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.


Credits are credits and caches are caches.
Writing this post was a pain. In the ashes
of trees, and their leaves, and their bud
lies an answer for cancerous sticks in the mud.

Sticks in the mud chew on cud. Sacred cows
worth their own salt really ought to share plows.
Plow pulling cows chewing cud really should
know that both blowing and sucking feels good!
Suck on my joint. Here's the point: Now's the time
to care, as I'm sharing my stash in this rhyme.