Victor Clevenger Carrollton, MO poet

our living


was pain
to you and i,

but when the
children were

they were
none the

& that was
a success we


–Victor Clevenger


because at gunpoint

everything becomes


she always had
my attention

& I constantly

take your finger off of
the trigger & do damage
to me with only the cold
steel of your lips”

& she would

& this convinced me
that romance novels
on nightstands

were written about us.


–Victor Clevenger

Victor Clevenger is a poet in rural MO. His book (Least Bittern books) Come Here is a visual collection of short poems which really hit. With sugar. He has a chapbook Inside A Fishbowl, Looking Out (Shadow Ink Publications), a brain, a heart and a book forthcoming with Least Bittern Books.


Victor Clevenger Carrollton, MO poet

Then You Can Call Me An Artist. And Art.

One day
I will get the
nerve up,
or just get
drunk enough
to shed every
layer of skin
I own and then
stand in the
streets beneath
the stars just
to show the
nighttime what
the beaten bones
of a dreamer
really look


After a Long Fight-Night

The mid-summer moisture falls freely
from the morning sky like soft-rotten
peach pits—rotten fruit in full form
disgusts me. The blackbirds that sit on

all the stoplights, and street signs wait
like whores for chewy vittles, as the
moisture slips preened feather tips. And
I just walked seventeen minutes to a brand

new liquor store out of curiosity and rich
rumors of cheap prices, but the door is
locked at ten o’clock. W-T-F? The blackbirds
now snicker and whistle that the drunks wait

like whores too—clever little fucks. I love
them. Blackbirds. They sit high on wires,
they freely shit all over this world, and it’s
not the idea of freely shitting all over

something that I love them for (although I
have my moments where all I see is a
three-ring bullseye, right between that ignorant
eye of the world) I love them. Blackbirds,

because they seduce me with an, any given
moment, up and go freedom that aches my
responsibility-grounded bones. Blackbirds.
And I tell you my honest desire, darling,

throughout this love me one day, hate me the
next day relationship that we nurture—if black-
birds could open beer bottles, then I would
seriously desire wings. I would fly away with
my alcoholism, and your whispers for me
to go away, no come back, please stay forever,
would never enter my skyward ears again.


year of the monkey smaller
Year of the Monkey by Bree

Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing poetry and short stories from the kitchen table of his ex-wife’s home.  His latest collection is titled, In All These Naked Pictures Of Us.  Selected pieces of his work have appeared in print or online in, Chiron Review; The Beatnik Cowboy; Eleventh Transmission; Crab Fat Literature; NEAT; Dead Snakes; Blink Ink; Zombie Logic Review; and coming soon to Poetry Pacific; Your One Phone Call; BAD ACID LABORATORIES, INC.; and the Poems-For-All project. Victor’s work has also appeared in anthologies published by Lady Chaos Press.