Gently miked guitars,
gently picked
banjos and mandolins,
gently resurrected ukeleles:

fuck all this
small music — let’s get back
to blunt force trauma
in the rank embrace
of a Marshall stack.

How good it feels
to be in a crowd
bathing in the Loud,
roiling in the stage surge,
drumming that stops and restarts our hearts
a thousand times a minute
while driving a song
with a subject
as big as the noise itself,

for these times demand
a fist in the air, a hundred fists,
every fist we can call upon
from anywhere within earshot.

The knob labeled “volume”
is the only tone control you need. 
Twist it up.  
Slam me an E.

Let’s conquer something.