My neighbors sometimes speak in toxic tongues.
Words that bite and float like cannabis smoke,
or the dull rumble of airplanes in low flight.
Car tires screech in circles to nowhere.
My eardrums vibrate, and my gut rages.

Through the air, far below the blackbird’s song, 
through my floor, ceiling, through half-inch drywall, 
discordant tones that start with a pronoun.
You are, you should, you said, you did, you, you.

Often, several neighbors blare at once.
Outside my door, lawnmowers, leaf blowers 
roar and whine, a Harley thunders old-school
soul, muscle cars blast hip-hop, and 

misogynous rap like the harsh, grating caws of crows. 
One woman’s joy is another man’s sorrow.
My heart aches, then skips a beat.
I toss and turn as quarrels turn to syncopated shouts.

Troubadours once spiked adrenaline, made hearts shake, 
and heads light. Should neighbors in other units take part, 
we might harmonize. This may trigger and yoke 
the refuge next door to holla a backing choir. 

Soon, whole blocks will lift every voice.
Once we chorus, agitation creates orders to calm minds, 
relaxed minds, the stealthy silence before an earthquake.
Once we balance and fine-tune each scream, 
we can then ask ourselves, 
                                                  Can you hear me?

No one listens when everyone talks at once.
If no one listens, who will understand?
To hear myself think, I screw in earbuds, 
push play, and listen to white noise—