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(See also KimPoetry) Here's Poetry KimEspinoza wrote after her undergrad years... March 30, 2003 results of magnetic poetry: Men say age seldom survives, their lives a journey to Death. They lie. There is no end. The final hours last. They pray for solitude, emotions easier welcomed. WAR. They do it for Jesus, Thousands sacrificed (man, God, and mind). The devil's snake settles While we sit comfortably in our living rooms. March 18, 2003 Rag doll in the corner dirty, overheated pushing against the cold of two walls and tile floor. She stumbles up, wraps herself in foil and crawls into the oven to cool off. I try to save her and suddenly I'm walking away. I travel for a while. When I return to the kitchen the oven door is closed, the temperature is on. I can not open it. I can not scream. I wake up and lock away my fears. March 17, 2003 This week I'm beautiful. I walk by mirrors and shiny surfaces, See my face, pepperment cheeks, chocolate strands of hair Falling across my temple And even I'm in love with me. February 22, 2003 I remember a day, faintly when my hands were small and holding crayons. Those weren't my drawings on the wall. The real evidence - the red, the blue, the green fit nicely between the couch cushions. Skilled in the art of not going to bed when told, I skipped to the kitchen for a glass of water. Only some of it spilled on the carpet as I skipped back. My mother entered the parlor to see a deck of cards strewn about the floor. My eyes captivated and watching television, I denied it all. She was really good at making me feel guilty and simultaneously that I got away with it. I started to clean up. (She had to help me with the stick figures.) February 14, 2003 (orig. April 17, 2002) Carefully, and with surgical forceps Carefully, and with surgical forceps I pull you out of my mind, Memories plucked and placed on the tray table. I laugh a bit at those used up specimens, excess and unwanted data. Small mosaic shards (a freckle, a blemish, a crossing of hairs) sit incoherent and exposed. I gather them up in my hand. It's not something I fling aside, but rather, a gentle release from my palm. These things I saw of you (your smile, your laugh, the reflection of light altered by the curvature and aqueous humor of your eye), I imagine them floating away. There in that ethereal space my memories travel, the distant stars of a past I choose to let go. January 25, 2003 The Piper smoke combustion products fill the air gripped between knotted fingers your proud piece of work something you whittled by hand, surely feeds you with tiny bites of fire it is your salvation, your partner in crime the dirty wind bellows from your old, boring pipe your health and identity rest youthfully in its power August 11, 2002 Suturing 101 I’m held together, rather precariously, with wounds sloppily stitched. Inside me a parasite wanders around, making my organs itch. It’s had its fun, it’s left its mark there’s nothing left to eat. it claws its way to the outside world, biting through the seams of my feet. April 28, 2002 a quiet retribution my eyes guarded the door. i nestled in my hand the few splinters of rock i took from the front yard - there would be penalty for his actions. my pride more intoxicating than any firey exchange of words, i slipped them into his boots. April 28, 2002 painting i held in my hand a large brush, baptized in paint, the purity of which could not cover a surface so blemished and welted as the old fieldstone wall from whence my lover parted. February 8, 2002 Insurrection We've fallen from our hard-earned lessons Wrought with anger and lost discretion Too much flooding from all directions We're forced into this insurrection January 5, 2002 vinaigrettes vinaigrettes are nice, they're yummy on my salad, like this tomato spice, refreshing to the palate. vinaigrettes are good, they're yummy every day, perhaps misunderstood, this flavor's so risqué! October 28, 2001 Too late i'm going to tell you i love you. i... i... i... i'm going to write you a song. i'm going to send you a letter. i'm going to tell you all night long. i'm going to call you tomorrow so please be waiting by the phone. i'm going to tell you i love you. i'm going to tell you before i'm gone. October 23, 2001 crowded twisted through these last-wind stares, all that's forced through muddled airs, shrinking walls while caving in sheathing madness to the brim. it's a matter of brain capacity, crowded crowded in an empty room, blinking through this eyelid tomb, broken links to damaged nerves, who can think past stuttered words? it's a matter of a sickness, undetected. crowding, twisting, blinking, shrinking my body can't take any more of this thinking. October 8, 2001 projection her stance a little awkward her smile a little off she walks a little backwards moving like a sloth she peers around the corner she sneaks around the walls she wants to be a loner wandering through the halls you walk on by and see her she stares with timid eyes afraid that you might meet her and know her secret lives October 4, 2001 the world unspoken what goes untold, it drifts away, these unheard quiet sighs a new-born thought, intangible, in infancy it lies the voices come, the voices go, leaving thoughts behind but something else is brewing here, deep inside my mind the child's