War Buoy

A vertical as sight offers opaque hands for grip and leverage,
Just a floating point above calculus ratios,
A decimal place in stasis,
Awaiting facts known and registered to a thirsty hemisphere,
Drank the culture now frothing at the lips,
In the deep red of deoxygenated renal flow,
The hole in the chest offers no real treasure,
But that of a gun sight bound in hindsight and leather,
Picking off the ants in the distance,
Can you see them pop in the heat?
Boots melt in the sand,
Mummified in layers of camouflage,
Each strand coping with heaving sweat of the justification,
A war buoy just floating on the horizon,
In the milk of the desert only carrion birds sing at songs,
Sweet and rich and desolate,
The hole in the chest breathes its own heirs and graces,
Presley did his time safely on a borderline,
Stone touched Vietnam and lived to film the tales,
The hole is the chest keeps these memories alive,
Etched upon an ulcer waiting to burst,
The hole coughs now,
Brings up an answer wrapped around,
Meaty flow,
Further coffins,
The baby sons name as worship and a reminder,
Please remember me,
But not like this,
Maybe laying you down,
Blanket wrapped and waving sleep,
Away to see you more,
Than blistering as a last thought,
It’s not the hole we focus on now,
But the eyes,
And the tears streaming,
“You’d waste salt in the desert?”
Amid foreign friendly fire,
Yes,
He laughs above the floating point,
“I had more meaningful arguments at home…”