FOOTNOTING BIGGIE LYRICS LIKE WHY CHRISTMAS MISSED US

When I was just a snot nose

  is one of my favorite

  demotic phrases,

for its fealty to two lords

that fickle balance of sound

and meaning

that is part air

and part earth — as much head

  as heart, which relies on a metonymy

we all recognize

as tied to vulgarity

and transcendence

dependent upon our ability

to be vulnerable again.

1) I recognize a real Don when I see one

as you know your child’s head

  shaved, braided, or pomaded with dried soda.

  I find it remarkable that I can spot my car

amongst its honeycomb of plastic and glass

or that I don’t walk out a restaurant

with someone’s black jacket more often. We identify

  inanimate objects when we find

contiguity within them

because we see possessions

as extensions of ourselves. There is a slaver

  inside me yet.

  Real recognizes Real, which

  is why the eyes of mammals look familiar,

  and the eyes of insects don’t,

why we gas roaches, smash spiders, annihilate ants,

why I recognized the line of NOTORIOUS B.I.G.

  Remember when we used to eat sardines for dinner

  not because I ate sardines for dinner — more like

chili spaghetti, chipped beef,

occasionally pot roast, anything my mom,

  being a single mom of two, could make

quickly and cheaply after work,

  while my brother and I watched.

2) Biggie didn’t teach me to cook,

though his “Ten Crack Commandments”

  did instruct

  how to move weight, flip birds,

  be a dope boy. This is how

my mother taught me to cook,

or more aptly,

tricked me how to cook. First, she left

a fully prepared roast

in the fridge and a note on the oven

with a specific temperature and time.

The next time she asked me to prepare

the carrots,

then it was carrots

and potatoes.

She was always crafty, in that way.

My first talk wasn’t

the birds and the bees but carrots and potatoes.

She requested easy dishes

I had watched her make for years. I complained

but cooked

not because I loved her

but because I was hungry. I was 12.

I was always hungry. I’m still hungry.

At 19, I loved the music of Biggie,

but I still didn’t love

my mother. I was darker in thought than now. I mean,

all my friends were black. I mean,

I thought I was black. I mean, I wanted

to be black

because I was crosshatched,

stuck between the earth and the air,

caught in a pickle, jumped from the frying

pan to the fire,

  called the kettle black, had a complex complexion,

because all I could do was injure my own injin’s engine.