Spoken Words: Poems by Infinite the Poet

Kumbaya

March 15th, 2012   admin  Uncategorized   No Comments »

Kumbaya my lord

Lights turned off refrigerator is hot, 7 or 8 people in a 1 bedroom, full of folding cots, at night it’s so ever quiet, the only sounds you hear are the 7 or 8 bellys, howling a hunger riot, we placed pillows over bellys so the sound dampers, baby’s wrapped in cloth, no income to afford pampers, heads of household pacing towards and backwards, hoping tomorrow will end today’s sorrows, and bring us fun and laughter

Kumbaya my lord kumbaya

I see him/ her alone pushing a baby stroller, no friends no family, no baby shower, an abused single mom or a divorced dad, traveling the city to eat like modern day nomads, shelters in the winter , parks in the summer, community centers for a cold breakfast, a warm lunch, and a mix of the two for dinner, one outfit wardrobes, broke, down to their very last compound, after pawning what’s was around their necks and earlobes, and after everything that was worth something was sold

Hear me crying my lord

Young kids with no direction, looking in mirrors , like vampires, they saw no direction, caught up in the streets misconception, get burnt in the flames, spontaneous combustion , to these ghetto streets it’s easy to get sucked in, why would they want to live tomorrow knowing it’s gonna be dejavu , someone’s adds to the murder rate, birthday cakes, then flower at a wake, they feel they have no reason to live, so these bars I continue to give, the economy is screwed so death and drugs plague our city, it’s destroying our people, faster than H I V

Hear me crying my lord, kumbaya

1 rpg kills 30 plus marines, we loose a seal team, bring my brothers and sisters back from over seas, stop sending them home in coffins please, we kill Hussein we kill Osama , why continue to fill the killed at war wall, and bringing sorrow to military wives , husbands and mothers? Young and veteran brave hearts, protecting by killing and then getting killed, it’s the same thing, equal but opposite reactions like Ying and yang, when is this war gonna end?

OH LORD KUMBAYA

Infinite the Poet 2012
Albert Carrasco

The Devil Temps

March 15th, 2012   admin  Uncategorized   No Comments »

The devil temps so don’t go letting him work for you, as soon as an evil thought is derived, he’s immediately notified, off the deaf dumb and blind he thrives. For instance…

Guns
I carry a gun for protection, i walk the hood, mean muggers are mugging, i mug back, I should of not paid attention, but I got a tool of the devils trade and it’s serenade is telling me inf you can’t be played, theres three of them, blam blam blam, three lay, I run off yelling “don’t ef with me” a few days later I’m locked up and the devil is still running free, he didn’t get caught but he was my co d (co defendant)

Burglary
Damn my rent is late, two days ago was the last time I ate. my neighbor is doing better than I am, she’s single and always leaves to work about 8, I’m gonna wait till she leaves, break in and search her house for the safe, the money and jewelry would help the condition in my place. Today’s different, she’s not going to work she’s picking up a date, on the way back home they see the window is open and the window guards are broken. Shhhhh i think someones in the house lurking, they enter the back door, the date grabs a knife from in the kitchen, they tip toe to the second floor, they see the burglar, a fight starts, the neighbor gets stabbed through the heart, stumbles and dies.
A quick investigation proves the dates self defense claim sticks, death due to breaking and entering

Peer pressure
Take this, don’t be a sissy, you want money right? You take 30% I take 70%, I’ll change your life, just do it right, go advertise, here take this number when you finish just text come over. Wow you did that fast, you got my cash? A beat down ensues, what you mean you lost the stash? Now instead of a fee you work for free, ducking the stick up kids and the dee’s, while the pusher is home counting sheep in his sleep. after awhile working the streets for free instead of a fee, when you do finally get to see the money it’s hard to leave. You get used to it. Now your the hustler that hustles other brothers, yo yo yo shorty take this, from every 100 you get 20 I get 80′ it will change your life.

