Warped Tour

A pulsing bass drum pounds through
the crowd from the nearest stage.
A stolen Concrete Blonde guitar riff
climbs the scales, rattles over the top
of the half-pipe, an anthem for a knock
to the neck, or a finger pulled back.

A sound like marbles rolling
rhythmically over gaps, gnashing trucks
on metal, wood, metal. Battle tales
sputtered through sweaty, cracked lips.
Solid fists against mesh. Gravity gaining, then
fetching the slack. Wallet chains flashing,
knuckles clinching the slings of wood,
the rumbling churn, a roller coaster.

A toke, or a tap of the cask, woven sacks
of beans passed on the grass, unlatched
lashes, nails gnawed raw, flayed skin,
pleased to bleed, pleased to be
on the brink of flinching, rising well
over the half-pipe flank.