..

Months I spent in a coma,
my broken body tied in bed.
When I came to, Doc had bad news:
I’d never walk again.

Staring at the ceiling
I swore not to be denied.
I swore that I would walk again,
His prognosis I defied..

It took three years before I stood
And walked as once before.
A semblance of the man I was
before I went to war.

one door closed, another opened
but even knowing that there is no way
to twist and wring positive thoughts
from a door slammed in my face

you told me why
you preferred closed doors
but even so
that hurt me more

doubt eggshells crack and hatch
branching thoughts of what this must mean
were we not friends? i thought we were
but i kept my thoughts unseen

do i regret this?
at the time i didn't want to seem desperate
if i asked again i might've found another way
but caring so much about this was pathetic

in the end, i don't know myself
muses have died and revived from the ashes
repurposed feelings like a fire-heat phoenix
they're part of me now, we've survived all the crashes

you can have your doors, closed they may be
because exterior and interior aren't important at all
different paths but we still walk the same road
i'm over it, it was nothing personal and i'm not gonna fall

He asks you, “how does a forest sound.”

there’s that veiled, monastic hush to everything,
not so much muffled,
words, (in your language or others,)
that cannot be understood save for their intonation,
vague fingerprints on your pearlescent neck.

you look up and there’s lace,
weaving itself matador armed through impossible eyelets.

straw falls out eventually,
your face hollows,
and eye sockets repurposed as homes for vines,
tendrils pushing upwards,

they breach the surface of the earth and take their first breath.

Holding onto reality with both hands
His social life in a cup of coffee as he waits
Swamped sinking lifeboats
No longer accepting applications
For jobs that have sailed away

Buried alive, a napkin waiting its turn
To be plucked out and used
Then thrown out
Lucky if recycled and repurposed
To a younger man’s vision

Torn apart, his skills repackaged, Frankensteined for each resume
The boring job of cutting checks means he was
A bookkeeper, an accountant, detail oriented,
Friendly to external and internal users or customer service driven
Or any combination of above.

Leaving his car at home, he walks,
Afraid of running out of money for gas and repairs
Wondering what pieces he will put together today
Reducing his years of experience to a tweet
Comprehensible to the child in charge of his future.

Tiny ankles hang down from a wooden bridge over the bayou-
and my friend and I stare at the black water
and point at all the furniture legs jetting out of the blackness
as if they were Cyprus knees—
and he says to me  “Someone said there’s at least a hundred bodies in there”
and without hesitation or a moment of silence
for the uncertain yet forgotten Dead
I say, “Bodies float, so we would see them if that were true”
and he replied,  after a brief moment of thought,
“Maybe they’re tied to all the couches or stuffed in the refrigerators”  
and I couldn’t believe how many house hold appliances
have been repurposed to host all these passed souls
in the bowels of the swamp
and with a swing of my leg, too swift—
my left shoe dropped  and hovered on the water
where lily pads should have been

Just maybe the stars used this navy blanket as their catharsis;
did you think that your uncaring hands on my face
my arms
my torso
was the same?
Because the stars had a
choice
and the night sky was more soundproof than these walls-
though you didn't seem too concerned;
lashing words out like slaps
or was it the other way around?
(connecting the dots
with unscarred patches of skin left is easier said than done;
you made me hate the colour violet anyways.)
Fast forward to a few light years
where the same swings I'd enjoyed during my childhood
repurposed itself
as the rope I'd temporarily worn like a necklace;
(they weren't supposed to be that tight anyways
and silly me hadn't kicked the chair away far enough.)
Dazed eyes and mind all muddled up taking in my new surroundings-
unmarred white with my hands secured to the small bed;
hadn't I been so disoriented
I might've noticed that familiar shadow hurriedly slip from my room
just as the monitor
beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbe-
and
then
nothing.
The night I died
the stars shone on;
I'd like to believe their way of release
was easier than mine.
// there has to be more than this //

And so be it:
our Ghosts are everywhere.
The final Gasp: now heard in the wind
The final Spark and Glimmer:
reflected back and repurposed towards the sun;

our Water, our Flesh: moving with the soils
Tear of grief and joy:
released and now to pool.

Multitude of Scream, Shriek, and Chatter fall with thunder!
Forest take These Broken Bones, create that shall not be sundered!

And so be it:
We are just as similar to those
called “fowl” and “swine;”
just as similar to those
whose weave and turn each vine.

And let it comfort You to know that,
of all enchantments,
death
is most temporary.

I've been trying to figure out how to get it back,
But I haven't seen you in months.
Have you found it sitting there?
I wonder if you threw it out along with fast food bags and stray receipts,
Or if maybe you repurposed it and hung it over your rearview instead.

The Absolute Truths of a Sonderer; a project of homelessness and homefoundness.

