co-producer, vocals Def Sound
engineer Brodie Means
producer Chief Adjuah
producer, lead vocals Aja Monet
recorded by, mixed by Dave Weingarten
vocals Ferrari Sheppard
vocals Helen Peña
vocals Hollis Heath
vocals Maria Arellano
vocals Muna Malik
vocals Saul Williams
vocals Vic Mensa
“I wrote this poem incorporating the magic of Brooklyn as a place of surrealist visions and with deep gratitude for being born of this borough and all the poetry it gave me.”

Lyrics:
on the humble
i believe havin these dreams
where im people watchin
with basquiat
sittin on a curb
on bedford ave
sippin piraguas
talkin about
never thought id live to see the day coulda sworn i saw otis blackwell walkin out the corner store
on atlantic ave
smokin a loosie
whistlin a new tune
for elvis to cover
and it was gully right cuz i
caught biggie on a stoop
in bed stuy
sellin dope to a hipster
with ready to die tatted
along the pale of his arm
hadnt seen a hoopty
in a while
when ol dirty bastard pulled up offerin me a ride to
the pink houses
and suddenly a handsome mocha man sittin on a nearby fire escape
calls my name
i could tell it was jackie
by the dodgers stitched
across his chest
he told me

i miss home
and then it all fades to black
when i woke the blue moon was sprawlin
out from its hidin place
limbs hangin over the shoulder
of night, after lovers
had abandoned their bodies laughin in the corners
of each other.
i was a fulton lamppost
staring at the sky’s cheekbones shy of stardust
through the blinds of j train tracks this is how it feels to dream
of being moonlight in east ny
a concrete plant
collecting whispers
of bodega blues
darling sunrise
tickles drumbeat hips
swaying through the
air of sazón
and i envy the morning’s swag boom boxes hold our windows
open in July
we face our fears
on the cyclone
call romance
a stroll along the boardwalk in coney island
head nods pay respect on beat
boys playin skully in the street

we used to buy our kicks
in city line
roll a blunt for our fallen
soldiers, and spark
a generation in love with spray cans and naked tenement buildings graffiti the spirits of hustlas
with bubble letters
mr softee summers meant
stealin abuelas
santo offerings
for tweety bird on a popsicle stick. playin hopscotch
on the broken sidewalk eavesdropping on front stoop gossip, hair braiding
fingers dancin btwn strands of air
brothers get caught in gangs get caught
in barbershops
get caught
on street corners
get caught
thrown against the hood of cop cars seen one too many handcuffs
on the wrists of brown and black skin we dock slave ships on our shores daily know rikers island
like a country home
im convinced
my father conceived me
in king’s county arraignments

while daydreamin
of freedom
i owe my life
to the woman
who stopped my mother on the b56
on her way
to the abortion clinic and told her
you have a poet coming.