Before Bill Campana blazed into the Mesa and Phoenix poetry scene in 1997, individuals would attend poetry readings and at the end of every dry, polished piece of mental origami, read with all the flair of a zoning law variance, those still awake in the audience would say ?humph,? which roughly translates into ?I don?t know what that was about, but everyone else might think I?m an uncultured boob, so I shall acknowledge this piece as if it were an epiphany wrapped in a transcendental shroud.?? Poets would get a smattering of courtesy applause, and everyone would go home feeling just a little more cultured than their neighbors who owned television sets.

Bill Campana, however, knows that the only true way to respect culture is to break it into little tiny pieces. He came onto the poetry scene at full power, and suddenly the dry dusty notebooks of lesser poets got burned up in the shockwave. Nobody wants to follow Bill Campana after he reads, because when he is done, there is literally nothing to say.

Bill Campana is the atom bomb that levels ivory towers. He got people excited enough about poetry to come back for more, and to see what would happen next. Soon, the audience was too big for the coffeehouse, a feat unprecedented since Socrates dared the baristas to make him a Hemlock Frappuchino. Now, after 10 years and hundreds of poems large and small, you can experience Bill Campana in your own living room, automobile, or iPod at a comfortable volume level, with all the mind blowing imagery still intact.
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