James Grabill In The Air

It’s astonishing to be able to live now in the new morning, in the open air from which a crystalline drop collects on a leaf before dawn, and eventually rolls into freefall between both sides of the canyon echoing the pitches of animals, with the brain proving itself an extraordinary instrument that pursues multiple routes of connection in a medium of echo-location maybe it is, showing automatic xylophone bays, or predilection of the latest climate-torqued storms.

It’s astonishing when breathing cells speak, call it, through interspecies sense with solidarity in the spectacular coliseum of humility under the afternoon sky, with answers in the refined in-between colors on feathers, swallows of the indefinite passing by backwards architecture at the outskirts, the moment replaced by penciled-in flights of owls over shoulders of moss-vented hills and archaic mothers with practices of fertility encoded within our bodies. So the light where we reside continues, broken and whole. If, refracting, its waves have split, they’ve already healed. It happens as if it were nothing more than expected, a payment due that never fails to be on time, dawn that blazing boils up over the horizon to return light to the world, offering an image of emergence from elements, the fire-ball sun as birth of the self, whatever species, such as megalonychids that first appeared in Argentina 35 million years ago, with room on our calendars for circulation of rain, shuck dissolution, and unavoidable roads, where we’ve seen jet subvention in atmospheric gases, steaming debris of sea-floor hypnotisms, festering of Moray eels at unseasoned depths, boneyard coral in hungers of populations, unknowing turned into open-source intent a few miles from the cores of blood-making.

Phenomena are written by grasses into air as thermals rake a wide wing over the foul little dirges of internal combustion, dusts reeling at the lip of transplanetary firsts, the protozoan surf-breaking rounding off any accord with unconditional nakedness in an atmosphere as old as it’s current, too innocent not to be taken advantage of by unprecedented enthusiasts, fire-making under their moon reaching its zenith, as zephyrs scramble undiscovered scripts and nightcrawlers try pawing the dirt not far from their holes to another world.

We’ve known labor on a scale of amino acids, with lightning-scaffolding in dull shapes of antiquity in the effects of daily living, the Asian rhinoceros foraging in grasses, triggering likenesses within the brain fired by 100 trillion electromagnetic jumps at the instant a thick oak branch holds with undivided heaves of meaning in events, cusps of yellow fractals in the tiniest masses riding in on buoyancy of the genome, in gravity of thunderhead Roman numerals outlining bodies, governing uncountable European faces of Ave Maria over lifetimes, blooming spikes of hope on a sunken root.

There are many years at sea at every point of flux impacting the long-evolved seed delivered to self-healing and the markings of feathers, with flexibility in unfinished vibratory negotiations, while glistering aerobic ganders land on the backwaters through the lift from pitching immensities of leaves in the loneliness of beauty, with splashes of discovered scales ignited in sophisticated faculties of the psyche, in indivisible sacramental crosses between one person and another, around mushroom ingestion of a sleep-slick oil-spilled wake or an archaic doubt over gospels of Jesus teaching human love capable of finding no boundaries ultimately contain it, mindfulness, as an exquisite overflow.

Solidness

Greater forces than human beings exist, of course, wherever eyes or ears or fingertip touches may land. For they’ve made every week solid enough, these forces that ensure the past present stays generally stuck together, where they’ve gotten the place spinning and are giving beings a nudge out or back, working through the lightning-bolt instant in the troposphere that’s still not well understood. An individual fruit fly happens in the room, to be zooming in on a nostril, circling at an angle, wobbling in air around the human face—a natural ambassador crazed, finding few routes to right action, delivering a message of nearly indivisible wild forces of madness, barriers, and heat like nobody’s business, like how much are you willing to learn?

Like who’s the mother of any one of us if not the mother of all? For thunderhead fronts build towering anvils over the plains, as a fruit fly darts between rooms. What lifts in us searches through space for signs of life. As the backdrop of day’s night, half of it remains Bodhisattva emptiness, a kind of emptiness with ritual catastrophe blocked by intricately self-interweaving microorganisms that assist solid cells which form and support the shoulders of Asian elephants and bellies of the sea otters.

For bodily cells alive reach from the root with solar precision, as the compass points to wilder grasses, to up-rocked artistry, the grackle’s roost bursting alive with chatter as they return from the corn-splashed yards. Within the eye-going instant, days thicken in a flurry, spiral with the delivery of impulse, unconditional long-range plans, solar spreads that advance genetic overflow, that the sparrow’s thread. So, a small cut heals on an arm. Pollen’s carried downtown to the embassy.