Especially in watercolor. Or acrylics on canvas, pen & ink. Frequencies traverse the trans-optic nerve, shift back into that kinship decryption light. Consciousness in physical form. Time, a dream to a photon, reflects a velocity, and I am complete in my self. I will die, have died, am dying back into the awareness of the Great Jellyfish Universe, my impervious galaxy given by the silence allowing me. More than the star stuff we think, beyond particle, wave, word. I am that I am. Translucent blurs of conversion, words a thin emulsion, a disclosure of weather, a flute's hover inside a faraway tune, flowers returning to the sun. The alarm clock of my breathing viscera shows me the decompression possible at awakening, like sweet soft thunder breaking a reverie. Like how when our credentials expire, our involvement shrinks, and our bio gets smaller. The Lost & Found pours out its butterscotch giraffes when empty enough starts meaning the world as I've only just imagined it. Home-free, held aloft by Earth's thinning mineral crust. My sacred departure indeed! How long 'til the winds of perhaps switch places with the pouring out of everything I know until now. Unscrambling this sudden decompression would be like going to the museum and liberating the craniums of all the people in all the paintings, finding their spark of thought, paintings painting paintings in miniscule splinters of light. Which is all it takes. All there is, in the end.
Bobby Parrott’s poems appear or are forthcoming in RHINO, Tilted House, Whale Road Review, Diphthong, The Hopper, Rabid Oak, Exacting Clam, Neologism, and elsewhere. In his own words, “The intentions of trees are a form of loneliness we climb like a ladder.” Immersed in a forest-spun jacket of toy dirigibles, this writer dreams himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule known as Fort Collins, Colorado.