Small Poems for Big

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