Police kill unarmed black: end of story

Stories and News No. 909

In the US, San Diego, for the umpteenth time a police officer has killed an unarmed African-American.
So I find again myself writing something about this grotesque, absurd phrase...


Police kill unarmed black.
Four words.
Take them strong in one hand.
In a page, if you prefer not to burn yourself.
Four words that may break all things in pieces.
That's why the page is good, right?
Because we can write and read them endlessly.
And everything goes on.
And everything is repeated.
Because we believe in the end that so no one really hurts, in a newspaper.
When the newspaper is like a movie.
But let us say it is all true, try to believe it.
Just like in front of a movie.
Look, the spot is here.
No, wait, do not pay attention to it, you are not obliged, in spite of colors and mellow sounds.
Let us back on the main vision and observe the words one by one.
Start from the very first, so no one will be offended.
Say letter by letter and now express all that it resonates inside and out.
No censorship, no consequences.
We are still on the page, remember?
Empty for good, without fear, every thought and regurgitation, feeling and prejudice, opinion and perception that the first fragment arouses you.
Done? Do not you feel better now?
Watch it again, that simple set of characters.
Police.
Only six letters that we ourselves invented.
For our safety and protection.
Well, now let us focus on another protagonist of the damn title.
Once again hold your breath and do the same with every ebb seeking light from the most secret recesses of your belly.
Be brave, or its opposite.
And eject all things, for once lawfully.
Then look at the steaming puddle and return your eyes on what's left.
A color, its negation.
Only an adjective.
Only black.
Only a five-letter word that we all have obtusely fed.
For our safety and protection?
No, quite the opposite.
Done that too? Well, let us go to the last word.
As usual, the most important.
That’s trivial, at the end of the story here is the end of the latter.
Where everything would end in a second.
As the other two, again, with all the impudence which distinguishes you, throw out what the term arouses you, in the shelter of a page that welcomes all and everything preserves.
What remains? An adjective, perhaps?
No, something more.
A natural condition that should remain inviolable.
Eight letters that all of us, everywhere, are underestimating.
Unarmed.
Well, you know what is the true miracle?
The incredibly simple formula which would remove the curse?
A virtuous oversight.
Kill.
A noble misprint.
Kill.
And a saving forgetfulness of the second word in the same sentence.
Kill...
Because what's left in the end would finally be a new beginning.
Police and black unarmed





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