Infinite the Poet 2012
Albert Carrasco

Urban Poetry

February 17th, 2012   admin  Uncategorized   No Comments »

I knew when it was diner time I heard moms whistles out the window it would echo echo echo, I would drop everything haul ass to my house to feast, wasn’t guaranteed that the next day we would be able to eat, that’s just how it was. Moms would buy two slices cut them in half, now there’s pizza for the four of us, no coke or pepsi, we shared two fifty cent buss offs, that’s no frills soda, more like coloring with bubbles in water.
We went down hill from there, it got worse when I lost my father, we wanted those two slices like usual but without daddy we was always short a few dollars, his presence was crucial. We had to give up that fine Italian dinning, for rice with cans of corned beef or those blue boxes of craft Mac and cheese for a few weeks, out of the month this was dinner for the next 21 days, add a little whole kernel corn now were eating gourmet.
on the week of the first and third welfare and s s I , we ordered an entire pie, we had beans and steak with that rice, ground meet to the Mac and cheese now we got ghetto ziti, I wished that wasn’t triweekly, I would of been strong like John Henry, no worries mommy when you said eat as much as we can, I knew the message being sent, my old earth needed the rest of the money for rent.

I understood….
I hope she understands….

What type of man would I be? although I was a twelve year boy, how can a man watch a women fall and not pick them up? Well I got tired of moms on her knees praying for all the things we need but couldn’t afford, got tired of asking her why housing men kept banging on the door, why they embarrass us and tape eviction notices on our door! So I became one of those lost kids selling crack in from of local neighborhood bodegas, crack dope coke weed whatever, it wasn’t for fame like most of these lames, I had an agenda, I know I know we both sold substances to make people other than themselves, so me and them lames were no better than each other, I just wanted to help my mother after loosing my father, to help feed her and my brothers, I dealt with the elements like a piece of weather stripping , rain, hail ,sleet ,snow I was out there pitching, I became an alley cat amongst kittens, in time the big dogs started showing me love, I became the runt of the liter, this is not contradiction this the illegal life transition, so I transitioned into position after position, I no longer was pitching, I no longer had to cook with moms dishes in her kitchen, I was making money that’s what I was wishing, and that wish became true! From cans of roast beef to filet mignon, from 50 cent buss offs to moet and chandon, from foot patrolling to Beemer and benzes with Harmon kardons, and Rockford fosgates, blasting rock me Amadeus, tka’s tears may fall, or krs 1 getting his foot in the door with Scott la rock had em all, I was living that life style like it was my life, it was like if i was married to the game the streets were my wife, we was living like stars shinning ever so bright, first class flights.

I’m not poor any more and I love it!
Or do I?

One by one life was getting dark, stars were no longer shining, the money flow started declining, kids was killing kids we were dying or going to jail, Funeral precessions, or incarceration, no more money for bail, from living lavish to living right back into the ghetto, our modern day hell, fathers of the dead look at me and they see their sons, mothers of the dead look at me and call me their son, those dead sons called me their brother, i was supposed to be my brothers keeper, why wasn’t I there when they fought the reaper, we traveled in packs, why was there only one white bag with a lot of red being packed in a human zip lock, these were my friends before the rock before the money, I left it alone , lord may I have them back this is a cold world without them I feel so lonely

The aftermath

I breath poetry , I write to African beats that move me, it does something to me, puts me in a trance, so I let my pen dance like Alvin Ailey , with my art I’m gonna save some ghetto babies , I’m gonna change the visions some adults see, most see one dimensionally, my words and visions are hi fi plasma three dimensional , like Che- malcom either one and Garvey, my urban prose poetry is non conventional, I’m a project life, ghetto street atlas, a hood paraprofessional, poor people’s readers digest, I wanted to make change now I’m making change, I’m a bicentennial

Infinite the Poet 2012
Albert Carrasco
www.infinitethepoet.com

Shorty Thug

February 17th, 2012   admin  Uncategorized   No Comments »

