HERE NOW AND NOW

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.