He writes as if he were sitting across from someone, telling a story he has just experienced. Nothing grand or world-changing, just a tale he would be ready to abandon at any moment if, for instance, his beer runs low and it's his turn to head down to the kiosk. Even in his later poems, one can find confirmation that he was a frugal stylist, a man with an infallible sense for the weight of words and the right rhythm of each line. An artist who, as a person, was probably not easy to tolerate, but possessed self-irony and articulated the chaos he found around and within himself with precision.