Steven Minchin is a 40 year old post 2:00 AM troubadour in New York’s capital. More than 75 incidents of his work have appeared in Heavy Hands Ink, mad swirl, Right Hand Pointing, Four and Twenty, vox poetica, and assorted ladies rooms. Steven lives alone and paints murals of crowds.
Enigmatic Pasted Gates
know if that was your face or the closed tip
of a bottle of glue that had spent the past
3 years in the closet.
It was your face.
And I got it all over me.
If you had had eyes they may have become embedded
in me. You were
sitting there like the remainder of page that
got abandoned for the collage piece cut out and wholly.
You were holy.
you had never flinched. And because you never
flinched you never got hit. Blank solidity saved you
from becoming a communicant.
And let everyone outside get stuck
never past it. And you could keep
resembling a participant. There hard and strange
2 enticing holes say
How to survive spiritually in our time
Became, under a found Sharpie’s black:
How to survive spirituality
it was this spirituality that provided survival:
Religion of the light and sound of God
– Was that a God Sound?
You’ll soon see someone mouthing
across an imploding restaurant-
all the free book “take one”’s have been taken
either someone or more
are very interested in
Hopefully he or they will survive
longer than the poster
in this laundromat
that once promoted
How to stay alive
Head across the room putters out loud
Next to it should be rung out
freed from trivia and baseball scores
One passing now suddenly
gets four fingers rushed hard from behind
to bruise its hippocampus
Over there releases wrong
and a trigger goes again
Yours is on the floor
out to track any coming in
Mine just keeps ticking
That one shutters and falls off
just as you shout up,
No, dunno where ‘is one’s at
but’s loud, screamin’ –
‘t’s big, an’ heading this way