"profiled" poems
Contentment is the greatest evil in the human grab bag of emotions.
It’s born out of the head of ignorance,
it resides in the heart of the blind.
It manifests its evil doctrine of passiveness throughout the body,
until fully enslaved by inaction.
It turns agents into sun tanners,
activists into office workers,
outlaws into accountants.
It puts preservatives into culture, it laminates laws,
it places crowns on faceless leaders.
It slaps a smile across the ***** the beaten, the neglected,
the racially profiled.
It mutes news casts,
veils the homeless man that lives behind office buildings,
glorifies the paycheck.
It makes the walls of homes seem bullet, terror, bomb,
corruption, and death proof.
It allows sleep at night,
it kills the monsters under the bed and the ghosts in the closet.
It causes hundreds of thousands of suffering people to simply, disappear.
It insures, “birds like to be caged,”
and “pain is just part of the human condition.”
It whispers these misconceptions
like a priest insuring his congregation of the power of Jesus. Contentment, you see, corrupts the very concept of progress.
Progress is deemed by the million-pieces-of-paper-owners to be founded in terms of economy.
Progress is deemed by the people-who-stop-us-from-returning-to-state-of-nature to be founded in terms of control.
Progress has forgotten it’s maker,
just as dying old men forget that they were once bounced on a loving knee.
Contentment leaks from the Western world
and infects all those around it.
When you are no longer content
you will begin to see the holes in the patchwork of life,
and wonder how it was you hadn’t seen them before.
When you are no longer content, you will at last demand change.
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 9:09 PM UTC
I want the hollow
Cheeks.
The full, adipose, smooth
Lips.
The white-boned,
Pearls she calls
Teeth.
I want the bright, clean,
Sun bleached
Hair.
The fine, sharpened,
Ready for scratching, Spotless
Nails.
The refined, sculpted,
Long, profiled
Nose.
I want gold to flake,
Off my ageing,
porous, dull,
Skin.
I want the protruding,
Famished, angled
Bones.
I want the pumping,
Arrhythmic
Heart.
The tired, hissing,
Tar coated, smoker’s
Lungs.
The round, fleshy,
Cellulite covered
***
The motherly, but
Childless plump
*******
I want the barren,
Bleeding, afflicted
******
I want the faint,
Wispy, high-pitched,
Call that she calls a
Voice.
The bruised, bulging,
Porcelain polished, etched
Knuckles.
The wide, protruding,
Ballooned up, dangling
Hips.
The numb, heavy, metal
Flavored, gum bleeding
Mouth.
I want the skewed,
Backwards, lost
Pedals she calls
Feet.
I want the hearing less,
Wax, pus covered,
Ears.
The lost dull, lifeless
Dumbed down, blue
Eyes.
I want to be her,
All of them, and none.
I want to be lost,
Unwilling, tame, voiceless,
Mindless, childless,
Sexless, man-less.
I want to be her, but I
Can’t.
I cannot because I am
Thought burdened, fat,
Violent, screaming,
Child laden, broken nosed,
Coarse.
I cannot because dirt
Flakes off my young
Skin.
Because my heart pumps,
Oxygenated blood,
At a steady, rhythmic
Beat.
My voice baritones,
Deep, bottomless,
Whispers.
I sit on flat, concave
Muscle.
My lungs breathe,
Strong, fresh, smog-less
Air.
Yellow stained, grainy, calcium-ridden
Teeth.
Dark, musty, greased
Hair.
