Cut me up and put me back together as another body. Take the thumbs
and poke out the eyes. Sew the heart into the pelvic cradle, staple the stomach.
Break lights are contagious, and there are so many roads.
My pace resembles litter-ridden potholes, backed up gutters.
The crayfish rebuilds their shells over and over again. I am full of jealousy.
I wish I had the time to yield something. Break from the instant into their wandering.
I read an article about a seventeen-year-old kid who was shot in the head.
I thought about the imprint of the bullet in the brain: the crack and shatter
of sound, the incoherent stasis, the commitment.
Lately it s been hard to find the time to just be around. I am still
trying to learn how to be in one place without really being there.
The night before a car hit my grandmother, she said
she had a dream about her parents. They told her there was no time.
I went for a walk an hour ago, and saw a dog taking a piss
on a tree. I wish I got there first. I am always biding my time.
My friend tells me my lover s been, so close to leaving and
you don t even know it yet. I am just distracted by possibility.
Words are always coming into my head. Their vanity teases me.
They think they are so important, but I accept their plea, a conscious gift.
I wanted to give birth to Jesus. I should ve built the ark, had the knowing
of Ezekiel. I want the attention, don t matter from who, whoever is listening.
Every once in a while I enjoy imperfection: a two-tailed salamander,
Siamese twins, a wobbly chair, incorrect page numbering.
There is no evidence of a journey, only proof of failure. Disappointing
results for cures, unknown data, bleeding sores, bombed cities, an occasional laugh.
I lift my legs to get out of bed. In the dark I grope my way to the bathroom.
I wish I didn t have to get up, just move outside myself.
I remember seeing my father naked. I thought about the genitals pushing
into my mother. The white chariot invading Troy.
I am not special. I am no better than the bum outside. I go
to the world every day cataloging the depressed chromosomes.
I notice my hands, the way they open the window at night,
feel the contortions of your face at the start of another cold morning.
About the Author
Loren Kleinman’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Nimrod, Journal of New Jersey Poets, Resurgence as well as many others journals and anthologies. Kleinman has performed at the Bowery Poetry Club, the Nuyorican Poets Café, the KGB Poetry Series, Raise the Red Tent Project, and more. She is the recipient of the Spire Press Poetry Prize and is a 2000 and 2003 Pushcart Prize Nominee. Kleinman was also a Nimrod/Hardman Pablo Neruda Poetry Prize Finalist for 2004.