(OR: Why I can’t cry for my wanna be gangsta cousin living on the block now, and feel like an asshole about it.)
Your final picture of him cannot lay still.
Revenge-in all it’s sophistries-cannot warm your heart,
and ice takes reincarnation in all forms.
Bred wolves and killaz make everything bedlam
and the sad boy has tears beyond tats.
What is a king to a god of caught weight?
What is a god to a man-boy defrocked of status
In a paradise he imagined but never saw?
In a Byzantium of bright shiny grain leaden picnics
In fields only safe in HD screens.
Poor houses are jumping from the block to the (food) bank
but the guilded trap boy roams in a stasis,
A trap-debtors prison of time and calumny
as functionless as corners spots are fluid,
as spun and the smoke and the lean he dreamed
but now becomes him like a night mare.
Masses have snatched from him all that resembles gold.
Outfits-outlandish once-are now his smudged markers
across the dirt of his Alabama starter jersey.
Shadows that bedeviled you are in the whites of his eyes.
Black guards here replenish and replenish again
and the rich boy cannot leave the scene.
The mountain you climbed that he tumbled toward
Is too dark now, and here comes the 8 bus.