Parental Advisory

Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we propose to posit prose poetry
forming a form 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 are wrought, and revealed thusly,
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.

This Machine Kills Fascists


"I'll kill you now!", I say and mean.
Let no more words come in between
my thoughts of you, and how I act.
Know this, as it is proved pure fact,
 as evidenced within your soul
 like the birthmark, benign mole,
 or freckle that I now confess
is on my [here, I'll let you guess].
Death comes sweetly. See me sending
this, a blissful, happy ending.

You’ll die in bed, each little death 
a kindness, taking away your breath. 
Then, breathless, you’ll die again, you see. 
Oh, Jesus! Dear God! You will die three 
times! This rhyme is coming for 
you, and your 'la petite morts'.


The fresh tilled earth in Spring
smells of death. Before planting
baby’s breath beside the roses,
then watering with rubber hoses,
consider the point this prose poem poses.

Think past the point of no return,
to the point of death. Suppose one’s urn
is earned in earnest. Then all its ashes
are one’s reward for living. Thus killing fascists
is in fashion, as passions convey sending sappy 
prose poetry your way, ending happy.