Three Poems – Steven Minchin

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 Inkmad swirlRight Hand PointingFour and Twentyvox 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



Bulletin A870K

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


Skull Tracking

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

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