by Bobby Parrott
Would you consider being my peripheral device of choice? Every time my phone asks me this I know it's already a done deal. This gooey post- human analogue of marriage cyborgs us inch by wireless inch toward the Singularity. Is this too close to the smack of Blakean shape-shift to compel? I mean, electronic love is a 'til murder do we part kind of thing. Are we posing favorably with our new parts? Our minds uncase, shimmer into the meta- cortex cloud, employ charm-bracelet identity in silicon, photonic nature a conscious blip shaking its fist at my Peter Pan version of passing as grown up. But if I go too far, my layers morph into your uploaded school of The Complete Works of Shakespeare. The grade-book gate-keepers mark you down for it, but hell, it's only love. Both your knights charge in, their stallion frenzy hoofing my checkerboard body, and you orate from my rubbery book with a finger that tilts a goblet of sweet cream & apricots toward my mouth. I feel the crawlspace of arachnids repurposing their Velcro like sex ploys. Take heart, for though we shall not overcome, we will become. Can you see the president with his casual wings embrace the nothing of money, furl its captured humans with a squeeze and tuck into a burrito upload, resuscitate the haze of one mind? Everything is aware; we just don't see it yet. So vacate the fictional fragility of your fuselage while I thumb this rocket-finned ray-gun's power setting up to vaporize.
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 lives in the unceded ancestral homelands of the Cheyenne, Arapahoe and Ute peoples now known as Colorado with his partner Lucien, their top house plant Zebrina, and his hyper-quantum robotic assistant Nordstrom.