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Poems
by Bobby Parrott
Robin Wyatt Dunn, with
Craiyon                                                            
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SeldomEverAlways, It'sNeverAlways Sometimes
For Halloween I dress up as the opposite of a nuclear test-detonation inside a box of Grape Nuts. When the lady at the door asks me what I am, I tell her I'm so sorry, but it's way too late. I'd already planted my toy ray gun without its batteries, and a pacifist space-alien grew there who chanted "Take me to your readers" in a Sci-Fi version of gibberish only bookishnerds comprehend. I asked them where my toy ray gun was and they said, "We don't know, but its zap zarks on in our train gardens." They look at me as if my eyes are pineapple pies that resist the tunnel-vision of the cosmic rays lodged in my solar-plexus. The palindrome that erases my face falls into disrepair, loses its symmetry, gives up and becomes a far less surgical part of speech. It took me 37 years to notice all the trees were wide awake, only in a subterranean, lunar way. Softly sleeping in the snow-globe of a tree's circular memory, like the purring bubbles of underwater bells, how they fade. Unfrozen notions, the paradoxical loop of being inside myself are on hold so I can re-consider things like my career, the meaning of maniacal, and negotiate another technological singularity.
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The Greenish Arrival of a New Quark in the Subatomic Zoo
The virtual tourism of deep sleep and semi-erect selflessness softens the tech-duet of AI and my 3-D meme, my point-and-shoot emotional color, hemisphere of my noosphere of concrete. Art is more found than made. Poetry's intentionally extended pretention of surprise, of synergy. Debussy's Afternoon of a Faun the only retractable worth injecting on the white metal hospital tray. My arms instrumental Mozart but my feet branches of Baudelaire. We interweave the simple galaxy of artificial imagination like we algorithm sound-bites of Plutonian Symphony to swallow earlier. To fear AI is to go uppercase in Human Exceptionalism. Consciousness already cubbyholes urge, snake-vests this profoundly decentering apocalypse of self-enquiry. This nubbly meadow's site-error our Candyland disassembly.
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Robin Wyatt Dunn, with Craiyon                                                                   
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Robin Wyatt Dunn, with Craiyon                                   
Bobby Parrott's poems have appeared in Tilted House, Phantom Kangaroo, Rabid Oak, and elsewhere. He sometimes gets the impression his poems are writing him as he dreams himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule known as Fort Collins, Colorado.
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