…first call at dawn

Tell us, O Muse, of rosy-fingered dawn and the hair of the dog that bit you ...

phoebus apollo really starts slurring his suspicions as he stands and grabs my arm, telling me to pocket other people’s wine before we leave and follow him into the night with my arms full

    we got to get the day going, he says stumbling up stairs he knew by name as wine spills down his chest, you ever swerved at the speed of sound?

    that’s old hat, i say handing him another bottle, how middle class do you think i am?

    i hold on as stars blur overhead, disappearing into the gold behind us in waving streaks while he veers wildly, yelling at the trailing sunrise to grow some balls

    can’t let the bastard think it’s ahead of the curve, he says holding up a bottle and looking down its neck, i’m more a fan of midnight anyway

    we laugh at the close calls of catastrophe and he recites death poetry like music, racing his responsibility reckless into an open field unto himself

    the big turning point, he says is to be high enough to ignore the aslant symmetry of success

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Brendan Connolly

Brendan Connolly

Brendan Connolly writes stuff. He lives in New York City.

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