[Home]History of KimPoetryTwo

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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.
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

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

Iím held together,
rather precariously,
with wounds sloppily stitched.
Inside me a parasite wanders around,
making my organs itch.

Itís had its fun, itís left its mark
thereís 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 risquť!

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 donít 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
the way i want
complusive existence
collapse of the wave function of ideas
into 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
silently echoing
the chirping of

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
learning to become 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
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

KimEspinoza's poetry can now be found on her web page: http://www-scf.usc.edu/~kespinoz. Thank you.

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