The army of monks did their clean-up operation at dusk
And now they sit in the bar by the empty temple
Admiring all the latent violence in the souls that pass them by
Who smile in their sacred duty to fire at will
Their squirt machine guns in the war zone of the streets.
They bring the hose to the perimeter bucket,
Conduct reconnaissance behind the durian carts,
Duck for cover inside the beds of pickup trucks,
Use defensive umbrellas and human shields to reload,
Real art of warfare stuff
Practiced without any restraint or training by children
To vanquish the ghosts of Hollywood fantasy projections
That order the spilling of enemy blood.
There are grandparents too, with the sacred duty
To thoroughly cleanse the soul,
And there are firing squads of ecstatic vacation warriors
With strap-on rainbow uzis that never waste a shot
In street patrols wearing goggles and cabana clothes
Against marauding gangs in jeeps
With bubble guns and pink beach pails
As lawlessness washes over the streets like rain.
Defenseless civilians we are buddhas too,
Born to die again in the fusillade of holiness
That never stops, only takes a different shape,
A different gun pointed to our heads.
