ANDRE AND HIS BASS

And I could speak at length of the sensual slide
of the pale slim fingers and beautiful hands
as they caress the shaft of the rich wood bass-
but that would be disservice - not my goal.

Behind the thin curtain that scarcely conceals
I hear the sound of more than one voice,
though, in fact, an arranger would tell me I err
and that I could not - just one live man plays bass.

The moan of the prisoner - we have all heard that sound.
The ascent and descent by the day, year and life.
The thrust of the rapist and lover - would they were not so the same.
The soothing drone of the ending lullaby - mother or lover or god.

And as Andre plays his bass, I do not know where are his thoughts.
If our reception is the text, it matters not.
I want to say I feel some love, but for which I do not know,
and my instruments are old and sputter when they try to speak.

Lines on paper do not match the lines of notes and rest.
They do not draw a sounding portrait, nor admiration's falmes from crowds -
but they are mine, all the same and I offer them up in song.

Orpheus and lyre - Billie Holliday and voice.
Beauty and sadness mix and match like any type of limbs.
Both voices of Andre are rich and hold sorrow
but are rich enough to sing and bear a strange, fair fruit.

1994

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