cry, a mother's wish, in silent prayer they stand along with lovers' secret vows unspoken, hand in hand each whisper lost will mingle with the silence of my peers a land of words, a cloud of thoughts all missed by able ears October 2, 2001 Father Fushio Sir Fushio, my love you walk as if you don’t know me raining slightly little poundings get in your way Sir Fushio, my dear you walk and turn towards me little footsteps little soundings lead you astray but dear, my love, Sir Fushio the children will not hurt you their little hands can not reach you their little minds have not touched you for Sir Fushio, my dear they have nothing to say September 29, 2001 - i have a secret i have a secret - no one knows the depths of my secret there are only speculations no one knows the extremity of my secret they only have little clues - i have a secret and it is within me my secret rolls slowly through my body, quietly undulating underneath my skin - but no one can see those waves - i have a secret and my secret has me. September 14, 2001 - just another party flashy lights and disco balls backs of trucks and bathroom stalls a bit too much of that bacardi another stupid little party. August 30, 2001 just like a bag of candycorn (or an extention of my subconscious) just like a bag of candycorn you came to see me through the corner of your eye blurred through a coat of plastic sugar coated and covered with dye just like a bag of m and m's you give yours and a laugh for me stained-filled teeth and a rotting smile what is yours is what is mine you pull apart you keep it together just like a bag of skittles the fibrous mass of bones flavored and sweetened to cover the mess and keep me from going home you came to see me July 13, 2001 Christine's Mantra Charming little midnight chant Humming near the vineyard plant Ringing voice to search for sight In want of silence, lost of light Strange soft words to bring new life The vegetation takes to flight In great awe, the vineyard sings Newly free, the plants grew wings Each step in, a stranger takes Sounding closer, the world awakes Moving toward repeating sighs A thousand leaves flew slowly by Newly freed this nature brings The wide array of beauteous things Resounding sound, unbound, pristine A single breath, one word, Christine June 23, 2001 man-fishing a little bait to trick your eyes or hooked upon my fishing flies or dangling down a nylon net my fishing pole and i get wet i stood still, a man came near caught him with my fishing gear caught him quick and threw him back no taste for just a little snack better get some bigger bait getting hungry, no time to wait walked through waters, rocks and sands fishie-fishie, my trap commands! caught a man-fish, ate him up crazy thing, the bones got stuck chewed him up and spit him out tuned to see what you're about i look around, you've swum away how cute, you've joined this game i play shall i proceed with standard plans? or catch you now with just my hands? swimming by, a tempting glance i didn't leave that much to chance so playfully, your fate i tinkered you fell for me, hook, line, and sinker in the end you had no choice in this, your will, it had no voice you swum on by, you toyed, you taunted but i was hungry, and i got what i wanted June 22, 2001 does she bluff? does she bluff? i'm not quite sure her words, her mind seem so impure does she tease? i do not know how do i judge how far she'll go? March 16, 2001 just a short little poem all talk and no action makes a man a faded attraction December 21, 2000 The faker everyone spits out a little hypocrisy as we wage the war for human rights we all live with a little mediocrity at times when only blindness 's in our sights yet occasionally, we run into the faker the faker is an architect she's an engineer, a builder, a painter, and an artist the faker screams for justice and equality along with the other scientists and humanitarians of the world but the faker is a termite. she gets into the foundations and eats it up she's the inducer, the humanitarioclast formator, the life matador her tactics eat away at the power of women she's the leading cause of lifeperosis she's the death-bug riding away in the sunset to cause harm elsewhere and in the morning, after she's had her feed, she'll meet you at the protests to fight against those walking around in male form who threaten her existence but live just like her the faker undermines the causes for which she fights and when she's drugged herself enough, she vomits hypocrisy she can't eliminate it from her system she's poisoned. she is the poison. she is the system. she's the system of poison which runs through our drinking water saturated with waste muddled with hate thickened with fear seasoned to taste she is the ick that icks up our wine she is the stick that sticks in our spine she is the sick that sicks up our time she is the tic that sucks on our minds December 2, 2000 this is not a poem this is not a love poem this is not a hate poem this is not a bitter poem this is not a happy poem this is not a poem poem this is not a prose poem this is not a good poem this is not a real poem November 26, 2000 strawberry sweetness words struggling to escape from my keyboard just wishing my hands would touch them to life wanting the way i want desire complusive existence collapse of the wave function of ideas into words words