April 18, 2021Unrest
to DMX, rap icon, 1970–2021
Yesterday they said
it would rain thunder
today, but the sun
sits pretty as a bride
in the uneventful
sky. The weatherman
says nothing is
certain, especially
tomorrow. You know
now if heaven is
real. It would
be a tragedy if
death is all there is.
Life is depression
with some stubborn
rays was the theme
of your songs. In death,
the New York Times
called you a soulful
but troubled
rapper. The Post
had you on its cover
next to a loveable
dead Prince. The headline
called you brilliant
but troubled again. One
paper notes
your 15–17 children,
your legacies. A Facebook
video shows you
in a radio interview
explaining how you
met crack at 14.
How your older
rap mentor tricked
you into smoking
crack-laced
weed. You want
to cry. You say
you can’t believe
someone would
introduce
such a monster
to a kid. You say
your rap mentor
was a gift and a curse.
He brought you to rap
and to crack. The guy
on the radio plays
“Slippin’,” your best
song, about growing
up in a fog of poverty,
abuse, crime
and juvenile detention
centers. “I learned to stand
without a helping
hand,” you growl.
“I’m slippin’, I’m fallin’,
I can’t get up.” I first heard
this song when I flew
to CT from Jamaica
at 13. My father treated
me like a stranger
and my stepmother
treated me like
a hurdle to her happiness.
I listened to you
in that song day
and night. How nights
you found comfort
in stray dogs in Yonkers
after your mom kicked you
out. I saw you in concert
once in a smoky
joint called Toad’s
Place. You were 2 hours
late. You started
out by praying for 5
minutes. Then you
rolled out hit after
hit. You stopped
in the heart of your set
to pray again for 20
minutes. I could feel
your tortured spirit.
I was on a bad date
with a woman
who hated my expensive
cologne. She even inched
closer to another
guy and wouldn’t let
me dance with her.
Finally a fan put up
a sign and you plucked
it from the crowd and read
it: “Even Jesus wants
to hear the hits, X.”
You barked out
songs about being
buried inside the cage
of a prison. You would
have made another
one about the headlines
today: cop stopped black
life after routine
traffic stop. There’s more
unrest. People jump
on cars and chant
for equality and justice.
The cop said
she mistakenly pulled
a gun instead
of a taser. People
are not sure how you
died. Some say
overdose. Some say
heart attack. Others
say both and a lifetime
of anguish. You once
rapped about your heart
that doesn’t bleed. I believed
you when you said:
“to live is to suffer
but to survive,
well, that’s to find meaning
in the suffering.”
The sun blooms
again. Too bad
you survived winters
to leave in spring.
A Benz rolls by
on beats, windows
cracked, your voice
escaping.
from Poets Respond