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.


Look at the thyme, and you'll know what I'm on.
Listen, this rime isn't all that far gone.
You see, I'm the type who is ripe for nitpicking.
So though some things grow, if your fingers are sticking,

go lick each one thick to the quick and the bone.
That's all. Please don't ever call me on the phone,
because I might pause for the cause of your calling,
as if I could lift all your spirits. I'm balling

and falling appallingly over myself,
as if my small gift had a place on your shelf.
Myself, as I'm speaking, I'm seeking to find
a peaceful release for this odd state of mind.