I watched them, they stood outside days through nights like watchmen.
cars, rims, jewelry, all shinning, this is the vintage south bx, castle hill, soundview, the bully and Watson…
I walked through these streets with my dad, I was a familiar face, i saw what would always take place…
Hand to hand gestures to legendary investors, these guys all became my mentors, they just didn’t know yet…
An adolescent face amongst men, i wouldn’t speak, I would take no offers for candy, just move out my way. my vision is focused on my daddy, and I watched…
Bahando, subiendo , the voice you hear on corners echoing from where the look outs are perched….
Trey bags of weed in yellow envelopes, glassine’s stamped with the owners antidote, I was learning and jotting down the hustlers manual…
Dad would be gone for a while, so I watched other players play, until he touched down from the panama canal, duffle bags, all smiles…
I was like a pleat in his jeans…
He died….
I was passed his hustling genes…
My widowed mother frantically pondered on how shell feed me and my brothers…
Shorty thug was born….
I knew the recipe for death, so I brewed destruction, seeing momma cry was to hard for consumption…
So I ran the same strips, same corners, crossed the same boarders, everywhere I went it was about the dough, I was the rebellious son of alfred carrasco aka Indio…
From nickel and dimming , to enterprising and organizing in NYC housing , to death ,incarceration, I was loosing everyone around me….
And we were just teens…
I was on the wrong path to the riches, bullet holes, and stab wound Stitches, secret indictments from observations and snitches….
Confidential informants introducing themselves on the low with deception they ruin our intentions to blow…
Instead of hasbro, I literally played with blocks, i wanted to be willy like wonka, yukons, caddy’s, navigators. tonkas…
Like “Joe” I don’t wanna be a player no more, so I let it go….
Shorty thug had bigger plans.. Infinite the poet, from the streets to a business man.

Infinite the Poet 2012
Albert Carrasco
www.infinitethepoet.com

Door Ajar

February 2nd, 2012   admin  Uncategorized   No Comments »

I was soul searching while the reaper was searching for my soul, i was walking through the fire of hell at just twelve years old, i had to keep walking or I would of died from ghetto monoxide, my soles were burning, as long as i kept running i would evade the flames consumption, so I ran like gump in a burning forest, scared to stop, thought it would of been spontaneous combustion. My soles were burning the reaper is following my fiery footprints looking for it’s culprit, he’s the ring leader of the devils circus, i was walking in hell the devil owned it, the reaper is his soldier that hovers the surface making offers to be the keeper of my brothers. I saw light, it was a door ajar, I sprinted for it , the reaper gave chase, but…… I was met by god, the reaper swung his sword, it was deflected by the lord. I ask how did you know i was here? He say to me I was watching you from a higher level, your burning foot prints weren’t from walking in hell, wrong thesis, it was from Hephaestus, I asked for him to ignite your shoes, I honed in on them like gps. I say thank you! He says I ask one thing of you, you must pave the way for others to escape like I did for you today! I said ok, so I write away, follow my side ways eight, I’m burning an “infinite” passage with my flaming lemniscate powered by god, look for the light that’s me leaving the door i escaped through ajar

Infinite the Poet 2012
Albert Carrasco
www.infinitethepoet.com

I’m so glad to be me!

February 2nd, 2012   admin  Uncategorized   No Comments »

I’m so glad to be me! I’ve been lied to, people made me promises they always broke, i was never really cared for, so poor I had to wait till the first or third day of the month for mammas food stamps, or the money from dads social security so we could eat, I loved my mom just like she loved her son, hey al take this(food stamps), go to the bodega tell them mamma needs a favor, I give them 100 they’ll give me 70 cash, now that’s the money for a fresh pair of air force 1’s, so I don’t get teased or snapped on in class, mom tried her best alone, since dad passed.

I’m so glad this happened to me! I’ve seen mamma lord calling, on the floor in fetal balling, “lord help me I don’t know wether I’m coming or going” no money, she didn’t know if we would have a home some mornings. Adjustment to her not having dad was a tragic mourning, she looked like she was loosing her mind, waiting at the window as if she was looking for angels in the appearance of this- father of mines. She looked for a halo over wavy hair, wings protruding from dark skin, tall and handsome, she would look for these signs of him, she loved him.

