(aka Christopher Wallace, March 7, 1997)
It was windless on Long Island Sound:
The weather that kills
from somebody else’s life.
A note cut like Thelonious Monk
conjured, accidental beats,
shining texts certified diamond
disappeared—
Brooklyn grieved
five songs in his head
he never wrote down.
The DJ’s discs spinning radiant
mythological badness.
A pair of stone prayers
attempting flight.
For hunger swung clean.
For hunger’s one-track wail,
he stood. To know him
by his susurrations.
He blew seamless.
A city named breath.
The Black Frank White.
Becoming the traffic
to chance anything.
His dizzyingly adagio
delivery, a murmurous
dictionary, wreathed.
A torn riddle.
from Broken HallelujahsFind it in the library
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2007
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