The voices in my head started blowing whistles instead
Of the usual sighs and spit-takes,
Less Greek chorus than late night karaoke,
Power ballad hooks replaced with sloppy sobs in falsetto
That turn them into mantra.  

Why shouldn’t June zephyrs announce their arrival
In the dirty freight train dialects of tornadoes?
Who’s to say squirrel chittering shouldn’t be
Pugilistic, fed through megaphones
In echo chambers that undress timbres
Like a late-season hurricane.  

Actually, I once believed everyone’s personal soundtracks
Consisted of emergency broadcast system tests
Followed by parrots impersonating Gilbert Gottfried.  

You go ahead and relish the ice cream truck’s
Revisions to the great American songbook,
Tap your toes to Friday night polka in the park;
I’ll stand here, wherever, watching lightning bugs
Rewire the evening while humming
To the sound of my own brain.