River Heart Revisited
Let's workshop a rough draft of one of the songs from the Beacon Speaks album
River Heart Revisited
When I think about the city that I am from
first thing that comes back djembe drum
beatnik sling on my back mountain lunch
ticks cling—bullseye more than once
Donkey trail, ^East Main, Howlund bums
They howl in Beacon summer months
“Who the fuck took my bottle?”
Detour Green Street Park bball fun
Who got ups?—Dink and Flanagon
Little Lordy five foot but schooling em
Who got next?—Yogi Carlos Fuzz
Who’s missing? Devon Nigh Steph and Ums
likely loopers, Lunsford basket dunk
should(b)ders on which ^Elijah Hughes stood up
Gotta link river date with Vital plus
wouldn’t join anyway not good enough.
Picking (b)knuckle scabs ^from inse(b)cure wall punch,
instead to myself some rhymes I strung
at my side a rheumy-eyed city drunk
“Let’s hear a little fuckin’ ditty”
Sunhigh freestyling never stumped
Mandalas—too pumped not to be fecund
Lyrics (b)lost now, shake my head “Damn it son”
Yet that time on the low I tape recorded them.
on the ^low I tape recorded them
Re(b)clusive youth^ ruled by (b)tubes and food.^ Soon ya (b)bet that changed. Thus, ^with shootin’ (b)hoops with a(i)^m- os I (b)brushed away^ the weight. And such^ is the way(b) I gained the ^boon that I cre(b)ate my fate. Then I ^knew that facing (b)clutch I could ^separate(b) from the ^lush who (b)gave me his name. On the (b)rush of seeing ^things different ways—no ^poontang
up in ^podunk (b)shrooms and s^kunk induced (b)altered states, what (b)monks edu^ce on the Hima(b)layn range.^ Lessons ^gained of fu(B)nk as blunts^ we blazed (B)in the green-hu^ed Susuki all-terrain.^ (b)Everything great^ until it be(b)came a crutch.^ (b)Dukin’ jakes
^duckng myself; ad^dicted like pop (b)dukes and my ^town. I (b)frown when someone ^revelates: “(b)genius is in^ the ge(b)nes”. ^How can I ev(b)er fulfill my ^dreams with (b)genes like these? And view (b)me, A^busing weed,(b) Ful^filling my c(b)lan’s destin^y. Skip (b)school, yellow ^boombox, (b)Digable P. We jet jet we jettin . “We jet jet we jettin.” <fill in with Digable Planets (Blowout Comb) in studio version>
Dur(b)kins next: dutchies and bubble gum.
No bling—Istvan got no funds
but for Vital Grace: ^fifty cent honey bun.
A(b)mos inside quarter-water dutch
My man Josh got some ^jerky for them to munch.
“Yo what (b)up Ist? ^Down for dis dig?”
“Dis (b)dig, nah” a ^tactic we used too much.
But Kirk, like his brothers, don’t give a fuck
Josh walked right out pants forty stuffed.
“One (b)love, Cut^stello on the cuts!”
Bop(b)ping down the block in the hazy sun
I pass (b)wino faces pumpkin sunk
Uncle Joe Main Street bottle collection
Scream(b)in out—“dot-head fucking cunts”
at his feet Kennedy Fried Chicken crumbs.
Though he (b)still dec^ided to say what’s up
bum fuck, he tried to play me as a punk.
“Radio hits—ha I ain’t heard not one.
If you rap” he said, “then show me some”
So I did—staring at his missing fronts.
Sunhigh freestyling open never stumped
Mandalas—too pumped not to be fecund
Lyrics lost now, shake my head “Damn it son”
Yet that time on the ^low I tape recorded them
on the ^low I tape recorded them
See, we oft^ antici(b)pate ^what will become but that ^vision can (b)fold into a ^prison when to (b)it we suc^cumb and let it (b)dictate^ our a(b)bility to ^deviate from what we’(b)re sup^posed to adhere. ^In the end (b)what have we done?^ At the mo(b)st, proved “^we are fate-s(b)eers?!” So goes Joe the bum,^ breath s(b)melling of b^eer, telling (b)everyone ^he would end up (b)here, in that ^shape. (b)Sure we have the ^wisdom that free-(b)will is an aged,^ metaphysical claim ^ used to im(b)pute guilt and ^blame and that our (b)milieu and ^genes are of (b)what we are m^ade. But one can^not (b)know one’s ^fate while (b)living in life. So (b)why should we a^lly with some (b)idea of our ^fortune? (b)Though it can supp^ly one with (b)drive and help him ^vie to (b)temper his s^kill, it can (b)also confine^ and here(b)by stulti^fy his will.(b)
^This implies that (b)amor fati (b)Need not always ^be an a(b)cceptance of an un^changeable fin(b)ality, ^but a delicate(b) balance be^tween fore(b)sight and vo^lition. (b) Fucking Uncle Joe you ain’t even (b)listenin
There (b)was a man who ^fit the description as the fr^uition of the (b)juxtaposition between the (b)parts of this par^tition for he (b)had the dis^position to a(b)ccept that he was ^not a great mu(b)sician in ^order to tran(b)sition ^out of the rut of (b)musical inhi^bition so (b)elsewhere he could ful^fill another (b)mission.
