Now we’re good and ripe,
Ripe for the picking
-The musical picking,
Ripe enough to be harvested
Ripe enough to be satisfied
Ripe enough to be consumed.
In the cloudless Texas sky
The moon is another tall street lamp
And we’re ripe enough to be devoured whole
-To vanish before the sound.
The lead singer paces around the rosy antique stage
In a silky black vest with bare arms,
A strapped scally cap
And white winged sunglasses.
When the charged, minor chord, gypsy dance rings out
He jumps his ripped toes,
Hopping a foot above the raising,
Bending his knees just enough
To keep his soles flat and together as they land.
Like his ragamuffin shoes the music bounces about
And stays level with tradition all at once.
The accordion player, in a transparent black dress
And high socks around her stocky legs,
Nurses the heavy weight of her small, black-child button box.
Moving her spider hand up and down the key bed,
Burping the song baby,
Consoling the sharp firsts and fifths,
Her head reels around.
She sings high harmonies,
Chanting with the lead singer’s Irish tone, Indian trill,
Italian, Bulgarian and Haleem tongue.
The bassist, nodding in a red and blue flannel,
Shaggy brown hair and Aviators,
Toys with his u-bass.
The thick shiny rubber strings
Excite in wave form,
Undulate like little black snakes
Moving but not getting away.
The drummer melts into the sound,
Chopping long blocks of rhythm,
Playing with the bassist,
Charming the serpents, soft slingshots and live wires
Bouncing under his finger tips.
We leave with the violinist
Who removes her yellow 1950′s sunglasses for the last few numbers
Revealing her pained, solitary eyes
Which remain completely dissolved in the playing,
Totally composed, neutral and vacant
As she dices single notes into double rhythms,
Cuts up and down Spanish and Hungarian gypsy scales,
Her lanky puppeteered arms,
Knit her instrument