Theory of Focalization (Race)

Slabs of setting sun pre-heat the yard where salt-of-the-earth countrymen dress up in gowns brighter than the snow that forgot to accompany this cold March evening. Hoods pointing towards that “White Man Heaven” they wrote about in their bible. That ain’t where yer goin’, boy. No— Mr. Nameless will end up somewhere else. Beyond the point where the tree and its rope intersect. Goons heehaw in hopes that he’ll choke out a sound through the bullwhips and chains. The mayor, masked by a new voice, brings the lit match. And for a moment There’s a tense smile on Nameless’ lips. Nameless knows. Then, the cloud of smoke soaks up the breathable air and spits back at the world. Not water. That’s too clean. Still, someone could drown like this. Nameless smiles again as Fire bounces off of newborn moonbeams.