Now ^aged and su(b)rrounded by kittens, the (b)man picks up the ^instrument(b) he gave u^p on (b)years ago to ^focus on (b)written compo^sition as an (b)academi^cian. (b)Sitting in the ^lotus position burning ^balm, now he h(b)as the ammun^ition of (b)focus and ca^lm that he did (b)not have as a ^youth with a (b)lack of ap^lomb, a con(b)dition that ^used to make him (b)bomb when ^performing at shows.—^Heart rate high now ^love you uncle (b)Joe Late! Sucks they don’t take back Top (b)Pop bottles in New (b)York state.
Now (b)late to Vi^tal Grace I (b)gotta run
Dave and Randy bump by “Yo love you, cuz”
Tomp(b)kins low income everyone
Little guys—shooting waterguns
Poverty but still ^time for shenanigons
East side—of the Hudson superfund
Neighbor(b)hood threats south of power kingdom.
Me and Vital Grace riverbank tokin blunts
Cride Shaw Al away cokin bumps
This four years before DIA museum
Our mamas—poor but keeping heads above
Vit’s boombox: Mikah 9 Awol one,
Mobb Deep kids feeling that LA love
LMNO Murs Eligh crazy stuff
Mountain range Newburgh freight train horizon
Hudson line MTA train behind us
Pink sky setting sun that’s when (b)we begun
Beatbox improv until lips went numb
Forefathers—African rhythm hum
Moonrise freestyling n-n- never stumped
Mandalas—too pumped not to be fecund
Lyrics (b)lost now, shake my head “Damn it son”
Yet that time on the low I tape recorded them.
on the ^low I tape recorded them
Cutstello Vital Grace fade from distant abodes, to that Hudson place, fade from the common zone into meditative planes. The river washes insecurity away and tames thirsty brains. Ablazed in flames. With the ^funky knowledge forms the sun be^gins to fade. ^King—co-bra dr^ink. Po(b)tential moon-glow becoming actual; cricket chirps sounds in sync.
Logic becomes unsubstantial. Hearts beat with careless ease, pumping hard reaching unconditioned states. Abrim with life and absolved of need.
^In the dark awareness radiates soft earth becomes cool, it became peach before nights offensive. Funky wisdom permeates out of the tool of flesh, foolish steps, stressing fundamental concepts. Transcending ego, nothing is left. Single point mind, steady breath diaphragm pull, avoiding clicking in the chest, vibrational pulse. Rings of energy fade in the dark hole of my closed eye-sight, reflecting back on my life DNA being.
Clouds pass by exposing the anemic satellite. The moon’s high in the sky reflecting the light of the unseen fire orb. (b)River scum sight drum strikes (b)Wave caps smash the rocky crag shore and to our backs a ^couple of (b)railroad tracks. River unite blunts ignite. Our living ancestry are fishermen who baited hooks with plump blood-worms right here on the rocks where we sit. Discovering our sense of jazz fin-^ger-print mom dad. River in sight no stage fright. River midnight air mic. River insights through windpipes. We suppress our stress, the high breathing in the chest that comes with anxiousness. The speed-scream of an oncoming train does not negate the music on which we concentrate. This is how we the knowledge forms train our bowl-like brains. So we recognize the presence of the train without letting it disintegrate the rhythm we keep with the waves. The stimuli does not throw us of our projected course, Of course it cannot be ignored, The force is too great. But instead we learn conjugate the commotion that invades Our musical domain, With our musical domain. (b)Gazing within.
Gazing within barley-hops transcend to weed, respectively innate between an inebriated pops intoxicated self. Adherence develops as we pursue external help. Locks are put on freedom we remain held by our thirsts. Impermanence hurts, afterwards searching for words. Then we realize, NO WORDS CAN DESCRIBE. The heart of the river manifests thru the mic, mandalas we freestyle all night. The heart of the river manifests thru the drum, paradiddles we explore the rhythms of love. The heart of the river manifests thru the record, funky (b)knowledge forms skratch to reach our center.
The song is dedicated to Vital Grace, who—decades later—has yet to write a damn verse for the original “River Heart.” I can’t thank you enough for that time my brother.
Love this shit