Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we
propose to posit prose poetry,
forming forms of continuous connectivity
to communicate considerable
contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you'll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft we've wrought, and revealed thusly;
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.


I think I'm just a huge mung bean, 
food for both liver and lung. Seen 
now, no doubt, as sprouting from 
among these words like seeds of dumb. 

Duh kernels is poppin. Duh oil is hot. 
Duh corny man can take it out of Duh pot, 
and into discreet little rhymes such as dis 
dat you can consume in Duh room, den dismiss. 

I love the strum of hummingbird wings
 as Angel harps on little things.
 One little thing she harps on hard
 is me. I'm the retarded bard
 who shakes his spear nearby, and far
 from sight. I write. She drives the car.