What greatness?

What immortal literary conflict?

Probing

throbbing

rain.

Beating

bopping

wailing

rain.

Let us out mama,

let the soaking street kings

outside.

“Fresh as children,”

we, 

slick mammals,

hold our

heads down

hands up

tongues steady. 

Rain,

like slippery piano

keys

plunking

at the muse

of a whimsical

Water Otter,

coltranes

to the the tiny

wet

teeth

of

our planet.

     -Here come the dogs, purple and slobbering.

     -One, two, three junk yard cats ash colored and oval shaped.

Everything hiding, everything exposed

Buddha weather.

Fat glutton, Buddha weather.

Everything happy, perfect,

and sacred.

Everything wet,

dripping,

smoothing,

shuffling.

What silly mortal rain music?

Soft noise,

white noise,

drums -high hat and snare-

dark noise,

hard noise,

jealous horn noise,

scuttle noise,

There he is, walrus tisk whisker noise ,

on the sidewalk walking home.

sustained hush

charcoal noise.

static.

sudden hiss tongue

spraying pavement water

sacred otter

silk mammals

ephemeral

fingers

delicate jazz sky

animal song.