ode to the clown prince
for Biz Markie
boogers & vapors.
the odd long islander
from new jerusalem.
big brother of the native
tongues. who let hip-hop
be weird & hilarious
who lead a youth culture
of hard knocks to keep
a schoolyard crush
& expand the possibility
of what a generation could feel
about love & love ourselves.
you couldn’t sing but from dug
from the gut a blues with such longing
we cried from laughing & sung
with you, surprising ourselves
of what we might become. we grew
with each note, record. party
-rockin man of the people
in a powdered wig & gold rope.
an alchemist mixing the improbable
improv-able, in-the-moment entertainer.
improving the sound of terror
when faces crack rocked
& mean mugged. you cracked
us up, humpty dump-ied
put the pieces back together
in new & thrilling ways.
nobody beats the Biz. even the biz
-ness of white people trying to regulate
& legislate freedom. they tried to serve
you, said sampling is taking. only acceptable
when down by the empire. now the record
companies are failing & scrambling
& sampling’s considered high art, post-modern
pastiche.dissertated at all the museums.
you won the war. you got what i need.
a haircut ahead of your time. four decades
of boxing beats, a master of the technique
& techniques. controller of the needle & 45
beloved court jester, jack-of-all-trades
telling the king(s) where they could sit
& spin
