Alpha 179

Sgt. Wright would usually
address me, formally, as
“fuckstick,” lamenting loudly
the Downfall Of The Army
before shifting his focus
to some gopher-faced slackjaw
who should have been a blowjob.
And I could tell you about
the nuances of the word
fuckstick, write a whole thesis
on its Latin origin,
or a manual on how
one should go about shitting
in Johnny Vargas’s boot
while avoiding detection—
all these things are important.
But what I remember most
about that former lifetime
is lying in that simple
dirt hole, waiting. All around,
the sky funneling upward
into a mouth of black clouds,
my rifle aimed at the source
of some silent buzz, the whole
universe expanding out.