Getting into it. Rushing into it. Arriving. Saving himself. He didn’t know quite exactly which day of the week it was. He didn’t need to. He just winged it. In old angel form. Having a drink at a bar. With a cigarette. That was his solace. He was gone from the last place. Looking back over his shoulder here and there. Slumped over a drink. With a cigarette. Time and time again, beer and beer again, he knew what he was doing and, His past was too-much illuminating him. His virtues morose. Driving slowly down a gravel road. Marveling over his potential. His possibilities. His disposition. And the clock read brazenly in bartime, 15 minutes in the future, 15 minutes past happy hour. The smoke sat in the middle of the room like a serpent in disguise. The old chaps on the other side of the bar slumped over too. Disposed, he felt. Deplorable, that too. Drunk, not so. That don’t happen, sugar. Gambling with himself, not familiar with any of his hands. Vulnerable to the inanimate threat of discontinuation. Mad at the world, mad at nobody. The shit, the flies, the culture, the atmosphere. Nobody wanted to talk to him. At least nobody that he wanted to talk to. Jesus on a pogo stick. Dying milkmen. Fierce invalids. Money for hardboiled eggs. Squatting in the back of a smoke shop, taking a knife hit. Tough decisions in delusional states of mind. Marketable research. Mountainous intercourse. Geriatric discourse. Proven dysfunction. Mysterious diseases. These are some of the things that were on his mind. And you can’t always bury the hatchet. Sometimes it simply stays at ease.