The day came rushing to me
 with a Sunday morning alarm banging against the most solemn of my dreams.
The ringing of a thousand concussions laying literal waste to the side of the bed I'd rather wake up on.

Moods are always made in the first half hour,
like a sale or a friendship...there's no going back.

The long stretch of the malnourished lends
a soundtrack to the beaten.
Like potato chips beneath shoes,
my joints clack and tap back to their assigned seats.
Forgotten blood warms my spine and flows freshly over a recently popped neck.
It is well received.

Fashionably late, my eyes show the world through a blurred lens.
Focusing slow and meticulously, as if to lick every drop left in the cup of sleep.
Reminds me of poorly made indy films.

My hands make their way to the snooze button.
The time?
Around 7:30
which is a little early
when your job keeps you drinking and writing and drinking and singing and drinking...

"I hate waking up!"  
Explaining myself to an empty room.
Gallant was never grumpy,  he had ....oh what do they call it?  
Discipline.

Finally aware,
a man on the edge of accomplishment...
I sit up, ponder and then

thrash around violently whining and grunting 
like an angry mother pig giving birth in plaid pajama pants.

Life has no greater injustice
than an alarm in the morning on the day you're supposed to sleep in.