Cowboy Capitalist Killers

Firecrackers in the cafeteria
seem very minute compared
to the world. Sounds reverberate
off of the Republican taxed glass,
and the sounds parallel comparable
time like an Afghanistan child
caught between freedom and innocence,
between economic downfalls
and generational guilt.

The sound of a firecracker parallels
the sound of that gun,
penetrating the chest of a child
like your capitalist pornography
and first world problems
that are so funny.

We laugh at them like firecrackers
in a high school cafeteria,
like Hindus kneel to Vishnu
and splash water slightly
like a Methodist baptism,
like a religious simile,
an oxymoron of religions.

I have combined them in a poem
like placing them all in a box,
snapping the lid shut
and consuming one another.
I call them bees.

They sound similar to firecrackers
in the cafeteria,
sound similar to the clang of chains
and the powder of a packed gun.
Powder like innocence,
cocaine like a chemical religious box
lit by a child in a high school crowd.

They step into their automobiles,
transportation like bare feet amongst
the Amazon River basin,
and the engine reminds me
of capitalism lit and burning
hysterically on the butt,
no ass,
of a Marlboro Red.