|(page 15 of 93)
Flash Fiction by Victor Clevenger
Poem by Victor Clevenger
(page 15 of 93)
Keywords: eleventh transmission, poetry, fiction, photography, visual art, spoken word, film, socially engaged,
political, human experience, writing, satire, photojournalism, activist art, activism, socially conscious, art
by Victor Clevenger
I put the rolled cigarette paper against my lips and instincts took control
— a good four-second suck, then pull out, look at it, and then suck
My lips touched it, but not hard as if it were a lover and not with the
soft uncertainty you feel with a stranger; I would say that my pucker
was comparable to the comfort of kissing the neighbor lady in a hotel
hallway, Augusta, Georgia, September, Two-Thousand and Three.
I dropped my hands and blew hot smoke into the night; I positioned
the ashes downwards with the flick of my wrist and then worked it in
circular strokes as the fire's orange glow made strobe type designs in
the darkness; I wrote my name in cursive with it and I'm quite certain
that spontaneous actions like trying to burn, or brand your name into
the air only looks like glorious art in your own head, but I stood there
alone with nobody else’s opinion so I waved my hand back and forth
to scribble it out, then twisted my wrist to work it back up towards my
Instinct once again took control and I sucked it off, I convinced myself
I was wrong, then I wrote my name many more times just for my own
pleasure, for the hell of it, for the satisfaction of imagination; just to say
I saw my name in lights long before the future generations even bother
to pick up one of my books and question themselves with — is this
even worth my time?
Next: Poetry by Elizabeth Cheung.
and specified artists.
Kirk Ramdath's book