A Char Scent in the Air

A Char Scent in the Air

A Char Scent in the Air

A Poem by James Grabill

Wildfires explode up slopes

crawling toward granges

in small foothills townships

where belief in the climate

has meant forgetting it.

The brain keeps revising 

its scripts but could use more 

time to catch up at the root 

of what we are to the discovery of oil. 

Meanwhile, transnational gas binges 

have promulgated a big idea 

that at first, for the ancients, 

must have been a huge sensation, 

that the god-like cosmic sun 

orbits singularity of the human head. 

Wherever it goes, filthy-rich oil 

exacerbates cognitive dissonance 

around its effects, while planting 

its yard in steamrolled asphalt 

lined with dancing-girl lounges. 

Crude oil appears to understand 

you can’t know what you have 

until a few billionaires are taking 

all they can grab for their own. 

Could someone explain how long 

ungovernable salvation has 

been hanging out in the museum 

of train wrecks? The scent of char 

outside today appears in the sad 

story of a few astronomical 

accounts with their poles 

melting into oceans that look 

away if someone’s talking.


Quarter Life Crisis

Quarter Life Crisis

Digital Media Art

Digital Media Art