Rain (Ode to Jack)

The rain. It sounds like a far away train. Swishing swashing constant buzz of distant bell muffled friction marching bastardly back. Back down south to the ocean. Under this dark dysfunctional night in the pre-winter of midwest it scowls howls melancholy drips the billowing blowing wind wasping away fresh filth leaving a blanket of wet winter mist. Walking back inside the gutters play jazz Kerouac’s jazz fluttering and fidgeting for that beat. That beat. The beat of haunting lyrics and lusty tunes that make you wanna take off your clothes and get naked and wet and weary-drunk in new childlike feelings while at the same time undoing everything you ever dreamed of in this dumb damned adult life. The tune slackens the trumpet player plays a sad tune about some fellow standing at the window watching…watching rain jade and splatter concrete slabs dripping delicately off leaves. The window lets a million drops play tag. Some stick and hang they don’t wanna let go. Some just can’t wait to get to the bottom and mix with all the other melancholy drops it’s ecstasy! The ones who just stand staring in tired weary wet eyes at all the casual confusing commotion of life and what it’s supposed to be and what it is and how it’s wrong but nobody ever fucking listens will always wonder. And there ain’t a damn thing they can do. It’s all in vain and they can’t whatta or wanna do anything everyone does ‘cause nobody wants to go nobody wants to live life right anymore. We are all the rain when we die.