Speak Loud to Silent Ones

I listen to them shout.

Yeah, I take off my headsets and listen to the two of them shout back and forth at each other. They go on for nearly and hour, back and forth, screaming at the top of their lungs until hoarse.

I call them the loud family. As far as I can tell, because they are completely unseen by me, is that there are three of them. Father, mother and child. I usually ignore them, as if they didn't exist, but indeed they do. It's not everyday that I hear from them. No. They are not that noisy, but only when they are excited, like furious or fucking; one or the other.

Today they are furious, yelling back and forth at each other, their voices ricocheting around the narrow alleyway outside my window. Like I said, I have a brick wall for a view, so I can't see anything. Like when there was the kid playing his instruments or the old man singing, who I hear from occasionally, you can't really tell from which direction that they are coming from or in. They are just voices in the wind.

They are arguing over money this morning. Who spent it and what they spent it on. There are many times that they argue, and you can hear the poor kid in the background calling out 'mommie'. That kid is going to grow up thinking that this is the normal way that people talk to each other. The woman is worse than the man. I suppose that he is gone more often than she, but even when she finds something humorous she cackles loudly. She is just loud. To be graphic, because, I just want to be: she is even loud when he fucks her. You can hear every stroke and thrust coming from her all the way, I swear to god, until she catches a bad one. You know, the Big O. It's like he's fucking her with her head out the goddamn window.

The only good thing about these two loud- speakers, is that they retire early for the night. They don't fuck around. One night the kid with the instruments was playing his horn until late and out of nowhere, this sets the two of them off, shouting at the kid that if he didn't put the shit away they were going to come out and find him and stick his horn up his ass. I was rolling around on the floor of my little room, bumping into my bed, table and closet. It was the most hilarious thing, because the little motherfucker would not stop until he heard a door slam. He must have thought that they were on the move then.

The kid nor they themselves bother me any. I keep very late nights and wear my headsets, because, without a doubt, one of Paula's crows will stop before my door, which is right across from her's, and call out her name. Now I don't know the logic behind this or not, but they never use her doorbell. Instead, they call out to her door until she opens it. Makes any sense to you? Unless she doesn't like sound of the bell and has asked them not to use it.

Well, today is the SHOUT OUT, and I am doing what I always do: work on IM and write emails. Soon it will be time for me to get ready to run. It's times like these that I dislike the SHOUT OUT. I wonder how our audience comes week after week when it's tiring for me to get up every single Saturday and head downtown with my two packs of gear, and get there to the venue on time. It seems like an uphill battle from the start, but I psyche my mind for it.

Yeah, I hate to say it, but the SHOUT OUT can be a chore when you have it to do week in and week out. But there's nothing to compare to a SHOUT OUT that ends well. It's an exhilarating feeling. It's mind blowing. A head rush that's worth the uphill climb to get there. It really is. There's nothing to compare when the SHOUT OUT is rolling and people are getting into it and getting a rush out of the performances.

The real pointless chore is riding the Way and it's wacky schedule with this train out and that train running until I get to OTTO's. When I arrive I find that Cyndi Lauper has just opened up the place at Five minutes after the hour. Poets are all standing outside waiting, and D2theL comes up to me from the clique of poets and asks: "What are you guys getting cocky or something?" I know what he means, we're coming late and leaving the poets waiting outside to get in. The subways being as they are, being five minutes late is a miracle. But I'm late, and D2theL is right. We should be here at least to be with the poets. I have to make corrections to my timing next Saturday.

I get in and start up the SHOUT OUT. Like turning the ignition on an old truck, it turns over with a groan, then a holler, then a belch of smoke and backfire. It lurches to life and starts slowly, moving with gaining speed until we're barreling down the highway, unstoppable, unyielding, giving no quarter. Our feature does an excellent job and all of our readers are remarkable, doing some very interesting stuff and staying on the cutting edge.

OBSIDIAN comes in at the start of the show and takes the second half. We are doing pretty good on time and close up damn near the button. Everyone has a chance to read, its another good SHOUT OUT. I am pleased. It times like these that I realize that it's not a chore to get to the SHOUT OUT. It's fear. Uncertainty. Doubt. I don't believe that we can equal, much less top the one that we had last week, and the week before that, and so on. I don't think we can consistently repeat the experience. I worry about that.

Today, everyone is happy and had a great time.

We were lucky today.

I just hope our luck holds.

Hobobob