You drag me to the drum circle saying things like “this will change your life” with no mind of how stupid you sound. You take me to a park-turned-mosh pit, so far from quiet Peach City that the dancers who appear at dusk to fill the plaza could be from foreign planets. Pothead percussionists bang their pots, pans, park signs and sundry possessions while their shouted songs rattle my ears. People are topless, packed tight, bouncing and singing in a raucous ripple that we get lost in. You, the small-town refugee, the hick-turned-granola mountaineer, the hike guide who carries a tent for two just-in-case, you’re having fun. Each time a woman rocks to-and-fro or two bros reach overhead to pass a blunt, you get sucked further in, and these gaps between torso and arm, quick as eighth rests, are enough to let you enter. And I, despite shouldering hippies aside, despite saying, “sorry y’all, that’s my brother up ahead,” find myself repulsed, pushed to the edges, where tourists watch this ridiculous blowout and snap photos. And all I’m saying is, what the hell, you said we’d hang out.
Fox Tooth Heart