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