Dear Leatherface—

misunderstanding seduction
you urge your chainsaw forward

for the abnegation of travesty beneath that mask,
you mask yourself madly

in peevishness and a loping gait.
Sad stalker of all beautiful things

king of no body. Daddy’s Sick Again
who once politely sliced

all your red toys in two.
What to do when rural runs out

on you. It’s as if you’re through
but all’s funhouse ricochet body farm

where fingers & tulips are planted
near the generator’s trustworthy hum,

a bludgeoned gloom linger rut and rusty,
mum’s the word inside every head.