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.

Commercial Appeal

I can't stand my crooked teeth.
The ones up top are underneath
my nose. Suppose my proboscis
weren't big. No pig would sniff like this.

No snout about the size of mine
would grace the face of any swine;
nor forehead gleeming, seeming wide
compared to where my hair is tied
in knots with snot, ear wax, and turds.

I'm gruesome, in so many words,
and hate to see me say sometimes
I hate to wait, so make these rhymes
compound my sounding off here, ranting
sick with all the sycophanting
phrases made today, somehow,
I hate that I must end this now.

In my picture, you can see
someone much like Alfred E.
Neuman - human, worry free,
& MAD as Hell, quite obviously.