When a tree is struck by lightning,
the jagged bolt originates inside
the tree. Just like if the shiny diesel
locomotive of my church decides
to jump its tracks, embed its purring
smoke-box inside the fluvial vessels
that radiate from my one fist-sized
pump-muscle, gulping in place
behind the solar-plexus. The circling
school of sycophants will never know
if or how the missiles are in the air
or even blink out of context, the dogs
huddled around the altar who drool
and gawk at hats perched, turtling on
faithful heads. Rational means never
having to speak in tongues longer than
it takes for the bullies to run away. Blood
is one thing; nervous tissue another.
To confuse the two is to ask a beautiful
man to a funeral and then say things
you’d only say at your mother’s wedding.
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Bobby Parrott was probably placed on this planet in error. Originally from Baltimore, Maryland, this Queer Poet's universe frequently reverses polarity, slipping his meta-cortex into the unknowable dimensions between breakfast and adulthood. In his own words, "The intentions of trees are a form of loneliness we climb like a ladder." Poet, musician, photographer, and teacher, he currently finds himself immersed in a forest-spun jacket of toy dirigibles in ascension, dreaming himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule called Fort Collins, Colorado where he lives with his partner Lucien, his house plant Zebrina, and his wind-up robot Nordstrom.