I don't want to be an apropoet

30 something odd years from now when the majority becomes the minority and the poets with
the most seniority tell tale of 2020 AC, they’ll begin with ‘Y’all M’fuckers ain’t gon' believe this
shit’, but coronavirus may have done more for the vaccination of race relations than the Obama
administration, or the CDC organization in America.


Ran by a reality TV star, owned by Russia,

supported by the militia that is middle America and others in a visually impaired state, hate wore
a red MAGA hat to rally cap its numbers. The globe was hotter than two rats fucking in a wool
sock near Tompkin's park during the summer of love. Cops could kill Niggas and go back to work
the next day, cause we had sports and sports bars, clubs and jobs and other ways to avoid the
truth and be aloof to what has always been a sickness hereditary to White America.

Now writer to reader:

I hate I have to write these types poems, ones about being Black in America, in fact, I denounce
them and pronounce them yours, White Poets. These are your poems now.
Black America doesn’t write these poems, White America writes these poems.
Wrote them on the Bill of Sale,
Bill of Rights,
Billy Clintons 3 strikes,
Police rights to stop and frisk,
the fist that grips the service pistol and whistles Dixie into young Black men when their license
and registration isn’t enough.
Dear White poet, we can't make this shit up. Since the death of Eric Garner in 2014, this poem has
been written over 100 times in America.

I want to write poems about talking Ravens and Mason lines between Love and Madness like
Allen Poe did.
I don’t want to write apropos for poor kids who need more than alphabet soup when they're

stewing in the melting pot, but it's hard to just sit here and play with letters hoping things get
better outside my window panes.


Gil Scott wrote poems in the 70’s like this, so I wouldn’t have to, but it’s only halfway through 2020,
Whitey's headed to the moon again and might soon colonize Mars, oxidize stars, and disregard
alien rights. 

Despite the revolution is being televised through the eyes of camera phones and
ringtones, full of the faith that the dark past has taught us and brought us right into the homes of
White comfort.
Covid kicked in the door waiving the 44 and quarantined the World for more than 2 months now.
All wars and major sporting events had been delayed for days, you couldn’t clock in, therefore
can't clock out when Masta say you got to be to work by 8.


Now who's existential is essential in America?
Who lives and who dies?
Who gets a N-95 and who wipes their ass with triple plys?
Who will survive the pandemic if Systematic Racism doesn’t kill them first?
And just like everything else here in America, it hit Black folks worst.
Millions lost jobs, minds, hair lines, and spare time was all we had when documentaries about
basketball greats and tiger sanctuaries owned by meth heads and murderers finalized. The
perfect storm was moving over South Georgia, worked its way up to Louisville Kentucky, and

landed in Minneapolis, where for almost 9 minutes it held its knee on the neck of George Floyd
and destroyed everything America thought it was.
The internet remains undefeated, videos can't be tweeted and deleted once it's National news
and protest ensues, in shoes that haven’t walked a mile in Martin's memory.


I might have to unfollow America’s IG, her feed is eating my soul and leaving the dark meat for
the Ghetto Birds and Culture Vultures scouring the skies collecting the scraps of
protesters who scream "no justice!" and were met with no peace last night.
I rock with the White boys on skateboards who deployed their privilege on cop cars,
but some of y’all Whites gonna have to practice before you protest next weekend. We ask that
you stay on rhythm when the chant of “No justice no peace,
fuck them racist ass police" is
released into the air like the their tear gas and rubber bullets.

And please - for the White girl who tagged BLM on a Starbucks and the Black girl who told her

they're only gonna think it was us.


Now I haven’t spoken to the rest of the Culture about this yet, but the gentrification of the Black

Power fist is cool with me, it's not the same as saying Nigga cause your favorite rapper does,
and your half-a-drop of black blood cuz said you can say it around him, just don’t say it around
them or we both gonna get our ass whupped.


White poet, these are your problems now, I’m gonna write happy poems about nothing that
turned into something my Grandpa told me while spending summer vacations at the family lake
I’m gonna take my poems to coffee shops and spill pumpkin spice latte all over the body
Put avocado on everything, on toast and call it breakfast, on Mexico and call it Texas.
I’m gonna read a poem about prejudice that makes me sad then, write a poem about privilege
to make me happy.


Cause only when James Brown “say it loud I’m Black and I’m proud” is drowned out by the
sound of Taylor Swift's “I’m White and I’m ashamed”, were we able to not join hands and line
dance to Electric Boogie at the socially distance cookout in the Summer of 2020 AC.