Jason Ridpath's poem is a bitter attack on the American Dream, which he presents as a system that feeds on ordinary people. Workers and consumers create the wealth, but the rich are pictured in ugly, animal terms: they "ejaculate and scream," slobber over their next desire, and scratch at their skin like addicts needing a fix. Even "the art of the deal" sounds hollow and sickly here. The speaker's disgust is plain.
The second half shifts from the powerful to the people beneath them. Suffering becomes a mountain that can't be avoided, and reaching the top only means being kicked back down, like a grim version of Sisyphus. The final images bring the disaster into the home, with rocks crashing into the kitchen. The last line, "At home in the chaos," feels flat and tired, as if the speaker has stopped expecting anything to change. The mood is angry, exhausted and bleakly ironic.