Happy Hour

I walk through the bar
and the smoke in the place
until i'm sitting on a stool spinning
like whispers of fog in a field

Bon Iver is bleeding in the jukebox
which was

in cred i ble

and I had the thought that somebody must have fucked
with the machine, only
because, although Iver has happy hours seething through the rests in his music
they'd probably rather pay to play
"Don't Stop Believing"
The screaming and bopping and connecting to disconnect

No

Iver had it
right as rain at the sun's final bow
Just like Van Gogh
who I now imagine wearing a chain of bars
drooping around his neck
as he painted his own happy hours between the wheat