Thinking About Chainsaw Massacres

There is the sound of the moon
but it does not phase my morning.
The lump-sack of flesh around me
like a ring does not care back.
Three Puerto Rican girls tricked me
into thinking I thought them a fool.
I can't think of anything
I'd rather be doing right now.
A man walks down the street
with a sword made of green glass.
A hunter scatters his shadow
across the roofs of buildings.
In a many days' cycle we have learned
that we don't know our apathy.
We probably never will;
there are cinders in the sky;
this is another of your mornings,
with unchecked parts lingering.
It is everyone's goal to teach
but no one wants to admit it.
The teachers are as muzzled
as the students; the students
run around scramming for more time
and scrambling our shields.
The adults are silenced goons where we
once saw monitors who could love.
We carry love around like a child;
even if its heart stills we still carry.
Before long: burden smiles continue.
The sly fox sits in a wooden grove.
I gave you a container of honey
to ward away our spirit animals.
No 'thank you' or cast glance.
You have succeeded in dribbling.
I want to wrap you in my arms
and explain the meaning of a cut lung.
The voice on the announcer box
sounds like a baritone mosquito wheeze,
and parts of me beg for refined sugar.
Parts of parts of parts of them.
Us in the mechanic's garage, tweaking.