I want to be her,
But I won’t.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
a:\>_about_race_
oh, back in civil rights times
i would have been right
beside you fighting...
oh, what the hell you mean?
there-s no such thing as
racist police,
the conversation
should be about
black-on-black violence...
besides if he pulled up his pants
he wouldn-t have been profiled then
sure, mlk was killed in a suit,
but he was speakin' wild, man...
oh, and besides, i don-t see race,
i have colorblindness...
except if a poc gets a job over me,
then that-s the only
reason why they hired him...
why do we talk about racism,
it doesn-t exist, for
godssake can-t you see we have
a black president...
oh, please don-t play the race-card,
besides no one is more discriminated
against than we are...
oh, blacks shouldn-t say the n-word,
just cuz of how dreadful it sounds
oh, since we are best friends
can i say 'nigga' now, huh?
you won-t let me say it???
that-s discrimination! things are
different now, you are no longer
in enslavement...
catch up with this nation,
catch up with the times,
this isn-t about race,
why don-t you admit it?
just because i-m white doesn-t
mean i have privilege...
i mean open your eyelids,
i know blacks never got
indentured servitude
but for a second,
can we focus on the irish?
they suffered too, even if they
won-t subjected to
the same **** kidnapping,
mental breakdown to force subjugation,
and violence.
sure we always ostracized black people
but y-all put y-allselves on an island
y-all will get more respect if y-all just
stop embracing your race, your heritage
stop calling yourselves black
and african-american,
just call yourselves american
stop complaining,
and just be silent
i don-t like talking about race
so much controversy surrounds it...
you know the only way to stop
racism is just don-t talk about it.
j:\>_j_c_c_
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
how Eye make love,
this popped into my head
tho questioning this quest,
what purpose served, unknown...
lacking the infatuation to poetry write,
the mind retreats to the basics,
eye write with no destination,
wondering at the wonderment
of this basic actionable accolade...
sometimes,
be the
operative word,
sometimes
cooperative,
is the operative...
sometimes,
is but a
it just depends
who
is the initiate
and who possesses the initiative...
every story has a different
author, ending...
sometimes slow,
sometimes muy rapido
in foreign tongues
in foreign places,
the only commonality be that
wonderment
eye wish this not to be explanation,
eye wish this to be an explication
of the texts of sensual visionaries,
imagining the helping to happening,
the passageway to and from
where the mind begins,
the body completes its origination
oft I close my Eyes,
listening to hers,
her eye voices directing me,
what will be the course of our
course,
miss no Michelin starred landscapes,
through hers, mine Eyes triumphant...
tour guide excellente
cannot explain
why the temp sometimes
solar flares,
why the temp sometimes
is a glacial expedition,
tongue led,
from toes to eyelids...
always buy tickets for a
round trip flight...
how
is a titillation, begging you to read & expose,
there is no how, only sometimes better,
sometimes different...
why
is a question needs no asking...
when
when the shape of her profiled neck,
reflects shadows of further inquiry,
when her décolletage collects me
as she and her designer intended...
when
she laughs uproariously at my piquant,
suave and debonair one liners,
requiring kissing tickling calming
when
tears spill when reading
a new takeaway poem mine,
needy for a tongue to collect that spillway...
just being friendly appreciative and thanking
where
is when
the how and
the why
intersect
the intemperate weather of
being alone
subtle suggests
auto recollections
now know
the how, when, where and the
why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
of memories of past and present...
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Parting my subtle fingers, touching the silky,mellifluous hair
Slowly moving beneath,
Placing my hand beside ,
Drawn to your marvelous, profiled, sculpted, jawline
Teasing fore play and kisses,
Without wasting hesitation,
Removing fabrics swinging in rage across the room,
Bare back and body,
Temperature rising,
Top to bottom,
As you harden and drenched,
Your rugged , tempestuous hands,
Throwing a weak influenced temptation,
Into a lustful haze, spinning
An imitation on repeat,
The heat intoxicating , inflaming the bonds between our desires,
Penetrating our virginity,
Throbbing in and outwards,
Notion the anguish and agony ,
Discomforting in moving surfaces,
I plead within your name ,
Carelessly tugging and hanging onto your body,
Arms flung around your waist,
As you angrily demanded more from me,
Ordering to continue on wards,
The obsession grew expectantly,
A new form of infatuation,
Thrusting relentlessly,
Earsplitting moaning,
Sensual whispers,
Piercing marks ****** ,
Licked,
A Sign of ownership,
Smacking grip below,
Letting go uncontrollably,
Reaching into the endearing ******
Seizure,
Absolute Bliss.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
Me and the crew riding around in the PT Cruiser.
