Poetry by Ranney Campbell

           Jane Rahman CC



Rank

she could smell a cop uncanny
she could swing a bat without shame
she could feel a milligram difference on her middle finger
lids dropped chin lifted slight sway like trancing
circled men silent awaited the verdict
                                     light or heavy
she could knock’em out
piston fist’em
keep her mouth shut hours or days
pout it and drop’em
slink blend the wallpaper when the law busted
loudmouth’s party on the cul-de-sac
  slither out unseen
with somebody’s bottle of Jack off the kitchen table
                                                 since they’d be in jail anyway
cuss like a barge worker, laugh big, or never be made to
no matter what
when she wanted
verbal drop any professor
terrify a badger with a glance black squint
or purr sable
only would scoot under the bed
let them push boxes and towels around her
shallow breathe this custody
for the Outlaws
                                         no others

and when the big men came
to the back house from out of town
and wouldn’t answer to the names they said theirs
up the volume

Or, whatever the fuck your real name is, Boss Man,

offer a cold beer from the fridge
firm arm curled out stretching supple
arch twisted brown tied halter painted jeans
and they snapped to
​




I don’t hate them…I just feel better when they’re not around.
          Charles Bukowski

Penised Poets

with phrases lifted from Steven Schreiner, Shane Seely, Gary Snyder
and a single phrase from an unnamed collection of news editors

why do I care
an oft repeated line from budget meetings
in that newsroom with a national reputation
for baptism by fire

now the line repeats
in my head as I read all these poems that men write
with mentions of a peregrine, doves, tufts of grass,
grasses whipping, asters and squash blossoms
things they've seen out windows or on a path
women, their mothers, the occasional nipple
or of wives on pillows they protect from spiders

      or are they protecting the spiders?

I don’t know and I wonder
why do I care
or why would anyone care about this I write for that matter

I think of my brother
the only living man I know best, and how, yes,
he would be of the opinion that everything he thinks matters
and if he were a writer he would expect me to care
about all his little thoughts
but he wouldn't write about bugs and leaves and grasses
he might write about turning wrenches
or, if he were honest and working in depth,
wrenching the necks of his girlfriends

but he might think no one would care about that

I know I don't want to think about it

but on another day Snyder tells me
the plum-pit crunch bees buzz green apples by watering holes wet leaves and spiders in shadows
​green scum on the pond beside cement cisterns and moss green
and why do I care?
I don't know, I just do
​

​

Ranney Campbell is a former journalist and freelance writer. She earned an MFA in fiction from the University of Missouri at St. Louis after suffering a brain injury in a random hammer attack on the street. Her poetry has been published by Misfit Magazine, Shark Reef, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal and others. Her chapbook, "Pimp," is published by Arroyo Seco Press.

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