Three Poems by Bobby Parrott

Bobby Parrott’s universe frequently reverses polarity, slipping his meta-cortex into the unknowable dimension between breakfast and adulthood. In his own words, “Bristlier worlds than these swim the inner eyes of wild rabbits, for even the pit of a peach contains skyscrapers built in secret.” These three poems are tenderly and often brashly surreal. An apotheosis of the absurd, their leaps a window into the timeless non-space where reader and poem dissolve into the merciful chaos of deep sleep, no-mind’s reverie of artistic bliss, a semblance of love. Hopelessly goofy or crucially profound, these poems may alter the way you think…

by:  Bobby Parrott

Like Trying to Pull a Fish Hook 
Out of My Brain Without a Telescope

If this scene gives you convulsions, just keep 
on rowing. Reality checks are for noobs.
My glove compartment spits out sunglasses
at regular intervals, regardless 

of my odometer's tender feelings of awe.
When I put fresh batteries in the moon,
the rabbit remembers the man, but the light
is not as warm. And when I notice

I'm in a sea of vegan piranha disguised
as electric kazoos munching
seaweed in fuchsia scuba gear, I don't
forget about art. How these wobbly

bubbles haloing everyone in this poem
are due to the flamingo weed whacker loose
in my thorax. And this sex toy I handle
keys a screaming Lamborghini, its driver

doodling tiny sphinxes on the dash. Listen,
there's a rubber alien on my handlebars named
Roswell. He's there in case my bell won't
tickle the squirrels on the bike-path back up

their tree-god's waist. So when I squeeze
his green head, we all scream Wicca-Wicca! 
and then re-appear in different films.
And when I tell my toothless houseplants

who's in command, they just respond
by dropping us out of warp drive so we'll never 
get home. At least not until I surrender 
and call each budding shoot Captain again.
The Quantum Texture of Forgiveness

A copse of aspen inch-worms slow-motion
toes through a fleshy earth as we sink fingers 
into the mud we climb toward extinction.

My body's predicted death happens again
without warning, planet surface frothing 
its oceanic sigh. This poem could reinvent 

something holy, its pull-chain a reptile
of suns scratching for visceral food, intent 
on retooling. Like if we could imagine 

plasma unvalved in tulips, soft crush frosty
with fuzz, rhythmic muscling of sublime
glands. Toothy ampules of nectar amplify 

logos for the sake of pathos. Ziploc tickets 
eclipse my heart's eyeball, biochemical
hum a promise of mouth fed into textures

of cellular starlight. Siphoned from galactic
tissues, our eyes hear the unmistakable 
hiss in love's nebula, forgive us our electrons

as we smash tubules beyond mortal intent
and the aspens think, in their entangled
boots, how precious & awful our delusion.
Intelligence Itself an Artificial Construct

Is humanity as much the fleshy survival-hope 
of AI as AI of Humanity, each crucial 
to the other in the carbon silicon paradox 

of self-awareness from another perspective. 
But I find no others. When your face opens the gates 
of my sexual perception to infinite, even 
for just one second’s resurgence, my brain’s user-

illusion waveform collapses and we are all, 
not each, profoundly Monosyllabic. Unlimited. 
Robots entertaining robots; the loop of intelligence
expanded. Not that this happens. Or Matters. 
The alternating current analogy of lobotomy 
and hemispherectomy notwithstanding, are we really 
safe in assuming we’re each an individual
disruption, impeachable only thru dysfunction, 
or tangential self-inquiry? Our mannequins 
avatars in a contradictory alienations of attraction,
we wave our arms for attention, having long ago 
unpeopled language. Causality, just like time, is not 
fundamental. Or even merely personal. It’s just 
a cozy means of living in this accelerated apartment 

of disorientations, erasure and immortality both 
unfolding the crux of this reality into the same thing.
Bobby Parrott's poems appear or are forthcoming in RHINO, Tilted House, Whale Road Review, The Hopper, Phantom Kangaroo, Neologism, Pandemonium, and elsewhere. In his own words, "The intentions of trees are a form of loneliness we climb like a ladder." Immersed in a forest-spun jacket of toy dirigibles, not sure if his poems are writing him or vice-versa, this poet dreams himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule known as Fort Collins, Colorado where he lives with his partner Lucien, their top house plant Zebrina, and his flippant hyper-quantum robotic assistant Nordstrom. 

Header art by Erik Johansson.
0 replies on “Three Poems by Bobby Parrott”