Poetry by Don Kingfisher Campbell

Lunch Murder


An off-white mound

looking like a snowdrift

placed in a styrofoam box


The disposable fork

like a skier’s pole

dives into the packed entity


Shovels a blank pile

up to the waiting wet

crusher that chews


Down the mashed

potato portion like it was

part of a body


And returns dutifully

for another load until

buttered corpse is gone


Then cleanse the chamber

with a bottleful of fresh

watermelon blood


Don’t forget to recycle

the styro and the plastic

after you visit some porcelain


After Xmas Dinner


Drop chocolate kisses

Swing open the candy bar

Step on pepperoni slices

Enter the electric toaster


Travel along licorice rivers

To get to the pumpkin pie house

Lighted with shivering gum drops

Wonder at mashed potato skies


Hold onto a block of cheese

That satisfies in the cold oven night

Smash together baby tomatoes

Until beef jerky gets devoured again


Liquor crumbs are meant to be followed

To reach the next morning egg



The Processing Plant


First they stick you in a freezer

Then take your fingers and your head


Followed by a flash and another flash

Afterwards you are placed in a cooling room


Left there for hours until you crack

Blandly packaged with plain facility


If you are lucky you are purchased

Wait to be let out of the box


Cast into loving open hands

To be devoured by the future


The Way to Orange


I dived in the stomach

of a gun metal bug


Floated down the river

sliding past brown snakes


Crossing under unfinished

castles with turrets


Threatening dragons lurched

hanging tongues overhead


Diverting to a stream

we stopped and I was


Belched out to walk

until I could see


A very pretty Ugly Mug

so I sat below


The twirling fans to

drink in the poetry


Of other beings still

breathing around lava lamps


And the giant Oreo

in the night window


Ready to fall into

a steaming cup of neon


Extraterrestrial Report


This planet is
with the usual




But what are these
vessels of


The wheeled citizens
roll on
and stop


Their motors
step out
of their bellies


Then rest
inside giants
that don’t move


The only creatures
like us
seem to be


scratched onto rocks
shown on screens
or imitated through toys


So let the guide
book read


Wait I think
I see something
on the moon



Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles, has been a coach and judge for California Poetry Out Loud, a performing poet/teacher for Red Hen Press Youth Writing Workshops, Los Angeles Area Coordinator and Board Member of California Poets In The Schools, poetry editor of the Angel City Review, publisher of Spectrum and the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, leader of the Emerging Urban Poets writing and Deep Critique workshops, organizer of the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival, and host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading series in Pasadena, California. For awards, features, and publication credits, please go to: http://dkc1031.blogspot.com