Musky Blocks the Sun
by Khadijah Z. Ali-Coleman
We can’t see the stars in the sky no more.
Musky got his satellites blocking the sun.
Meddling with the universe, skipping recklessly above,
taking trips and playing tricks with kisses just for fun.
Praying at the pulpit of drones and driverless cars,
we are goading enablers,
guilty scavengers who consume without thought,
at the will of AI laborers
listening to our conversation right now,
trying to steal our soul and our art.
(I mean, AI eavesdroppers memorizing our conversation right now,
trying to mimic our soul and our art.)
(I mean, AI professionals rewriting our conversation right now
with their new souls and our stolen art.)
Changing the heading and the commas,
changing the sky to your mama, to my mama—
(My mama ain’t in the sky no more—)
Ain’t no heaven no more.
Musky got his satellites blocking the sun.
The earth is flat with no end in sight.
Wielding his billions like a gun,
a change agent and viral plight.
Stealing Malcolm’s X in revenge,
as we shift on our sunken sofas,
surfing channels as we program binge,
our minds collapsing faster than a fallen nova.
Musky got his satellites blocking the sun.
Organized religion has seemingly changed,
taking trips with kisses just for fun.
We are so willfully engaged
in this everyday circus,
addictive clicks and swipes for laughs,
swapping ill-informed opinions for priceless researched facts.
Outside they bomb another country,
and keep raising the price on gas.
Over there they designing a new currency,
as we bleed our coffers and sacrifice our firstborn.
Musky got his satellites blocking the sun,
as the ice keeps melting and the days keep getting too warm.
The download is inevitable, the rewrite will be epic.
We will replay this moment, only to rewind and then forget it.
Musky got his satellites blocking the sun,
meddling with the universe, taking trips with Bezos for fun.
We copying his game plan, making efforts to try and win.
Musky and the gang have already won. Yet, here we go again.
Musky got his satellites blocking the sun,
and it’s getting harder to see the moon.
The sky will be invisible sooner than later as we are stranded earthbound,
craving to become celestial maroons.
Meddling with the universe, skipping recklessly above,
Musky got his satellites blocking the sun.
Bumping fists with orange knuckles, breathing vapor of a dying planet.
Into the blackness he has run.
And, yet it’s like we still don’t understand it.
Musky got his satellites blocking the sun.
I can’t see the North Star no more.
I thought I’d ask and take a class to help me know why.
But, I just learned that just yesterday,
Musky done gone and bought the whole goddamned sky.
Musky got his satellites blocking the sun,
in the sky that he owns and where he now lives,
leaving the earth to decay and rot and self-harm,
as the waters rise and the heat singes.
Musky got his satellites blocking the sun,
as his spaceship goes higher and he looks down, waving goodbye.
What will it be like for you and me when we can no longer see the sky?
What will it be like for you and me when we can no longer see the sky?
Khadijah Ali-Coleman is author of the poetry collections For the Girls Who Do Too Much (2024), and The Summoning of Black Joy (2023), the children’s book Mariah’s Maracas and co-editor of the book Homeschooling Black Children in the US: Theory, Practice and Popular Culture. Her work is featured in multiple publications, and she is currently editing the book, Homeschooling Black Children on a College Pathway that is scheduled to be released in 2025 by Black Family Homeschool Educators and Scholars, LLC (BFHES). She is currently an Associate Professor in English at Coppin State University and served from 2023-2025 as the second poet laureate of Prince George’s County, MD. She is currently based in Baltimore, MD.