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
