Straight outta Belfast

Crazy motherfucka named Muldoon…

Well, that’s how I imagine a remake of the N.W.A. classic starting if the Northern Irish poets I so admire were to form a rap band.

So I return from lunch to my desk to find that I misfiled a document. I correct the error quickly and grab a cup of green tea, feeling somewhat low about my station here at the office and on the grand stage of employment, having not what could be called a career, that tenuous term that too many adopt to describe the line of work they, like me, have fallen ass-backwards into.

Somewhat existential in thinking, I contemplate the green tea when a green package appears. In it is a book with a green cover. The book? The Collected Poems of Ciaran Carson. I sent away to Northern Ireland to get the book, not yet available in these United States. It’s a handsome edition, a tome much like the collected Muldoon. Mostly I am excited to have his second book, the much lauded and increasingly hard to find The Irish for No, at my disposal. Life seems a good deal better.

Happy days are made of books.