i wear the customary clothes of my time,nlike jesus did, with no reason not to dienfacing history, with little to no ironynlike i'm some forgotten southern city Sherman razednstill hid under thick smoke after all these yearsnnthese hands, are my father's hands but smallernsoaked in paint thinner,nuntil they're so dry coming together,nthey make the sound of resisting each otherna shrill squeal like two moving rubber, tires touchingnhide nothing, hide nothing