Nothing that goes on around here was bound to. Morning, evening, standing up and walking, it all depends on forces out of control.
Mammoth wealth has always weighed more than it’s capable of handling. It slam-dances glutinous gigatons in acid-drenched high-end mosh pits.
So you’d like to leave a brief message for people thousands of years out. Nothing on Earth continues to exist. Do we know people will stay people?
The eyes that work within the mind see that they have little choice but to signal hello and goodbye on a split-second speck in infinity.
What’s the rush or drive to victory? The heat’s going up in the stir-fry pan. No species is capable of wiping out all microorganisms, just the world it knows.
The night high with wheeling galaxies falls on all fours through the day. Day does not exist in outer space. The mind stops when breathing ends.
Wind’s Always on the Road
The wind may be more powerful than anyone with her sleeves rolled up or anything nailed to a roof or parked in a harbor. But it’s no good at raking up debris. It has no idea whether it’s celebrating or in a rage, if it’s angrier than hell at not being everywhere at the same time. Maybe it was just trying to speak like the Louie Armstrong face painted on early maps, just trying to blow out a word when it found it had no lips or tongue, and no phrases combining under the surface of air. It found no mouth lined with teeth for biting off phrases. All it’s ever had is what it is, a verb transitive with multiple effects slipping out of control, flapping, shaking as if the marriage tent’s about to collapse, leaves bent, stems snapped, mass peeled like layers of skin off a tropical onion, pieces of straw shot terrifically fast as javelins penetrating trunks of trees. Even if the wind did have a neocortex, how often would it sit down to listen to you? Could it even hear us shouting down here, with parts of it entering the slipstream, parts of it drilling into granite mountains, while it’s circumnavigating the planet in armadas of ghost ships, vacant planes, with energies of resurrected whales, asking for nothing more than the next place to go.
James Grabill’s recent work appears in Caliban, Harvard Review, Terrain.org, Mobius, Shenandoah, Seattle Review, Stand, and many others. His books are Poem Rising Out of the Earth (1994) and An Indigo Scent after the Rain(2003) published by Lynx House Press. His books of environmental prose poems, Sea-Level Nerve: Book One (2014) and Sea-Level Nerve: Two (2015), were published by Wordcraft of Oregon. For many years, he taught all kinds of writing as well as “systems thinking” and global issues relative to sustainability.