I’m so glad this happened to me! Flustered with frustration I found myself falling into hells plantation , I fell victim to what was being cooked in the devils kitchen, to help moms was what I was wishing, instead of pitching coins in to a well, I pitched coke and crack when baking soda was added in, then boiled in the leviathan. I’m scarred, my bullet holes look like those little gunshot stickers people put on cars. for me and my friends declaring war to try to live like stars, I can play “52 pick up” or “I declare war” with funeral cards with all those that I knew that went with god.

Flatlined

The rebirth

I’m so glad this happened to me! Now I get to speak reality to the children who will become modern slaves in this urban community, i want to write life on leaves that fell from trees with no light. I can’t because they died, i would of enlighten them. so now I’m lyrically planting seeds to bring forth trees without disease like Dr wangari maathai, I don’t write for things just monetary, but i need the currency to get me out of the situations i am in currently, I write to save lives, I’ll do it for free with the hope one day Like the dr, I can win a noble peace prize, until then, I’ll keep writing this underground urban poetry like I’m the son of ms Tubman.!! Follow my lemniscate to freedom

Infinite the Poet 2012
Albert Carrasco
www.infinitethepoet.com

Tunnel Vision

January 18th, 2012   admin  Uncategorized   No Comments »

I had tunnel vision,
there was no light at the end so it was a dark journey,
I was passed the torch of street life fame
Didn’t help me in this dark journey,
it had no flame
So aIl I really was, was a name in this journey
He’s this he’s that
I was blind as a bat
A bumpy journey
Please doc don’t bump me while pushing me on a gurney
I said that a few times on this journey
5 bullet scars mark this journey
That’s why I asked doc not to bump the gurney
Why they keep shooting me?
I should of not questioned the journey
Now everyone around me are victims of shootings,
Pow x twenty
Doc please don’t bump those twenty gurneys
Doc don’t take out the iv
Doc no don’t you dare touch that plug
They won’t be able to breath
Take that tag off there toe
Doc their so cold
He gives me a prescription
It says “permission to look in a different direction”
I no longer have tunnel vision

Infinite the Poet 2012
Albert Carrasco
www.infinitethepoet.com

Mind Tricks

January 18th, 2012   admin  Uncategorized   No Comments »

My motto was why stop?, all the guys that dropped could of stopped, they didn’t, so I’m not, fuck it come kill me, I was rebelling, why? Because inside i was hurting.
So many died, I didn’t want the world to think I was weak alone, don’t ever disrespect my gangster, I had to much pride.
Inf sorry to hear what happened to your boy I hope he rest in peace, that same dude walks away burst out in laughter, they really didn’t care for my deceased.
My mind played tricks on me.
I was the youngest, how does time pass and I become the oldest?
I’m even older than my dad, he stopped aging at 35, I’m five years older than him when he died.
I felt confined without being locked up, that was my state of mind.
” I don’t know anything else but the hustle”, that was mine and many others trouble.
No outlets, mind tricks, but if given packs we know how to bubble them in the projects.
No options, couldn’t be optimistic, unless we talked about death and which way the reaper will pay us a visit.
I mastered the craft of people that don’t last and it scared me, its so hard to evade the three felony law, I’m glad that wasn’t in effect while I was growing up as an eighties baby, because instead of a poem this would be a letter written from me, while serving life in some penitentiary. I got a second chance. I won’t regress, all my life I had less, there’s only room to advance.
I always asked myself, al what are you gonna be after this, in had no answer, I was used to selling dimes and nickels, bustn caps or swinging knuckles, the answer to that question for years stood in limbo.
I heard the voices, just wasn’t listening, my third eye was giving visions, I paid them no mind, the pain of poverty wasn’t letting me see in clarity, I was caught up pitching in for the pushers charity, i was a statistic like most of us ghetto minorities, who were the majority of the hustlers making a living in housing lobbies.
I want to say sorry to the world! My mind played tricks on me, I’ve should of got reincarnated sooner to save the crack baby boomers, its hard to let go when that life consumes ya, mind tricks, brain comesutra left us in awkward positions

Infinite the Poet 2012
Albert Carrasco
www.infinitethepoet.com

The Hustle

December 14th, 2011   admin  Uncategorized   No Comments »