i could paint her body with words words and colors and erase the traces with my lips smeared colors lost words it's more than sexual it's more than intellectual it's more than artistic it's the satisfaction of a hunger the hunger of my touch feeling life into words flesh into words words into flesh paint into form a strawberry sweetness warms aided by the fuel of the palate chemically altered in the soft lingual moisture of my mouth dissolving so slightly as i kiss you, a sweet nectar flavors your body the sugary tang of your skin calls to my hunger November 25, 2000 two women she stares into the mirror she stares into the mirror she looks proud she looks scared she tells herself to stay strong she tells herself to stay calm two mirrors two women one reflection flows beneath them one river, frozen water casts a shadow one woman lost, watching two mirrors two women one ocean, one reflection time speeds faster than their minds can control two mirrors deformed, twisted with the centric waves of their reflections she tries to stay strong she tries to stay calm their minds tempt them two women, naked, stare at their reflections the water looks warm one woman whispers break the glassy surface and flow into the water where we will swim and play and afterwards, dry ourselves in the sun the three of us out of our reflections one woman jumps November 15, 2000 the mechanical vitruvian clock tic tic toc - the mechanical vitruvian clock he must assert his power, his mind he must unlock he elevates his work through lines and squares and fields the measure of all things no complex equation yields no scientist could find a more advanced machine no measurement so blind that it can not be seen each click of the machine, each rotation of his thoughts tell a story of the passing time, his gnarled brain in knots and with each tic or toc that passed, a flash of color flew by fast purple, green, silver, red his hair grew longer as time by sped brown, yellow, copper, gold the roughness of his face unfolds black, blue, gold, white his masculine shapes lose their right orange, red, fire, green the man breaks down, a failed machine tic tic tic toc - the broken mechanical vitruvian clock crashing boldly from its contraints, the impossible human construction faints amdist broken circles and failed squares arose a woman strong and fair tic tic, tic tic toc - the new incredible vitruvian clock and with each telling of the time a flash of color grew sublime shading new her very skin, now gold, now red, the fire within her mechanical chambers left destroyed, the scraps she used to flee the void she built a boat, became her world no longer trapped, scared and curled she began to walk, she learned to swim, she sailed away to live again one long eve the seas sung deep standing tall she came to sleep her blindness like a solid rock traveling toward her tic tic toc a slow crash came and sparks flew high a million colors to her blind eye one by one the colors died painted on her as she cried she curled up and lost her might too much color, too much light she crashed into another world fell from women to little girl all the colors bled to one coating her body hardening in the sun she rose again and broke her mold the ashes fall, the chains unfold she'll leave the wreck alone behind still screaming monsters from her mind and when she has the strength to walk she'll hear the footsteps, tic tic toc her eyes will widen and unlock the vitruvian harshness the mechanical clock November 5, 2000 one view the beautiful dark sky spotted with angels looks down onto the city the sprawling city spotted with lights cradles a million homes to shelter a million families one yard spotted with green contains a theatre for the orchestra of a hundred tiny crickets to sing their mellow tunes where the flora grows to shade one window one window broken to pieces shards of glass spot the ground one view from one room with no protection but the air knows the darkness of the night's vegetation framed with the broken human construction of crystal fire one room, a thousand presents the yearly celebration of life wrapped in the darkness spotted with fireworks piled on one table to block one view from one child one child in a floral black dress spotted with sadness her dark hair conceals her face beautiful strands which shall only grow with time to conceal her body one officer of the peace dressed to blend with the colors of the night touches her shoulder such darkness from one view imprinted in the mind of one being granted to her by her memory, the sickly poetic stars which spot the sky October 8, 2000 the yellow rose the red rose looks good gliding across my flesh my body moves slowly with fire and elegance i am snow white with dark hair, light skin the electricity is soft, coming from within the red rose bleeds, leaving patterns on my chest sanguine melodies dance across my breast your taste is for blood so vibrant and pure "but this rough magic i here abjure" the colors you left splattered across my bed stole faith and beauty away as i bled in your filthy hands, you held a yellow rose dirtied by lies, and poetry, and prose i looked at you and my vision was blurred with your lollipop girl in your candy-colored world maybe some day, you'll stand up and be brave at least enough to leave the yellow rose at my grave and if you couldn't see my hate