What if we met? Then, at that meeting, would circumstance decide our greeting, and would such a meeting circumstance address both our destinies, by chance? Would we know, or just think we did, what was meant by what the other said, and thus resolve our differences despite disparate inferences? I contend. That is, I think we'd recognize each other's stink. If the truth lies there, then the truth will tell. When all else fails, we make sense of smell.
So, I would, if I could, pose words so that you process thoughts faster, linking smarts unto farts. I stink like a pastor, and words that you've heard spell another breath spent. You can tell by the smell, flatulence from fluency. This rhyme is rendered with scents for the head. It’s 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 helps me think with pastoral design.
To inure oneself of an odor might require explaining why. So, if you’d think I’d quell my stink, then with these words I’ll try to spell my smell, so that you may tell whether or not it’s satisfactory in its depiction of the predilection of the relevant olfactory sense. You see, this poet’s tree is a forest filled with Gumps, where ‘Stupid is as stupid does.’, and 'Sentez l'air du temps.’ means that seeds, planted in deeds, eventually will ripen. So, here’s your chance to take a stance, and collect a sinus’ stipend.
I reside in Perryville. But for this, I'd be there still. For I am there, writing this right now; not still. My will and words allow that, at this time, you read what’s written by such as me, a true nitwit smitten, who puts out there this stuff to read for whoever may feel a true nitwit need. As you see, I'm not clever, and truly not smart. My IQ, when measured, falls right off the chart. I am so often confused that I must use what I know to do what I can, so the dumb doesn’t show, and any pieces of mind that I may find here and there are posed in this odorous prose that I share. So, if I've a gift for portraying my presence, simply take a whiff, and think of Forrest Gump’s essence.
Sometimes I will standup, and sometimes I’ll sit, lest some wind should pass while I serve as witness. My witness perceives those who grieve, and rejoices with those who'd propose to give laughter their voices. Laughter hereafter, and until death do us part, will linger when fingers are pulled, and we start thinking about stinking, then running to places we find when a behind's wind breaks in our faces.
I am the very essence of a Christian Existentialist. I misquote Soren Kierkegaard, and Saint Jerome is my nemesis. I write fervent verses on faith, and this is my exegesis. I am the very essence of a Christian Existentialist. This Christian Existentialist defines himself, insisting only on such premises as this, in a self-existing, lonely solitary state, hereby related by an Existential Christian, since that's what I am, simply, at my most essential. I am the very essence of a Christian Existentialist. Everyone who knows me knows, and thusly calls me Hieronymous. I cannot speak with certainty on anything except this: I am the very essence of a Christian Existentialist.
Bless you, I’d say, were I addressing a sneeze, so I mean to bless you like you have allergies. I’m guessing such blessings for sneezes appeal to those who also like to eat a blessed meal. So if we were eating, I’d repeat what I’m saying for you who, supposedly, would then be praying. Confession is good for the sole of a foot. I hope you can cope well when my foot is put to task. If you ask me a question I'll say, “Walk a while. Wear a smile. Have a great day wherever you are, whether far or much nearer.” I don't know how I could make this any clearer. Bless you. I guess you could say I've confessed to all a man can, when a man’s been well blessed.
So bless you again. Eschew issues of such blessings if guessing their mission gives much pause, as to cause indecision and doubt are not what these prayers or blessings are about. These blessings suggest themselves, seen as serene by you who can choose just how blessed you have been. Now, add more blessings to those you’ve just read that simply affirm how you’re blessed in your head.
Jesus saves each pebble to take up space within a shoe to tenderize a hardened sole. Jesus, He's just Dr. Scholl. So if love is the law, then love who you will, but as we all know, Jesus was King of the hills. Anybody can run flat, and anyone can coast, But should it ever come to that, Jesus loved hills the most. Hills are where He hit His stride, and Hills are when He stretched, so hills are how I show a pride and joy that you will catch when you see my rhyming time each word, measured precisely, ascend your stares, as each rhyme climbs to reach its peak quite nicely. Peek, and see through poetry, past Jesus’ feat, and climbing. As sermons mount, start to count how many times my rhyming references my deference to such religious practice as to expose the feat. My toes show how long I have been at this.
If you take away our sorrows, sadnesses, and pains, then all you'll have left are just human remains, and if just humans remain as the bane of insanity, it’s plausibly because of their prayers for humanity. So, my humanity seeks to speak out without stressing, and most of this poem shows my semantic addressing of what people must come to terms with, because of our wondrous and thundering claps of applause. Claps of applause cause us pause, and we listen as both left and right hands unite in their mission of sound, resounding loud, crisp and clearly to those, I suppose, who are near enough to hear me.
Would that I could write in a more comprehensive prose, posing thoughts that might ignite your frame of mind for those conjugated verbs, such words presented for your reading here where merely saying that I’m praying reads as if I’m pleading. So, I pray that a poem should unfold in layers, then I think of you as I send out these prayers. I pray as I walk in the Word now, and later I'll pray like a Noster to Pater.
Jasmine's a scent, and it’s meant to convey a smell. You can tell when there's nothing to say that can stay an aroma. You know many things are suggested, invested in how Jasmine rings in your ears as you hear me say Jasmine again, as Jasmine long has been my prayer. Amen.
Random, in tandem with conscious intent, produces our usefulness to time. I've spent hours on ours, time after time, rehearsing verse. Right now, it's raining rhyme and rhythm. No schism or terse interjection can dissolve the knot once we've got a connection to things such as strings, and to the ties that bind them to the thought that we ought to know how to find a hymn well struck, as if plucked by the finger of God, or heard in the words of the weird and the odd. No odder than fodder and feed for the flock, I opine here, hoping hearts open. Knock. Knock.
A funny-bone factum can cut to the marrow. Consider concerning your mind with that narrow perspective, selectively set here, discretely posted, at most if not in part, completely without knowing you, or meaning to crack wise by jumping at the chance to proselytize a presence of opinion as if it were fact, without at least proffering some panache and tact. 'I'm funny to read!', I'll say, showing some nerve. You'll further observe mention of a bell curve that simply flies by, going right over head, making this just as easily followed as led, but I sleep like a baby. So, maybe it's good that whenever I find something misunderstood, but having to be seen as if someone were peeking, that I take it head on, at least rhetorically speaking.
Which is why I mention ‘Perpension’. I see the distinct potential, and possibility that maybe, perhaps, there’s a chance that I could help you understand it, as if I understood. I must be exact, a didact put to use, because [insert pause] life is often obtuse. I intend no pretension, nor to start a rift, but what you do think of the term, 'silent gift'? When heard in those words, is it simply dismissible? Or when seen, does it mean that it too is indicible? Can a pause cause a plausible, unspoken thing that one hears in one’s ear, but can't say, and can't sing? Ponder the truth of it. Be self-intrusive. Despite what you might think about this diffusive remark, it's a lark to sharpen life’s obtuseness. Perpension is exquisite when you use this:
Jesus told a fart joke once. I swear he did. I know it. Jesus told a fart joke once. Now listen up. I'll show it. Jesus told a fart joke once, or twice. I've heard his word, and Jesus told a fart joke once. I know that sounds absurd, but Jesus told that fart joke once, and everybody listened to Jesus's best fart joke like it was their Holy mission. So, Jesus told that fart joke once. It's written in John 3:8. Jesus told a fart joke once. Just look. It ain't too late, to hear the fart joke Jesus told. Please, listen! Still the breezes! I know this may sound rather bold, but 'The wind blows where it pleases!'