Four Poems by Bobby Parrott

These four poems by Bobby Parrott are gently surreal, their leaps an opening into a space where the reader and poem, or consciousness and art, may recognize one another as temporary approximations of love, and glimpses of the uncanny ‘Real’ may be encountered. Poetry allows words to sometimes become artifacts more than signifiers toward particular meanings, and texture may interact with sound and emotion on levels where individual identities no longer mask or oppress the freedoms we already possess but have forgotten along the way…

by: Bobby Parrott

Botany's Intervals Unravel
 in a Confession of Clarinet
The musician wren in the maple
outside her bedroom window awakens 
her with his version of Born to be 

Wild, the bird's syrinx spiraling 
kaleidoscopic trills of semi-quavers 
until a time-signature shift arises

from behind the dream of its deep-green 
generator. Poet of touch, the woman sways
inward, eyes a singular portal of self.

She bends to click open the hinged case, 
twists together the segments of unsuicide
to mouth the river of I am, of breath.

That the world could contain such a thing
as a clarinet– petite ebony tree, sprung 
plumbing into cerebral conduits working

on the outside, handheld stalk, hollow 
sylvan conduit warm-fingered, drunk on
forested air, woodwind of tessellation, 
intervals in a long branch of eardrum-
sung light. Perish now the struck match
of gunplay, or the mouthpiece of gloom  

a tone has traveled to become. The small
bird comprehends its mother, carafe 
of moon sprouted leaves, down slipping 

under wood-smooth fleece. The botanist 
adjusts her reed, tickles articulation's 
troubling nuptial. Avian arpeggios arise

from inside her column of air, augment 
the woodland's fractal fugue into a meadow 
of butterflies to confess her sonorous body.
Sensing our Mutual Morpheus
in the Beginnings of Birdsong	

Let's synchronize our sundials, march
toward an oblivion unknown to the gods
who've pretended us alive. Bristlier 

worlds than these swim the inner eyes
of wild rabbits, for even the pit of a peach 
contains skyscrapers built in secret. 

When I tell you we'll unplug tender trees
in time, why must you then look at me 
like I've plotted to abbreviate your libido?
The next thorny leaf of this artichoke 
called my life dips itself in the melted butter
of my childhood. So which one of me does 

this? And how might love gain face?
Pay more attention to the helicopters whirling 
outside your window, instead of acting

as if our mutual Morpheus will ever pass Go
soon enough. And know that we'll all be pulled 
through a nostril of the planetary head

to be reassembled into far simpler landscapes 
of bliss. Who knew birdsong could lull us
into another slumber? Squeeze your eyes shut
until all the galaxies disappear. And consider 
this: If energy is our gloomiest illusion of spirit,
why do all your yesterdays still run in packs?

Our biosphere sighs its whisper with knobby
treads that gasp under my bicycle pump's
push, a singsong daydream inside my guitar.

And again, birdsong. We crumple to the earth
and lapse into another level of hallucination
where gravity fluctuates like the weather on TV.
Womb, In Retrospect

My suicide suit releases 
clarity from my human costume
into a rampage of sestinas,

though some days everyone looks
like Captain Kirk, orders me

to install droplets of my history
into a retinal-scan reversal 

called my mother within me.
I turn, beat my newborn drums
into alignment, apologies

artificial, mouth of a canyon
unnerved between blank words
made to refashion incomplete.

I used to be her, but as this
meta-virus regroups us

I lapse, fall into slow motion, 
drop the cake I carried lit

in hopes of covering the nothing
she kitchens awry. Outside in
the literary factory of luminous 

we geriatric infancies remember
other umbrella wings, hide

internal structure in the margins 
of a poem, (s)mother persona
basemented, ample, enveloping.
The Strawberry-Blond Mechanism
  of Not the Baby Moon We Think

Stirring from interstellar slumber
the light-spun fabric you

snuggles into its new artifice self
to forget its sleepy avatar

blinking wide, The Ancient One. 
Moonstone showers tongued out

to a luminous tang, technological
aromas settling in this theatre

blinded by the thingness of science
entangled particles, the illogic

of late meta-quantum inroads
you call irony. In fictions

of mind, illusion's projector
a self-conscious screen, losing

itself, modulating its granularity
much like the dreamer's

mirage of characters in a film.
So settle back to the one

you've never lost. Don't be afraid to
let go of loneliness. Just breathe.

Bobby Parrott has obviously been placed on this planet in error. In his own words, “The intentions of trees are a form of loneliness we climb like a ladder.” His poems wildly appear or are forthcoming in Tilted House, RHINO, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Atticus Review, The Hopper, Rabid Oak, Exacting Clam, Neologism, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. Immersed in a forest-spun jacket of toy dirigibles, he dreams himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule known as Fort Collins, Colorado where he lives with his house plant Zebrina, and his hyper-quantum robotic assistant Nordstrom.

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