for you perspire you'll taste how i feel when that rose lights on fire Sept 26, 2000 Yes, it's true. These words are for me Does it bother you that i leave these poems incomple Sept 26, 2000 The mark of an artist, cut into stone Lines and curves, all new and fresh Painting a statue so cold and alone The mark of a poet, cut into flesh Sept, 2000 standing on a dark corner in the middle of LA my arms are crossed, my head is down. across the street, sirens flash silently echoing the chirping of midnight crickets Sept 26, 2000 Incomplete & In progress i dream of promises that only the east bay can give me promises of absurdity beyond what i can comprehend more than i would have expected beyond the imaginable but my dreams are incomplete in progress and under construction Sept 25, 2000 Words My words pain me What foolishness have I found myself in time and time again? I can no longer present beauty I no longer have that capacity I see it and I look away I don't want to see it anymore I don't need it in my eyes I don't need it in my brain My words mean nothing to me I can not explain where it is I am Or how it is I am falling Or why it is I hate this poem I try to speak and my voice falls short I try to write and nothingness no other things than nothingness and if this space were blank, it wouldn't say any less in fact, it would probably say more but i can't say more there are no words left and the silence is already in my mind Sept 22/23, 2000 dribble when the monsters control your dreams, it leaves your face a motionless mess in the morning. staring into the mirror, behind streaks of dirt your reflection becomes frozen. painted in, a vision imprints in your mind, but it's not you. you're reflection is the picasso, your eyes unable to focus. but there you are, stillborn into the glass, a beautifully tormented color portrait. you are and have always been an extension of me. you have taken all my psychoses and delved into them further. i have listened carefully to your every word. you have listened to mine. you are my picasso, my tormented reflection of myself. sensual, fragile, strong, weak, scared, alone. we are everyone. we present to the world so many faces, reflections, such beautiful things. we are the beautiful portraits of sanity. September 22, 2000 Maurine, age 22 Maurine, age 22 Her sadness gave birth to a child Such a sweet thing Children need to be held so tenderly And she cared for the child For the little one depended on her She nursed the child, holding its sweet small hands in hers Such soft things and tender things all wrapped up in one vulnerable being Time past slowly and the child grew She took the child to school, taught the child new things, helped the child adjust to life The child depended on her The child learned to speak, and laugh, and sing The child shared with her such beautiful things And she cared for the child For the little one depended on her Time past quickly and the child grew The child became a woman And she lived without sadness. Maurine, age 22 Her mother knew such beautiful things And she faded away Replaced by her vision A child, beautiful and innocent. Mommy, where did you go? August 23, 2000 here in the lab the computer lab more affectionately termed the learning center we sit checking our email doing our work behaving learning to become professionals professionals and that can't be emphasized enough because if your pants aren't pleated who are you to interact with people? certainly not a professional and that's what you are here to do learn to become a professional not stare at the red dot on the corner of your computer screen what's that there for anyway? it's my professional red dot here i am in a professional land with my professional red dot every day is an advertisement please, buy this book please, buy these scrubs please, buy this test file please, buy these notes please, buy a zip drive and zip disks please, buy a PC please, buy a power point CD, most recent version please, buy into professionalism because that's what you are here for to be professionals oh my goodness, i can't wait till i start conforming. you engineers will probably get to do that too, when you start working although you might have to sell out but not as much as you sys admins well, it's interesting how many people say to me "but i really like my bread n' butter job. really." and i don't know why they are trying so hard to convince me because i wasn't doubting them in the first place you see, they are professionals and that's what i am here to do to be a professional in this professional land a red dot professional behaving doing my work checking my email getting up because it's time to go out into the world and to play my professional game and maybe find something to eat because even professionals need lunch June, 2000 Love is like a cucumber love is like a cucumber all cold and squishy on the inside but hard and green on the outside you are like a cucumber you make me feel like a woman a woman who loves a cucumber August, 2000 Written in a state of delirium This is not a cute flower this is a killer deadly poisonous flower and it stinks of unbeautiful thoughts |
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KimEspinoza's poetry can now be found on her web page: http://www-scf.usc.edu/~kespinoz. Thank you. |
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