By Bobby Parrott
But do try an item of your choice from one of the following 3 lists:
Any item from the 1st list gets you points
toward your very own New Age Guru–
Introduce yourself as the inebriated architect of affluence.
Brainwash your plug-ins before they have a chance to brainwash you.
Play bird trills on your flute until you shatter the sky’s frozen thorax.
Butter your brain prophetic. Repeat.
Drive your brother’s ear-splitting Harley into the river Styx.
Or, stop shrinking ’til it’s no longer fashionable to be afraid.
Any one item from list 2 will qualify you for a complete set of
hyper-primordial EMO-Frog-Boy dinner wear–
Bump me up on the list to sip steam from the whisper of your jets.
Create the perfect paradox in the moist mollusk of your body.
Imprison formless lions in the model train set circling your head.
Spoon your friends onto a raft that bobs on simulated language.
Throw sentient lumps of clay onto a Collective Lotus mandala wheel.
Harness the smoke-fingers of lightning bolts on the 4th of July.
Go steady with a robot until he lets you operate his accordion arms.
And finally, for the very bold, pick just one from list 3,
after which you may proceed unbent to the next Bardo.
Make out with succulent tornadoes until the lights go out.
Baby your prenatal lunacy: Crawl back into the womb.
Sizzle moonbeams in the exhaust plume of a nuclear reactor.
Transcribe the blind fingers of whiplash to babybabble.
Or, refuse sleep until Earth’s entrails forgive us our explosions.
Bobby Parrott is radioactive, but for how long? This queer poet’s epiphany concerns the intentions of trees, and now his poems enliven dreamy portals such as Tilted House, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Rabid Oak, Exacting Clam, Neologism, and elsewhere. He currently dreams himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule of Fort Collins, Colorado where he lives with his partner Lucien, his top house plant Zebrina, and his hyper-quantum robotic assistant Nordstrom.
