Paul McRandle

Bloodlarking above the Interior Seaway

Incarnate howlings scudding through internal skies, seas below agape with knowledge of the natural flows, minerals vented into acid waters, the decaying whale carcass in its slow descent, the few bubbles rising up from the bottlenose—we are among the million microbes in a cubic centimeter of ocean brine. From there where there is no scale the path back to the standards by which we were raised becomes a pointless reversal unless there’s a light to accompany us, a shifting iridescence boiling Kirlian-wise in spirals and chutes from the hairs of our forearms and the roots of the iris. Who returns? The stony path shot through with shells of ancient seas and blisters  of crab grass scuttling along the way releases a foamy warmth to the foot, a liquid motion without speed. This earthenware ship disembarks from the lonely port here at continent’s end for a largeward careen through mist and night, battling lethargy, scurvy, the plague of stars and phosphorescent points suspended in the airs from which we can scarcely grasp a breath. You are not unique, not one, multitudes they call you and they’re not far wrong. How does this go? Our fading sight takes in the ramparts of a new citadel constructed of words and holes, blasted by Napoleon’s canonry decades back then abandoned on this Portuguese shore.