We are so far gone
that, for some of us,
humor has become the default response
to Caucasian terrorism, legal assassinations, and genocidal patriots. 
We don’t mourn,
we just hashtag and move on.
We don’t pray,
we just play the same screeching record,
preach the same Facebook sermons,
tweet the same message in social echo chambers
with ever-diminishing purpose, 
unsustainable fury.

Our pain is no longer novel.
It is no longer surprising.
After awhile, our brains start to care less,
feel
less,
as they are programmed to do.
They adjust to new events, then doze off when things remain the same,
day after day after month after year after century.
But we know that is not an excuse
for our apathy.
But if we’re honest, some of us need coping strategies,
and it ain’t the brain’s fault that in 2018,
black death is still normative reality in the United Klan of America.
But I digress.

We are so far gone,
even comic book stories
with fake African nations
and kings in catsuits
give us rest. 
But they recently found
that most black men lose their wealth,
so we’ll take what we can get.
I digress.

I pondered the point of this poem
when it occurred to me that we
are so far gone,
we got enough poets pouring out pissed-off poems
on the trials of a being born brown
in this melanin-challenged, patriarchy-pleasing, gun-worshiping, color-blind
melting pot of a country
to make an entirely new art form called
rebellion.
And yet,
we willfully perform for the choir,
knowing we are so far gone, 
we are the only ones who will hear our cries.

This is our country.
This is our life.
We are so far gone, 
for some, making it to 23
will be their biggest birthday surprise.
Where did it go wrong?
This can’t be my America.
The caucasity.
Translation:
every time I hear someone speak with such foolishness on their lips,
I know two things with a 95% degree of confidence:
1) the speaker is white,
2) they skipped sixth-grade civics.

We are not so far gone.
This is just how far we’ve come.
Our almighty constitution has implied African blood since 1789,
even after 1865,
or did you not notice? 

We have been faithful stewards of the plan, 
even when we were POTUS,
acting like they’ll love us if we sing, hoop, and dance.
We lack focus.
You can’t have half a country woke
and the other half asleep, 
drugged on sweet American dreams,
fam, issa joke.
But Trayvon ain’t laughing.

America,
I’ve seen soiled napkins cleaner
than this white-boy playpen you call a democracy,

and all we’ve ever asked
is for the home of the brave to admit its atrocities absolutely, 
restore generations of stolen & damaged property, 
and be the land of the free it claims to be.

‘Cause I’m starting to think,
we are so far gone,
we still believe the slaves were freed.

Cover Photo by Deborah Raji Photography