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
populated
with the usual

 

oceans
mountains
trees

 

But what are these
vessels of
concrete

 

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
Harmless

 

Wait I think
I see something
on the moon

 

don

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

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