Sunday, October 21, 2012

EUP 2012 Anthology Reading

Petrouchka Alexieva
Maria Arana
Lalo Kikiriki
Pauline Dutton

Richard Dutton
Lori Wall-Holloway

Erika Wilk
Ed Rosenthal

Lisa Marie Sandoval

Friday, October 19, 2012

Publication party and reading!

Tomorrow, Saturday, October 20th, at 3pm, inside the backroom of the Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library on 999 E. Washington Blvd., these Emerging Urban Poets will be featured in the 2012 Emerging Urban Poets writing workshop anthology publication party and reading:

FREE copies of the anthology will be given to all in attendance.

Thursday, November 3, 2011


Many of the Emerging Urban Poets (Don Kingfisher Campbell, Michael J. Cluff, Mina V. Kirby, Deborah P Kolodji, Radomir Vojtech Luza, and Mary Torregrossa) will be performing tonight at 6pm inside the South El Monte Public Library on 1430 North Central Avenue. Call (626) 443-4158 for more information.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

2011 Anthology Reading (the bold ones)



crimson blooming
concrete block

compact autos

Across street
plastic seat
crumpled bodies

where before
rusty wheels
tres chic

Don Kingfisher Campbell


a ton of steel and glass and plastic and rubber
on asphalt and concrete and metal road to reach
a windowed and tabled restaurant to gorge on
cow and pig and chicken and fish to fill belly and
get in car again to arrive at mall steel and glass
and rubber and stucco buildings of opportunity
to try on and plastic card or paper bill purchase
yards of cotton and polyester and rayon and
spandex then plant ass on leather and vinyl
once more to park wheels and chrome near a
convenience store of plastic and chrome counters
to buy a bunch of plastic and paper packages bags
and bottles easily tossed in either receptacle or
ground and subsequently re-enter a stucco and
rubber and glass and steel building wherein clothes
and food and electronics are stored in wood and on
carpet made to outlast flesh and bone occupants

Lalo Kikiriki

The Post-Katrina Boogie

I got rhythm
See how it feels
I got it in my espadrilles
When these shoes
Boogie down
You're gonna get it too!
And bet your
Target soles
You'll stomp that beat
Down the middle
Of Bourbon Street
Ain't no hurricane on the way
Looks like Mardi Gras!

Everyday til
Wednesday comes
Tweet the whistles,
Bang the drums
Honk them old
Til the dang dawn's early light!
Wind and water
Oil and fire
FEMA trailers of desire...
Shoot, that music never stops
And we forgot to care - so c'mon
Shuffle down
St. Peter there
All the way to Jackson Square
Laissez le
Bon temps roulet
Down to that that

and you can lay down your care and woe
down by the riverside
study war no more...

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Fuck what they think

They laughed at my dancing
until they tried to dance
They tore-up my poetry before
they tried to rhyme pain and grain

They mocked my clothes
until they looked in the mirror
They sobbed loudly as saltwater ran down cheekbones

They could not move when
they heard me speak
They ran when they saw me bloodied and beaten
rise from purgatory

They laughed when they heard my monologue
until they realized their life was one

Christopher Luke Trevilla

Tender Oddities: Fabula y Realidad

Someone lost within
a something among us all
mirages walk in the light of day
gentle well meaning,
- sure
yet facades hide hearts in chains
while a homeless man screams
children and older folk turn and stare
silent eyes
with other worlds in between
sin cuidado alguno

Not a single soul
No one's there

Drink your morning cup
forget the sleepless night
lost in urban blight and suburban decor
treading and meandering
between two worlds
-for work
-for leisure
-for love
-for pleasure,

We swallow the bitter pill
and hold out our hand for more
each day the mundane ritual
We call home

In ages past...
Life was mythical and wondrous
now it is familiar and apalling
let's go back

Into remembrance
and forgetfulness
recapturing the joy
of the messy and unknown
'See you soon.
No, never again.’

Lori Wall-Holloway


Small chest hidden in corner
of thrift store waits
for new owner to claim it.
Rescued from an empty house
and then a garage, the chest
hopes for a dwelling where
it can be put to good use.

Cobwebs hide in dark places
underneath its four legs,
while a whirlwind of leaves
gather beneath it.

Layers of dirt collect on its
mahogany body, while grimy
handles on three drawers,
leave residue on hands
that hope to find treasure inside.

Discovered underneath a fake plant,
the chest is joyfully taken
to a new place where its deep red wood
is cleaned of the black dirt hidden on it.
Shined with love, it is given
a new purpose in a new home.

