Aviator sunglasses hide demented eyes

in a skull full of bank logos and forgotten AIPAC speeches,

boozy nights of rapefinger whisperings and Beltway balrogs,

and fundraising wisecracks with smiles made of Gaddafi's bones,

brain now crowded with paper shredders 

and frantic, sweaty interns

staying up all night working 

to dispose of the evidence.

Aviator sunglasses with glowing pentagons in them,

with mountains of skulls in them,

with dismembered children in them,

with gutted babies in them,

with screaming mothers in them,

with burning flesh in them,

with flattened neighborhoods in them,

crushed limbs sticking out of rubble in them,

fathers carrying tiny bags of body parts in them,

laughing, mocking, blood-soaked soldiers in them,

bombs and food falling from the sky together in them.

Demented eyes gazing out upon a dying world 

through aviator sunglasses full of dead faces,

skin illuminated by a burning sky,

licking an ice cream cone

that is dripping deep red.

Reading by Tim Foley.