Sticks spinning
and fingers rippling across the keys
a rhythmic motion unyielding to lips
bellowing over a reed

slapping, rapping across the bass
Slim is trying to keep the pace

heads start to jerk
while feet start to chatter
across a wooden floor
of echoed patters.

Golden women
wafting in the sounds
Wanting the ground to release their souls
as they swing their arms around

Its time they say
time for the rubber man
with his rubber hands
to strike like lighting
welling over the tones
over the werguitar moans
where fingered drones roam

like unwilling marinates
their bodies strike to form
in mobs, in swarms they listen

as organic, spasmodic sounds

whip them around
and they float on whispers
of musical drifters
who tell stories
of a town and their wisher

the crowd now thinner
they thank the vender
and they smile for a while
in their Kodakian splendor.