by Bobby Parrott
Gauzy tails fluke my thought fish
into the nooks of my head-construct
and I think, sky. Meanwhile,
yesterday’s umbrella flexes spines
at tomorrow’s body of oranges
rolling like suns down the seconds
to fuse my moldering measure
of Cartesian. In snail-shell curves
my car, like so many cornflakes
tip the spoon toward my open mouth,
and despite the deal I’ve made
with impermanence, spies afresh
my little boat running over.
Now the gently knurled wheel
cooling in my palms morphs
into its thickest snake body, slithers
its undulation into my corduroy
lap. Refusing any response—squeeze
how I might— my Volkswagen’s
guidance system a pattern of scales
that twist in my grip only to slip
from my lap to the floor. I denounce
this mulish Beetle’s clunky hulk
now airborne, sharp whiff of gasoline
in our nostrils, rubber donut feet
already having jumped the stony lip
of the cliff’s edge. And I think,
It’s not the fall…
About the Author
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, Diphthong, Neologism, and elsewhere. He lives in Fort Collins, Colorado with his partner Lucien, their top house plant Zebrina, and his hyper-quantum robotic assistant Nordstrom.
Nebulous 