musical stairs

I.
this may not come as a surprise,
but i like to listen to hip hop
when i clean my apartment,
which was never a problem
until i moved to park slope.
i don’t play it unreasonably loud
but the beat has to bump a little bit
to be heard from the bathroom.
inevitably, every monday thursday saturday afternoon,
the bitch upstairs starts pounding on the floor.
this seems like an unfair method of confrontation
considering i can’t reach my ceiling.
if i don’t turn it down,
she blares modest mouse relentlessly.
it’s an adolescent game we play,
but i know for a fact my sub hits harder than hers.
worst case scenarios involve actual conversation—
she comes down and acts like
she hasn’t been engaging in this
battle for ear space.
the first words out of her mouth are always an apology,
it is the white person’s way, after all,
but i send her back upstairs
with a polite refusal to cooperate.

II.
the asshole beneath me
won’t turn his fucking music down.
after twelve hours on the night shift
all i want is a decent day’s sleep.
cleaning the corporate offices
i used to occupy
leaves me too tired to get out of bed.
i spend most days in a depressive insomniac fever,
remembering times
i enjoyed the sounds of music
seeping through floorboards,
now it is the ghost that haunts me.
i was raised two doors down,
in a basement apartment my mother still occupies.
every monday thursday saturday morning
after emptying trash cans all night,
i take my turn as my mother’s keeper,
brush the hair out of her eyes,
and remind her of my name,
before returning to the only peace i can see—
it’s just out of reach.

III.
in this building
we toil laboriously to pay rents.
stockholm syndrome has taken hold,
we love the market next door
and the short walk to prospect park.
it is music that builds and breaks walls,
beats knock on doors to introduce themselves
before neighbors do,
and this is how we communicate.
its dead prez arguing voraciously
with kings of leon,
and marvin gaye floats upward
to ask what’s goin’ on…

the woman upstairs
has gone from bitch to lover,
as is bound to happen sometimes.
our notes entangle autonomy,
singing challenges to skin.
she recognizes the bass of
let’s get free track 8 mind sex,
it is her cue
to come downstairs for a midday fuck
that relieves and revives boundaries.
when downstairs tops up,
it’s like jay-z and the beatles,
and the next time she pounds on the floor…