Bobby Parrott
When the monk and robot in me scuffle, my tongue bumps conceptual
flavors up to a less viscous engine-stressing paradigm. Intimacy exposed
for its extra-neural introspection, the mocking nature of nonspatial dips
into the silicon circuitry dubbed 'pondering the pink.' Not something you
can learn or teach, but only experience. My bassoon parts accept me as a
non-digital human, so why can't you? In the simulation I look like
the urgency of a thrombosis, but for this charade, this stepchild upload, we
first reconfigure an end-of-the-world singularity paradox, the more
practical nanotechnology of this monkey-business gone baby-babble. Like
when we ignore our need for the identity-crushing inoculation of unisex
robots probing for unscissored irrationality in their out-of-body Band-Aid
bassoon modes. Think of it. Unspoken, we crisscross interstellar time with
present-tense melt-down denialism, a corporeally dualistic factor spinning
out capitalists at the press of a button. Infinity has never eaten so well. Nor
has causality, mental construct that it is. Boxed clear up to uncanny, cosmic
impressionism has a success rate mathematics could never hope to extract
from mere genetic asymmetry. The orality of red-shift Doppler the new
infantile. But please consider guiding extra tenderness toward your fellow
beings. This chocolaty galactic bassoonist would, her ghostly tones
asquirm.
flavors up to a less viscous engine-stressing paradigm. Intimacy exposed
for its extra-neural introspection, the mocking nature of nonspatial dips
into the silicon circuitry dubbed 'pondering the pink.' Not something you
can learn or teach, but only experience. My bassoon parts accept me as a
non-digital human, so why can't you? In the simulation I look like
the urgency of a thrombosis, but for this charade, this stepchild upload, we
first reconfigure an end-of-the-world singularity paradox, the more
practical nanotechnology of this monkey-business gone baby-babble. Like
when we ignore our need for the identity-crushing inoculation of unisex
robots probing for unscissored irrationality in their out-of-body Band-Aid
bassoon modes. Think of it. Unspoken, we crisscross interstellar time with
present-tense melt-down denialism, a corporeally dualistic factor spinning
out capitalists at the press of a button. Infinity has never eaten so well. Nor
has causality, mental construct that it is. Boxed clear up to uncanny, cosmic
impressionism has a success rate mathematics could never hope to extract
from mere genetic asymmetry. The orality of red-shift Doppler the new
infantile. But please consider guiding extra tenderness toward your fellow
beings. This chocolaty galactic bassoonist would, her ghostly tones
asquirm.
Bobby Parrott is radioactive, but for how long? In his own words, "The intentions of trees are a form of loneliness we climb like a ladder." His poems already haunt or are forthcoming in Tilted House, RHINO, The Hopper, Rabid Oak, Phantom Kangaroo, 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 partner Lucien, their top house plant Zebrina, and a flippant hyper-quantum robotic assistant Nordstrom.
