MUCKER
I can't
remember a moment
by the
half-door, it is etched into my
broken mind.
A verbal memory, A Fox
skulked out
of a red glow dawn,
Kavanagh's ditch.
This was the
first morn of the rest of my
Life. The
fox from the ditch was like
a gasp, never seen felt before.
All I knew was Raw War, Street Kid,
and Gutterance. It stopped in motion,
glared at me, and left its mark.
A stamp of
approval, Kavanagh's bright
shillings of March, forged into my mind
that morning. Like an animal symbol out of
circulation, a lost wax process (cire perdu).
I never knew true natural beauty.
The fox gave me that nature nurtured
into words. It took my inner-city
sight slang and tossed it
and spit hatred to the gutter.
War-torn Belfast was no more,
I saw peace, not war, in Hackballscross
with my Mucker Muttley with only one eye
and three
legs Beaten by Brit rifle butts.
He chased the
camouflage cows like uni-
Formed hatred to
chase away shellshock
cool green around our ankles.
The same fields Patrick
Kavanagh
walked through.
Mucker left
its mark; freedom winds
hacked my mindset and true natural wonder,
I will never forget.
The Cottage had two rooms, no
water, to shit, you had to call a spade, a
spade. The well-
water sparkling spring. I
have never tasted
anything like it.
A skater on healthy water, bending.
Reality. I
blogged to see how often I wrote
this moment on the right hemisphere, the half-
door. I am lost. Really, I am
lost in my dis-
abled bubble.
Substance, my
absolute rhythm, carved by
The uncarved
block Kavanagh, Carver,
the fox footfall
like an uncarved circadrian
rhythm, the thought fox to be
A Fox
thought.
