Here’s something I just wrote that I’m calling Hindenbursting:
We are zeppelin.
Exploding clouds painted helium
red and yellow spark-colors at sunset.
I’m hanging from parachute clouds
by handrails of hail
and slippery rope-like raindrops.
I’ve taken a bottle of the explosion with me
to the park by our apartment, cloudbursting.
Grass is tickling the back of my neck. Dirty imperfect patches of grass
evolving slowly to mud, and for the moment
insects are too stunned or wet to move. I try not to squint
at the wet aerial assault and enjoy the perspective
of each individual shooting star of water, ultimately failing.
Tails of each drop point to the earth, simultaneously
pointing at me; making me the center of the universe.
Each spatter on my cheek is suggesting something–
a universal equation of which I am an integral part
or perhaps a span of time the length of my life
which could not exist were I not present to experience it.
We are too small or I am too big.
Dirty oily cloth and metal bones are screaming,
The air is hot despite the rain.
I think it’s interesting that there is really no emotional turmoil whatsoever in my life right now, and yet, the moment I sit down to write a poem, I fictionally create some.