Soda oozin' out the cup like the one of Biggest Loser.
Don't let the insults be spiky, like the shell of King Koopa.
Goin' back and forth : we in the movie Looper.
Be chill like the Buddha.
Dude, uh, I think you dropped your burger.
Electric surger blew up like the Time Warner merger.
The inside of our place on fire ;
The officer called us liars.
Wanted to throw us in the manor on the Cliff of Briar.
Yeah, it's an American Horror Story.
Being profiled because of ethnicity,
We're Mexican, see,
But we're not gonna steal something worth $3.50.
Looking at us like monsters of Loch Ness.
Yeah, we may come from a pool of cess
But you're simply too incredulous
To think of a time other than 1955.
You can ruin our lives
And throw us in jail in the blink of an eye.
Don't even need to find
A shred of evidence to kick our behind.
You feel like we're behind your back
Cocking our guns with a slight click-clack.
About to shoot them off with a ratatatat
While we're caressing our "gang tats".
But that's not how it is.
You think we all give weapons to kids?
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
It's not as special as it sounds.
Although the title is exact.
I met the creator of the universe
In the dusty isle of discount mystery novels.
Had I not immediately known it was God
I would have profiled him a ****** predator.
Late middle aged and unshaven.
You're probably wondering but don't ask me.
I just knew, and you would to.
I asked him if he owned the place.
He said no, that he was the manager
To this tiny, tucked away bookstore.
He appeared to be an unhappy, lonely man.
There was a combination of comfort
And disappointment in this.
"Is there something you want to ask me?"
Of course there was.
"Why do you do this to all of us?"
He examined his fingernails
Pushing back his cuticals.
I could see the yellow of wax in his ears.
"I found myself existing.
Just the same way that you did."
He started with a sigh.
"I didn't understand,
and I'm still not sure I do.
Why do you live the way you do?
I was created and I try to make
the best of it just like you.
You see, I'm still trying to figure it all out.
I fail and I succeed.
I like to think I'm getting better."
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
The gardenias' Sweet
fragrance enveloped
the backlit silhouette of You.
Profiled diffusely against the
Aura of the Eclipsed Moon,
Our Gentle Guest.
J Eduardo Ramos©
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
******
A foggy head is a dangerous situation.
Can't think.
Always over-think.
I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
But, the tunnel is long.
Or it seems so to me.
Old friends seem old.
New ones too cynical.
Some groups are too loud.
No minute to despair.
Swear,swear and get back to work!
Some groups are too idealistic.
Salaries,profiles,de-profiled and
other depositions are discussed.
I watch them like a TVC,
Mindless yet grasping words.
Minimum to maximum.
Ina flushing of hormones.
Some women I meet ,
they complain about laying low.
Office politics, national politics,
play Tom and Jerry Show.
Each chasing each other.
Stuck in a vicious circle.
Egg rolls have been had,
and I am feeling a wee bit better.
But the vinegar-onion,
does nothing to my sketchy mind.
Its still foggy.
But I am patient.
I shall be calm.
Just like my love Siva.
Shall I be the quiet and the dangerous.
Or shall I be the butterfly to sit on your nose.
And kiss you silently.
I shall wait and give the fog some time.
I shall stand strong..
A foggy mind shall pass.
******
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 5:50 AM UTC
did it help?
feed a cold
starve the child
ponder this for a little while
feed the addiction
starve the child
its ok if your belt whips wild
feed the economy
starve the child
another beer for the tab unpiled
feed your weakness
starve the child
of a childhood profiled
feed your infamy
starve the child
of a sober father compiled
was it worth it?
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
Under the dead beat sky
Collaborations tie us all together
Our ideas cross and human gazes overlap
Streams flow into tiny veins that cover a certain surface area.
Red lights shine on profiled faces in the evening side of the night
Trainers shuffle along the uneven ground around town where signs are broken.
