He hung up a sign that said Secretary of War,

snapped a picture for the socials,

shut the door,

took a swig of Jameson straight from the bottle,

then sat down and fondled the revolver in his desk drawer

like a little boy playing with his penis.

Visions of cruise missiles danced through his head,

aircraft carriers and nuclear submarines

and tiny middle eastern bodies blown to bits by glorious inventory.

Mushroom clouds flashed in his eyes

as he caressed the trigger with an index finger.

"They call me the Secretary of War," he said.

"They call me the Secretary of War."

He did not feel the robins in his chest

or hear the red-winged blackbirds trilling in his hair.

The electricity of the flesh was a stranger to him.

Exuberance was a deadbeat dad who never called.

Outside the Pentagon walls a cicada roared unnoticed

and the grass sang ancient hymns to the sun god.

People bustled in and bustled out,

their minds buzzing with Palantir porn,

their lips casting spells of Raytheon and ruin.

Under the rubble of a far away building

a child reached out a hand in the darkness.

Her cries were silenced by gulps of whiskey

in the office of the Secretary of War.

Reading by Tim Foley.