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.

On Porpoise

Sometimes I like to run with homos,
sapiens wearing almost no clothes.
Yes, naked homos run with me
along beaches, and through poetry
like this, with you who look, and see
such naked little things as we, we
who run around so nakedly.

We run with just one task in mind.
The task we ask is one of the kind
you'd find our kind would be resigned
to ask up front. Leave naught behind
but thoughts, and let your minds unbind.

With grace and tact supporting skill,
this space, in fact, provides what will
be seen on screens to fit the bill
as homos running. So, bid us well.

Bid us well, and wish us luck.
Sometimes we just don’t give a fuck,
and make jokes to provoke reactions.
I mean, what you've seen, if it brings satisfaction,
and your spirit is lifted, hear my gift. It is clear,
and will ring in your ears, if you read without fear
that I write prolifically on such varied topics
as running, specifically, in Hawaiian-like tropics
where a beach is in reach, and the sunset usurps us,
and the sea lets us see porpoises with a purpose.

So, if you saw me coming with nothing to hide,
would you take off running? Away, or beside?
Would that you’d see well past me to the sea and horizon,
and let it be common porpoise that we’d have our eyes on.