I’ve pitched on corners where original gangsters told me I couldn’t, I didn’t care, my dad was “indio” all I had to do was throw his name in the air, the respect was there. The stick up kids wouldn’t dare. My dad was a hustler of all sorts, mvp in the game of death or riches, daddy died I carried out his legacy, I arose to fame, became one of the streets most recognized name if your house sold cain, it was against his wishes. It was already too late. I started using mommas plates, gem star to cookie break, after the powder turned to oil then solid all inside of a pirex, rocks first the shake is last, I used the boiling water to get the excess off the glass, did the math, bombs to the runners to run marathons so fiends can blast, cash was coming in super fast, daddy’s respect wouldn’t last, so I collided with the streets like a fatal car crash, E R’s surgery stitches staples, shit bags, death, eternal souls clashed.

When people dropped we didn’t call the cops we did our own investigations, our own forensics, full clips were emptied by the faculty we went ballistic, my team got clips emptied on too, r I p to the never forgotten youths of the 80’s, we all were babies running crazy trying to be all we can be by reaching a key.

At that day and time everyone new us, we were notorious, the top of la costra nostra list, we fended off many hits, but a lot of my guys died when I wasn’t around to stop it, I would of intervened, a street professional I would of peeped the movement, let go 16, it would of been them instead of my men in that bloody crime scene.

Since I wasn’t there I had to plan a funeral for them, kiss of death while there dressed there best laying in a coffin. Three days later burial, that same day, back on the block with the hustle apparel, a mural, a picture some liquor, candles flicker, different day same story just short another brother,

We fought hard for the throne, to become kings of the castle we held our own, the price.. Half my brothers got sent back home.

This is why I write about the game and no longer play it

Infinite the Poet
Albert Carrasco
www.infinitethepoet.com

Peak

December 14th, 2011   admin  Uncategorized   No Comments »

At my peak, I wondered how it would end, I continued but always wondered what would transcend, all of us rich with no worries, I really did imagine this, but it was a mental oasis, my vision was blurry. We started as peasants arose to be kings, we was living the dream, a bunch of poverty bounded kids forming the illest street team in search of cream, that formed an alliance, a regime that broaden to a monopoly, we monopolized to capitalize in the city that never sleeps, so we hustled to the wee hours of the morning

We were warned, im not even gonna lie, after being as poor as we was, we said why not try?, nothing mattered, we had nothing to leave behind if we died, that was our state of mind.

We was running the track like lewis, johnson and kursey, because not was it only men, there was young females growing up along side of me in poverty, and are a part of me, and the family tree

Everybody loved me as I loved them, some would get locked up in foreign places, do years come home with smiles on their faces as soon as they saw me, true love. And since I loved them back, I couldn’t continue that same story

I only got to have my men by me for a few years at a time, the time in between was time confined, I needed just more than a few years at a time to share what we made on the grind, I shine so they was shining but now they started dying for the things we was grinding.

We was doing wrong, but doing it so right, hustling hard and keeping the circle tight, just got tired of not knowing when its gonna be one of our last nights, like expendable gladiators in a death fight, got tired of seeing dripping mascara, weeping fathers, kids with the hope of being raised with mom AND dad shattered, got tired of loosing the people that mattered, if I was to do a reunion with just the people I ran with, it would be really hard, it would be me, about 7 others, and about 12 funeral cards of people that are now walking with god

Our round table has empty seats of missing kings that can never be used again, because there’s no equal to the life of my men,

I walked away from it all while at my peek, now I’m back to complete my cipher, I’m back to teach

Infinite the Poet
Albert Carrasco
www.infinitethepoet.com

My Bio

Albert Carrasco is not only a spoken word artist, but also a motivational speaker, using his words to uplift young people faced with the same difficult life choices as he was. Growing up in the Bronx, New York, Carrasco lost his father at age 12 and within four years he was arrested, shot twice and dealing drugs. He saw so many of his friends die off and he couldn’t stand the idea of his newborn son growing up into that life, so 12 years ago Carrasco turned his life around. He began to write poetry as a release, tapping into the harsh lyrical honesty that continues to permeate in his writings

Author Infinite the poet
Albert carrasco
lulu.com infinite poetry