Poetic License: Prose Poem #1
Gee whiz! I don’t have to worry about where the hell to break the lines or whether everything is cadenced or euphonious or internally or accidentally not on purpose rhyming without reason and interfering with the flow of message or narrative to confess the important revelations and arrive at the ultimate epiphanies with the eye not being distracted by the trivia of place and margin on a page fully liberated from the post-Gutenberg typographical oppression and the more devious but not less pernicious bondage of Microsoft Word.
Oh, Freedom! Freedom! Whoop-de-do-dee-dom. But before I be a slave, can I rise up from the grave with the old chains that bind me and one more time find me time to rhyme me and mime me a chant and rant and rave with breaks off and stops on and the meter repeater turning up the heater so that no one can eat her unless he pays Peter to borrow from Paul the gall of it all to break through the wall where no stone is first or cast or left or stays until our backs are unturned.