There is no balance to be found in dead bodies made so by the malignant authority of another.
There is no balance to be found in the dead bodies of Lorne Aherns, Philando Castile, Michael Krol, Michael Smith, Alton Sterling, Brent Thompson, Patrick Zamarripa.
Cross the red line and everything falls out of balance.
Murder is the red line.
The irreplaceable life, annihilated, is the red line.
The loss of imagination is the red line. No imagination means no empathy. No empathy means we all go back to tribes and tribes are wreathed only by red lines.
The way guns bewitch our attention and convert us to fear are red lines.
The grievous act of pointing a weapon at another steps upon the red line. Curl the trigger finger into five pounds of pressure and watch the solid creation of years fly apart — flesh to dust, dust to rage, rage to all the red nightmares.
If you are ‘driving black’ ‘walking black’ ‘looking black’, the fear of police is a red line so present it becomes the perpetual storm on the horizon, the blood red creature in the clouds.
If you are police, the fear of men carrying guns is the red line you might only put away at end of shift.
The AR-15 crosses the red line and the Glock and glorified gun shows and states that never record which guns pass from hand to hand and where they might go and loathsome politicians who preach the Gospel of the 2nd Amendment, the Holy Scripture that must never vary (the NRA crossed the red line after Sandy Hook and now forever lives beyond all lines in the blood red country).
We either pull back from the red lines or call forth the name of our tribe and lift our weapons and wait and quietly hate and die.
