Small Poems for Big

Twenty-four haiku, for each year he lived when you die, i’m told they only use given names christopher wallace no notorious neither b.i.g. nor smalls just voletta’s son brooklyn resident hustler for loose change, loosies and a lil loose kim let me tell you this the west coast didn’t get you illest flow or nah had our loyalties no need to discuss that now that your weight is dust that your tongue is air and your mother is coping as only she can i will also say that i have seen bed-stuy since b.k. misses you her walk has changed some the rest of the borough flails weak about itself middle school students not yet whispers in nine sev know the lyrics rote you: a manual a mural, pressed rock, icon, fightin word or curse course of history most often noted, quoted deconstructed sung hung by a bullet prepped to die:gunsmoke gunsmoke one hell of a hunch here you lie a boy twelve gauge to your brain you can’t have what you want be what you want you black and ugly heartthrob ever conflicted emcee respected lately premier king of the casket pauper of first life til puff blew you up gave you a champagne diet plus cheese eggs, welch’s you laid the blueprint gave us word for word for naught can’t fault the hustle knockoff messiah slanged cracked commandments, saw no honey, more problems a still black borough recoiled, mourned true genius slain the ease of your laugh the cut of your jib unique command of the room truthfully biggie what about you’s small no not legend not stature real talk just lifespan yo, who shot ya kid n.y.p.d. stopped searching shrugged off negro death well, we scour the sky we mourn tough, recite harder chant you live again of all the lyrics the realest premonition rings true: you’re dead. wrong