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.

Making Scents (Now Smell This)

I am a little rusty at this
but I truly trust in practice.
Practice is what practice makes. See,
practice now no longer takes me
half as long as practice did when
I began. I was a kid then.

Now I show what practice does.
I practice now simply because
I'm here with nothing else to do
than practice this alone, with you,
and whoever is reading this in
the same way as those who listen
right along with what they're reading,
every line pronounced, proceeding
by as if it was possessed
by those to whom it’s been addressed.

If you find meaning in such situations,
then you understand the import of relation-
ships thought to be issues of accept, or reject,
though more nearly matters of technique to perfect,
and that takes some practice. Didactically, a Saint
proves practice makes perfect with minimal complaint.

Both doing and trying, I have often said,
perform perfect practice when they're done in bed.
In bed I was thinking, and stinking up sheets,
just one of my much more miraculous feats,
when once of a moment did foment a thought
that became quite plain. To explain it, I ought
use language precise, like a nice analogy.
But then, thinking twice, in digital technology,
one thing about bed can be said, after all.
Though it's been a while, with a smile I recall
it's for sleeping, and keeping sheet stink. I suppose
I’d better explain that refrain to your nose.

What if we met? Then, at that meeting,
would circumstance decide our greeting,
and would that great greet circumstance
address our destinies by chance?

Would we know, or think we did,
what was meant by what was said,
and thus resolve our differences
despite disparate inferences?

I contend. That is, I think
we'd recognize each other's stink.
If truth lies there, then truth to tell,
when all else fails, we make sense of smell.

So I would, if I could, write words to make you think fast,
because smarts, like some farts, linger after the stink's passed,
and words that you've heard spell another breath spent.
You can tell by the smell when words are flatulent.
So here's a rhyme rendered with scents for the head. See
a pause for the cause [...] surely silent but deadly
with little to say to stay any reports
that pertain to the stains that remain in my shorts
and this smelly verse that gets worse with each line
as if stink helped me think with poetic design.