Swollen eyes like the blue underbelly of a bloated body
from some man or other, some country or other. His soldier hands have the same Jitterbug tempo
as the axels in his brain. Bourbon on his chapped lips and
soggy earth beneath his boots. The floors are littered with dented beer cans
and microwavable trays of week-old food. The constant TV static wheezes.
Waves of battlefield fever drench his shirt, his arms break into form and
the hilt of his rifle sleeps on his shoulder.
He doesn’t know what sleep is, but
what it can do: the bombs of
the microwave roar in his ears
and the Jitterbug tempo sends raging flares
into the belly of his eyes,
the trigger of his finger thrums
in patterns and scattered trays are
mounds of soiled bodies.
Bourbon in the glass,
axels of his brain. Land mines
in the clockwork of his mind.