The killing field is nothing new. The loss of life employer authorized, certified, accepted, and duly noted; is older than everyone living on this Earth. No edict, order, or law is necessary. A generically approved right.
A conscious, visible sighting is as rare and far away as the Loch Ness monster, time travel, and science fiction.
Something is there, too, illusively grand, blurred, and too stealthy to grasp, capture and verify.
No one wants to kill the Loch Ness monster. The accepted practice of intentional and unintentional killing if Black is an accepted social norm; an unregistered global sport with no moral compass.
The plow of cheap labor is absolute. Tinges of any hue of skin color.
For the authors of the terms and the upholders of the divide, a cost-cutting tool of economic control to be processed, recycled, trashed, and left to the erosion of time’s infinite nothingness. Inside the inner pod of digested gray matter, the bumper sticker motto: At the end of the day, no use for you. Now, why don’t you just die.” (That’s what the author thinks you think, short of pandemic genocide).
The anger, disgust, punitive revengeful hater, seething with intolerance, has raised its ugly head within the scarred emotions of Black versus White. Either or, no in-between with no compromise, truce, or peace.
Gone is the wait-and-see of what happened. Gone is the balance of the benefit of the doubt given with the blackboard erasure and excuse of “the intent was harmless and no malice intended.”
“It was just an accident on the job or a PTSD stress moment.”
“It all just happened too fast to pinpoint logical common sense reasoning. I thought he had a gun, a knife…it looked like…”
So sorry, too late, neither side can take it back. Black while dead gets no more parties, smiles, hugs, and kisses with a birthday cake. No more.
Heads or tails decide.
Angie Whitehurst is an artist and vendor with Street Sense.
