Clint Campbell has lived in California all of his life and enjoys exploring its varied landscapes in all their beauty and worry. Recently, he received an MA in poetry writing from California State University of Northridge.
On Daydreamers from A Filmmaker’s Handbook
I woke up this morning with the sense of yesterday, that while I slept something had happened, set course. Something unknown to me had begun to move. It will affect me greatly. Something that in time will reveal itself, with
On Music in Film from A Filmmaker’s Handbook
No other art form is as closely related to memory as music is for me. Music is heard, the new sound is played over and over. It collects all that is going on at the time. Years later when heard,
On Truth from A Filmmaker’s Handbook
The point in film where there is no eraser, an action, something occurs and everything after a result of the moment, the severity of a choice, right after frightens and interests me. Not the moment of the murder, of the
On Time Travel from A Filmmaker’s Handbook
So if tried and trusted are drunk in the corner of the bar and I take off my babushka and walk outside. Ride the donkey to pick the lemons and olives with my father in Kiveri, when I come back,
A Thousand Pink Arrows to the Wrist
1. Everything past this chokes on a spoon: Walter and Mary touched each other. “Where are you?” asked Mary. There is a feather bed she wants. Every week is more or less the same: Mary assumes a new regional dialect,
Torn Dress [after Laura Kasiscke’s New Dress (2)]
Leave it in the closet, alone, my sister said. She draped it on the floor covering the socks and shoes, and frowned, and I could see why: The disease of it was growing. And it continued to grow all through
A Windigo Moves to the Suburbs
Hear the rags settling in my spare room? No bones remain. I wear sandals now, mow the lawn on Sundays. We hum, collide. I like your neck. This smile takes practice, my lips too small for teeth. I am greening
from The Demonologist’s Notebook
corn-offering the husks are dry, infested with red lizards creeping circles, tiny dijnn. something flutters in the wastelands and thickets, a frisson of dark, batwinged and broken, carving glyphs into the remaining green. here is the place. recall the theology
Maybe You Are a Serial Killer: With a Conscience: Or a Crime Writer
When the dead girl says beautiful murder she means these hooks are for oystering. She uses those cemetery words you’ve never spoken, wielding them like crucifixion, seizure. You remember her as a bruise, a wink, a tattooed wrist smitten with