—Jim Behrle
What are you derived from? What derives you?
I don’t joke with strangers anymore. Except about
Jennifer Lopez. To whom I’m now deeply indebted.
I’m feeling giddy. I do write. Sitting in front of $50.
U2 album in boarded Borders still reverberates (a
storyboard for a final class project). Daydreaming
the wired charm of inelegant disclosure while
looking out at the big Christmas tree in Union
Square. I’m reading Iduna, insufficiently lit,
thinking of kari on my couch, a housewarming
on Bush Street. Determine when unemployment
ends, laundry, water plants, sunglasses for the L.A.
trip. Losing two pairs of prescription sunglasses
in one week. I keep broaching the subject (in-
delicately, insecurely) that is the false victim of
our loudnesses to a blanket of silence, very Zen.
A swamp of desperation ensues, becomes louder
lies or mumbled nothingnesses. A conversation
with the California Street sidewalk stippled with
unintentional vibrato (tragedic, operatic). Wreaked
with uncontrollable shivers, a body heaves such a
melody. Tomorrow, the calm swans of Boston.
