Confused poetry reading
His words echo
between storefronts
in a radio voice
and sink from the roof-
Little hollow rocks
with lesser meaning
than the ones I threw
at your window—
The roof-poet reads countless numbers
while I sip my next Budweiser.
People laugh at the word “fuckers”
and perk up their nipples
at the word “nipples.”
Is he trying to erase
the meaning of numbers?
Because now I am 1611
and you are not at number at all,
But we are both
exactly the same.
tindering
I was lonely
I don’t know if we are meant to be
But they say you are born and die alone
If you are godless
Or so says my pastor/rabbi/shaman—
So I began this modern
connect the dots
of human souls and genitalia—
I hate that word
and “souls” is a euphemism.
The very first one met me for drinks
He paid for my jalapeno citrus cocktail
which entertained my mouth
while I waited for the rest of me to
care about something
Erin Newman is a Los Angeles native who recently moved home after studying at New York University’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study, where she received her B.A. in Sociolinguistics and Spanish with a minor in Studio Arts. She resides in East Hollywood and currently works as a documentary researcher and story producer at Brave New Films. She writes and translates, makes weird iPhone videos, and plays soccer for recreation.