Cigarette smoke pours out of each corner of this run down station
Wrinkled looks despair over the dated flourescent timetables
Just waiting for the next train out of town
Just waiting for the next train out of town
Shove past my nearest man to get to the furthest conception
The long path to the nearest understanding of human nature
Is muddied with distasteful stories that couldnt hold any kind of weight Among us.
Jeremiah in the window of the salon, he puts his makeup on slowly
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
When I was tagged
As a child,
That meant I was IT.
And that's all-inclusive.
Being tagged as an adult
Means I'm profiled,
And that's a game changer.
It's childish.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
the earth shook
last night
sending a tremor
through six feet of
dirt, wreath and wood
to my rotting corpse
beneath
and I rolled over
for 16 months
I tried to
rest in peace
as my spirit wandered
restlessly
but last night
even the stoic palms
shuddered in disbelief
and I rolled over
I was just
going home....ma,
talking
on the phone...ma,
when a 'cracker'
with a gun
shot be down...ma
now maggots and fleas
are crunching
my bones ...ma
and the 'cracker' is free???
maybe if
I were white
like lanza and holmes
I'd be left alone,
not profiled;
given a pass,
to commit
mass homicides,
not take a bullet
through the heart
for being black!!!
I was born in '95
the year 168 died
in OKC
and 1 million men marched
in DC
but last night
justice exploded
in sanford
and
I
rolled
over...
~ P
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
The best thing about having dark skin is that the scars camouflage themselves,
That you don't fit into the pale-skin-dark-clothes-slit-wrists stereotype
That you're more likely to be profiled as a criminal than "emo,"
so no one ever bothers to check anyways.
The best thing about having dark skin is that my burns heal,
they leave barely noticeable discolorations in my dark skin.
That only I can make out the slight change in shade from brown to browner.
And maybe you could too, if you squint a little.
Maybe, just maybe you'd see the dark brown stripes
painted permanently against my even browner wrists.
The best part about having dark skin
Is that no one checks your wrists,
because everyone is too busy looking at your curly hair,
your big nose,
your big lips.
"are you on welfare?"
"do you use food stamps?"
"do you eat watermelon and kool-aid
with a side of fried chicken?"
Because no one ever stops to think
that black girls
would ever think about hurting themselves, too.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
Sunkissed and messy headed
Blessed be that fashion sense
Her tangled mane is a metaphor, a facet
To her mangled brain
Not in the cute black-and-white, scrawled notecard manner
A carved-out, paper cut of a sheet
Crammed in the bottom of her bottle brained backpack
Worse than the weekly
Chic self-harmed hipbones,
She sits and eats and watches the world from the real world clones
The blanket's just hot enough to cook her down
Reduced to the ruched Jovani gown
She's got lists of friends, you have to
Scroll down a page
It even has to load awhile
Then why's your radius clear of anyone?
Pixelated fixtures of her mind, too close to miss her
Too close to care
So close, all they are's aware
Minds drone, like bone picking
Knowing you're the stick in the mud
Warm blood behind a boil, just kicking for
Another tab to click in
She's been braless awhile now
Profiled with purchases levels lapping her current state
She pinches skin impatiently, chocolate scouring her teeth
It's the bitter taste of something so horribly surface
They erase away the beneath.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
the center of my passing moment
her face profiled into the corner shadow
pale and delightful
her beach sand picker outfit
gives an upscale look of leisure
but her eyes
shout her intense inner demons
nervous energy dance her fingers
on the kitchen table
a fine sheen of sweat
covers her cleavage
which she opens further to cool off
oh my....