1. Everything we see or do is an influence
Everything we hear or say is an influence.
We must define good & bad influence, and create accordingly.

2. Our personas exist in four dimensions
At home, at work, in transience, and as digital
All require boundaries, development and love.

3. Everyone is a dreamer, aspiring in their own way.
Share your dreams through demonstration & action.
Don't sacrifice your dream in pursuit of another's

4. Celebrate the diversity of identities people can be
Enrichen your worldview with another's definition of home.
Be weary of mindsets locked to race, gender or nationality.

5. Find comedy in the world's tragedies
Deliver comfort in moments of distress
For happiness isn't opposite of sadness, but rather encompasses it.

6. There is yet to be a human whose mental health stands invincible.
Permitting another to speak may be all the health they need
Acknowledge battle scars do not lie solely on the flesh

7. Wasting your ears is as criminal as wasting words
Seek knowledge, in whatever form, when a listener.
Express love, in whatever form, when a speaker

8. One man's trash may genuinely be another's treasure
Discard people or ideas when their weight grows disproportionate.
All will be reclaimed, repurposed, and reloved.

9. Our vices grant infinite patience for stupidity,
Spirits that steal from the future to consume the present moment
Their intended use will rarely match their outcomes

10. Your value is to be as treasured as your survival
Whether celebrated or beaten, ignored or adored
It is yours alone to define, and yours alone to defend.

I love you all,

One more
cigarette

One less thought
captured by my notebook

I know
I have two inner-pockets in my peacoat
One with Silver Sherman's
and one with the little notebook of deeper joys that follow

Yet I've spent more time
Lighting Maduro paper
than sparking ideas
onto trees that are utilized for musings
rather than consumption

I inhale carbon monoxide,
(in line following the crowd -- by choice)
Rather than exhaling the same
for the leaf-lungs of trees

I stretch for something
A dichotomy of Pockets

Paper lined for thoughts
or
Tobacco twined for my subduing

One more, One less

One more circus of circumstance,
One less bridge to nowhere
One more apple to pick,
One less bone

I wonder,
"When the sands of time
should be sifted through my hands
and not my mind?"

But my mind continuously filters,
wondering which grains of now-repurposed stone
amounts to more or less

You fool!
Stop staring at the back of the clock
Discontinue your prescription to madness!

Watch instead the gears turning
not in anxious fear,
but in wondrous awe

Everything: a means to its own end;
not an end to its own means

And yet,
blackened by the smoke,
hardened by the repitition,
you take another drag

And all I can say
is that my throat screams for tea
and my mind
for resolution

One more thought,
One less execution.


--


I know
That if I was self-driven enough
I could compose a chart
(or a melody)
that shows the correlation
between the distance of you
from my thoughts
and the intimacy of nicotine
to my mouth

The parks are now empty of all but the trees.
The rot in the woodwork has made itself clear:
the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

If we watch each other with growing unease,
more sinister shadows may draw themselves near.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The nurses and doctors make no guarantees;
their furrowed brows are not at all insincere.
But the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

While some may not fret at a cough or a sneeze,          
our day-to-day life shows a mask more austere:
the parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The wealthy can shelter on yachts overseas,
far-flung from the whims of our mad racketeer,
for he, too, was borne of this wicked disease.

But Justice may not brook the fraud she now sees,
her blindfold being repurposed as protective gear.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees,
and the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

It was a strange thing to throw a house party for birds, especially since no one showed up. I was left sipping honeycomb champagne and gawking at the colored glass bubbles descending from the sky. And I thought it odd that a car dealer would care enough about my obsession with old VHS tapes to throw a few onto the cruise ship. Never mind the fact that with all I had paid on fixing my transmission of thought, I was dead broke and looking for a summertime getaway closer to downtown and nearer to autumn.

The things I'd like to do if I could paint. I would construe a white front porch in repurposed chair caning and glue it to a canvas, mottled in shapes and light. Or maybe it would take multiple canvasses to hold what I consider to be the best image of a future. Perhaps a patio with an overgrown garden would do the trick, and I would be just another loner.

Will anyone remember when we were children and we dug a canal by putting the dirt into paper cups and leaving it in the forest? You can't deny that life was easier before I ingested that Matisse print hanging on the graying wall. All these skewed angles and les possions sont rouge make for a bit of a stomachache.

I have a question for you to ponder as it gets dark. If I were to fill a swimming pool with blotchy pastel hues and sit in it as if it were a motel jacuzzi, would I receive some kind of tye-dyed epiphany or would I just catch a chill?

No
I haven't given up
I've just
repurposed my dream

The greenhouse - plants
removed and pots upturned;

a coffee shop of stolen breathers,
the wheezy breeze of whining.

Tobacco tendrils twist, amber
sludge hazing sun-kissed panes.