This is Your Brain on Schoenberg

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The Max Planck Institute for Psycholinguistics interprets the ontological slant of how colorless green ideas can often sleep sideways outside the flapping banners of furious. But like a duck quacking triplets in its typical backyard attic, Noam Chomsky roams our conventions of syntactic structure with a correspondingly ponderous element of rhetorical defamiliarization which must prevail, fueling the head-butting distinction between grammatically correct and semantically irrational. 

But might they coexist? Could a fuchsia rhinoceros underwhelm a chartreuse zebra on botanically entwined stilts? I like to think so, but just have a look at the wounds-on-parade infrastructure of fundamental poetics and their nested entanglements, or the charmed quark invading last night's haptic, ailing moon. 

These tonal intervals, disguised as the building-blocks of musical masturbation, may provide a certain hilarity, or even an amicable navigation of infantile dementia, but sometimes I feel like a composer of atonal bathtub sex objects squirming themselves into pageants of splashgasm could make brain worms wriggle into other dimensions. The spread-open vacancy of our heads can't help but appreciate paradox even beyond our inebriated mindsets of lobotomized sonic cucumberings. 

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Bobby Parrott's poems appear or are forthcoming in Spoon River Poetry Review, RHINO Poetry, Atticus Review, The Hopper, Poetic Sun, Clade Song, Rabid Oak, 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 queer poet dreams himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule called Fort Collins, Colorado.

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