her wrist sparkles
with bands of silver and jewels
and makes small metallic sounds
as she reaches up to brush away a strand of hair
with a swift soft movement
that is almost ******
as her perfumed and lithe form leans toward me
as i in one sweeping moment get a glimpse
of what it must be like to be in her arms
and that intense and absolute beautiful moment
in the near presence of this goddess
leaves me without the ability to speak for several moments
she asks if i am allright and becomes alarmed
when i do not respond
i manage to assure her
i adore women
i love being with them
i love just being around them
they make the world a beautiful place
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Just as a filament
Lights up the center of the room/
But on this day, today,
her pillows wet/
Soaked as she wept
Dry spot silhouette/
Profiled a-side
The Valentine's Day mascara
Smeared eye, Liner/
Cast shadows dark
No remarks yet
Her face puzzled
When he suggested ways to mend her broken heart,
She laid down the law
Don't start was her rebuttal/
Him Attracted to her angry face
silly ways
Her movements of grace/
Even those subtle/
He states we can escape
A place just us two/
She replied i'm unable to love
and would love too/
No longer black and white
Nor night and day/
From four play
To fifty shades of grey
area in my life/
Despite, he's lustful beyond the physical/
Her scent leaves em in a trance pheromones/
Her flagrant fragrance Goes without saying/
A kinetic ******* Neurotic erotica/
Waves in the air like melodies
Humming stuck in your head like an harmonica/
She so attracted by his attraction, he leads on
She couldn't help but give him..........?
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 2:21 AM UTC
It's crazy how I am posed as a threat to the American society.
It's crazy how I fit the description of any crime. Because they profiled me, by my race.
Because my pigment depicts the actions and I'm just their next hit.
I'm just waiting for the blow to the head that will exploit my brains
Scrambling them into pieces on the street.
It will reveal what they fear
I guess brown pigment signifies a corrupt mind.
Mind you, that my homicide will make the world a better place
Because there plans are to get rid of the "filth"
Now you tell me who's corrupt as they wash their blood stained filthy hands.
Don't worry, because these ****** think they're on a mission to save America.
The tactics are changed, so don't be fooled the goal is the same as 60 years ago.
They fear my intelligence, because before they believed I was completely illiterate
But now.
They feel fear when they see me
Tremble when they hear me speak.
My articulation shocked them and left them on their knees, begging.. For their superiority back.
They label me as a thief, because that label has been jacked.
It's just unbelievable that fear has left my brains shattered on this concrete,
But are my black roots too strong for defeat?
Do they fear the strength in what they once referred to as a disease?
A curse by god, a lifelong flaw, it seems quite odd wait a second...pause
I’m an upstanding citizen by the standards of society
Though if they see my skin, like Christ three times they’ll deny me
Counterfeit Christians and let I not mention the leniency in religion.
Let us not stray I’ll get back to the beginning,
It seems quite odd they expect us to forget rather than forgive them.
Mentally weakening the dreams of the enslaved black beings
Sparking wars of race within a race
Willie Lynch thought he perfected his methods of slavery
But methods of our African ancestors taught us to bend, but never break
In a centuries time the change will blow your mind
From being chained and put in line, to inspiring culture in ignorant minds.
So raise your fist and clench it tight,
In hopes my brains don’t meet the concrete tonight
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
Bane of gasping gentle breath,
Wide eyed searching for car crashed trees,
Crying over mountain peaking,
Peaking out over life times of achieve,
Timid rabbit darting emoticons,
That aren't disguised as suits,
Emailing faults of profiled skin,
Obsoleted by obsessivenessly,
Picking at unreachable kills,
Wasting away from sunny sleep,
While in the background,
The TV play that one movie,
Where everyone dies,
On repeat.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
What kind of Sin dares Usher in
A devious man to lick his lips, gutteral gasping beneath his Breath
The Wonton Musing oozes a delicious Decay,
The Poured Out drooling, his Power Pulsing, A Foaming Fantasy Power Tripping
~to Control the Spiritual World
at his Will & Command?
Here's what he imagined:
Biblical Bribery.
Blasphemous Forgery
Who ever has the money or an Unbridled hand can piecemeal a Story for premeditated Zeal,
To make for a more attractive Appeal
Why need such profiled Idoltry?