Once hidden, I was covered
with the grime of sin until the Lord found me.
He cleansed me with the polish of righteousness
and cleared the cobwebs of confusion.
Shining me with love, grace and mercy,
He blows new life into me after each layer
of dirt is found and scattered to the wind.

2011 Anthology Reading (the shy ones)

Maria Arana

The Worst Day

Starting a new life
In a new world
Away from green mangoes
You never find here

The worst day of my existence:
The first day of school;
The new kid
During the middle of the year

I stood out like an elephant in the room
With polka dot shorts

The worst teacher spoke
And I couldn’t listen.

I met the children of ogres
They call me names
I’d rather not mention

The day was a kaleidoscope of wishless hopes
That ended with a chair
Wet from my own liquid
The stink was hard to remove
For years
I cursed

Thank God there was no facebook
Or my worst day
Would have been
The end of me

Karine Armen

Do Objects Die?

I still use
the things I bought
many years ago
the scissors
music tapes
shirts and dresses
My towel

how many times
they’ve been washed
gone through
the cycle
still functional

but wait
how about
so many are

I wish
he was
My towel

Mina Kirby


Amid cacophonous noises of war
someone’s child lies dead
by the side of the road

We listen to Mozart
and are having roast chicken
for dinner

Karen Klingman

A Short Stay

pampas grass splays up along the coastline
like fireworks on New Years Eve
the surf in mid October reaches out with delicate frothy fingers
tracing lasting images in my mind

one reaching Big Sur I camp between five redwoods
walk along a river stream where a small girl with apricot hair
still dressed in pajamas plays hopscotch
on humpback rocks with a Saint Bernard

further along a group of young men in boots and warm flannel
drink beer and walk on flat rubber wires between the redwoods
almost back at the cabin mist becomes rain
funky folk music comes from a makeshift tent

the band motions me in
soon eight to ten of us
huddle, sing, sway and relive a time
we thought we could make a change

Thelma Reyna


I don’t recall when we first spoke. But I remember how his tall frame ambled by my table that first time, and he stalled beside my chair, not knowing I could see his reflection in the glass across the room, and he looked down on my head and seemed to pause as I looked straight ahead and didn’t move. I could hardly breathe. His reflection was so gorgeous, as he was, for I’d had a good look at him, and the book he carried snagged my heart: Reading Lolita in Tehran, clash of cultures, one group loving the other from afar, from the shadows, loving the forbidden, fearing disaster and braving the chance of everything falling apart.

He didn’t speak to me then, no, not then, but after, much after, though I don’t know when. After days of pretending not to see me, and I feigning not to care. There, just feet away, always sitting near the window, where he could watch my face no matter where I sat in that cafe. And I saw the thick black coffee he preferred, the heavy pastries he held lightly in fingers slender and slow, watched him licking icing from scones, frowning in his coffee cup, as if deciphering how he could hear my breath, miles away.

Our fingers brushed together when we reached for napkins at the counter’s end. Reading Lolita, bent and dogeared, lay on the table by my hand. He blushed. My blood rushed and pulsated in my head when he spoke and broke the barricade we’d had. His heavy accent, bumbling words, deep red face and mutters—my stutters matched his lack of grace, but his face spoke the words that tripped his tongue. Love at first sight, love from out the shadows, through days of averted gaze, weeks of pretending we didn’t inhabit the same room. Love hidden in long silence, but, as it turned out, love so wrong.

He was alien, undocumented, illegal, criminal, a trespasser taking advantage of our nation’s largesse—or so they said. But how could those silken hands commit a crime? How could his liquid eyes instill fear and rage, the poems he said to me in darkness as we lay in shadowed rooms speaking simply of love, and forgiveness, and the beauties of sun and sky, and children’s breath, and the loneliness of death.

Love without papers can be hard.

Erika Wilk

nymphs in dark pools

beckon me
lianas ensnare me
sea urchin needles
nuzzle my neck
pay no attention

I am alone
a single tomato plant
rooted but flowering
tries to free herself
a wave of fresh air washes me
off the canvas
colors drip

Thursday, September 22, 2011

KILL RADIO Performances!


Don Kingfisher Campbell

Marvin Dorsey

Eli Goitein

Mary Torregrossa

Wednesday, September 21, 2011


EUP's CaLokie and Don Kingfisher Campbell will be featured in the 100 Thousand Poets For Change - World Poetry Festival reading on Saturday, September 24th between 5 and 6pm at Beyond Baroque's SPARC Stage on 681 Venice Blvd. in Venice. For the complete line-up of poets go to >