At home I wring out
my hands, my head.

I wring them out flat and
dry them crispy afterward.

My hands you may understand
but why my head, you ask?

I have to dry my head
to keep the tears from being seen.

I have to dry my head
to keep the flies off the pools of sweat.

Little must anyone know
of what my head has become.

I need to keep the maggots off.
My hands don’t matter so much, of course.

Everyone’s got maggots on their hands
these days, what with all the casual death.

With all the casual need to pick up
the bodies from the street.

With all the nonchalance
with which we try to keep things tidy.

The people choose how they want things to look.
I know it doesn’t matter that much.

But my head they have to look at.
My eyes are on fire and focused.

My head needs to be seen for one brief shot.
They need to be shaken up, out of the stupor.

Out of the chill of the still damp hands.
Into the fever of the freedom-knowing brain.

So I wring my head out until it’s paper dry
and ready to be set ablaze.

I will be gone then.
Maybe they will follow me in flames.

Flames of red, white, blue.
Flames that burn down this — this thing.

I won’t be here to see it.
But someone will. Someone certainly will.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T