by Sean Thomas Dougherty(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.