To be Present
at the Moment of such a Powerful Man's Revelation, Spoken for and too You
To be blessed
with ears to hear Him
To worship
At the Alter of Salt
A pillar miraculous,
To Worship Within, in Him, beside Him.
A Scribe Sweats
To write furiously away
for later reference, Thus
Attention is spared and the Sermon Deemed for Organic Lackluster
**"Scratch That
Oops
Edit
Kindly Repeat
Didn't quite catch That
Delete
Revise
Rephrase
Two or One spaced per Sheet?
The strain hurts my Eyes
When can We Break for Feast?
Are We Done for the Day?"**
Can this be a possiblity
Can a misdirected, Unsupervised
Scrupulous Individual
Not quietly Misquote
The Word trianguled from Mouth to Pen to Paper?
The Words We have come to Believe In??
You Tell Me.....
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
while wedding bells
are ringing
and love birds
are singing,
a child is born
in london
and
yet another dies in chicago...
gunned down!
while coffee
is brewing
at starbucks
and dinner
is served
at ray's,
a child cries
in hunger
and
yet another dies in chicago...
gunned down!
while mercury
is rising
in DC
and the heat
win
title #3,
a child abused
cowers
in fear
and
yet another dies in chicago...
gunned down!
while the clock
ticks
on the wall
and senators
scream
down
the hall,
a child
is profiled
in sanford
and
500 die in chicago
gunned down!
~ P
(7/21/2013)
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
I don’t think you actually understand
I’m from Bodymore, Murderland
Where crime is rampart and has the upper hand
And you can be killed upon demand
Drugs and bodies are all over the streets
But there’s no wire that defeats
This sad situation just repeats
Among poor people that one meets
We’re routinely profiled by the police
Who treat us as if we're savage beasts
We don’t have justice nor any peace
And that’s to say the very least
Our lives are very precarious
So pardon me if I occasionally cuss
Lucky you don’t have to live like us’
We're here today and gone like dust
It ain’t easy living on the bottom
Name your poisons and you know we got’em
Lost a loved one. someone probably shot him
The suspected police, I’m glad they caught ‘em
Yeah, things have gotten tragically out of hand
I’m not kickin’ either dirt or sand
I'm just talkin' 'bour Bodymore, Murderland
Even though you know that I can
Before the riot we were ignored
No one cared you can rest assured
Now they’re sayin,’ Oh my Lord
Even the White House is aboard
I guess we had to raise a ruckus
To get all eyes focused on us
Will they make changes, you know they must
They can't expect us to believe and trust
© Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
Someone once asked me what type of flower I would be,
And I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a question that choked me.
I thought of my petals, and how they've spent so much time closed tight,
A result of everything that's served me fright.
I thought of the times they've been forcefully ripped open when never allowed access,
And for so long I carried around poison and blackness.
I thought of the roots that grow beneath my stem,
And the times they've so often been burrowed in mayhem.
I thought of the bulb that gave me life,
And how many times my back was where she buried a knife.
I thought of the soil that was meant to be home,
And how it was so often overcast in a dark, rainy dome.
I thought of all of the gardens I tried to belong in,
And how often I tried to wear an artificial skin.
Then I began to think of the sunshine and how it's something I wish to atone,
Even if it was something I had to do alone.
So often by the hand of others and myself,
I was trapped within an unrealistic *** on the shelf.
I've spent so much time being defiled and profiled,
It's now that I realize,
I was meant,
To be wild.
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
Never ever
has
anything
been so beyond
my reach
I know less now
than I did
15 years ago
back when this
unspeakable
horror
happened
still grasping
for reasons
that elude even the
fiber
of an understanding
who ,what and why
reverberates through me
on repeat
while sorting
dusty piles of pictures
from a life
that seems like a foreign film
a naïve version of myself
cameo moments
captured within
assorted snaps
your smile
profiled
many times over
these are the memories
I try to press into my
deepest mind
instead of the weight
of ashes
that buckled my knees
in a sleek
Cherry wood
box
I gave
to your brothers
to keep
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC