#64: Of the conviction of explosives

II am a rocket ship.
Let me say that again, I am a Fucking Rocket Ship!

I am a rocket ship with lust-red tail fins, I am a rocket ship with matching red nose cone polished to mirrored steel, I am a rocket ship and I am Made.
To.
Fly.
There were tests in the cistern for my brothers and sisters but I am the lightning red rocket from hell that bettered the rest to pass the test to gain a name to win the fame to streak my red bolts across the sky and to have the balls to show you why I was made.
I was made for the mission.
Furnaced in the blast core, ceramic and foam, screwed tight to fly right, tests and tests and tests and tests and tests and years of fears. I am the liquid gold imagination wrought solid and hardened by a thousand geeks tweaking in the streets with snapping synapses calculating quadratics born in 80s video game attics - dust settling on the plastic shadows of models of the greatness of me to come, and now I'm born and tested and fueled and ready to make all those little men remember the little boy that dreamed that he was me, but that I be is enough in these the moments of the countdown.
In starting this mission a switching ignition of space-aged tradition sends blisters across a black tar mat canvass in the twilight of a summers eve.
My combustible notions anoint earth rock to motion in the powers of my physics:
pushing earth, pushing rocket -
pushing earth, pushing air -
pushing air, pushing earth, pushing rocket across a black tar mat canvass in the twilight of a summers eve.
From the moment i was born a bomb with direction i've waited to blaze out of orbit. Like a fish too big for the bowl I was born too big for this fishbowl world. The moment my fuses combined in the intellect of trajectory, my kinetic birth would have to be, flying high in the night off the coast of Florida.
In the spark of explosion of physics in motion the laws of the world disappear in the dark.
At the top of the world my drive to be alive burns seconds away from a parabola curled,
Away from the shield of the face of my cone, the race to the place brings heat out in space and pummels me up in the dark of the world in the night above Florida's coast.

A ringing stinging heat-clinging nothing drives dime sized holes in the hull of my cone in the acid atmosphere so close to dark silent space i crumple above the dome of the world, accelerating slower and slower and hanging there, rocket pulses turning inward burning from the inside, the geeks on the streets are screaming to beats of cars blasting rap music as I turn to some scrap shit hovering high in the sky, just not quite as high as I was meant to be, if I'd had the drive to see, or fuck that, just been the perfect me, I'd burn up the cold of space.
But the bomb with direction sputters to no direct-able perception and if I'm gonna be something it's not gonna be nothing, and I'll give you a show while I do it.
[I am a bomb.]
I am a Fucking Bomb that wakes you across the ocean when thousands of stars are born in the sky and fall in collectible charms that sit in charred fragments in a box in the garage. I am a bomb that excites molecules, I am a bomb that makes all ya'll fools, I am a bomb that destroys the dreams of teams of pocket protector dweebs. I am the bomb that makes the blats in the beats of blasting raps in the streets, and all the people you meet know me.
I am and I was and I will be,
I said "I will and you'll see me leave a black hole in your memory",
and there I live forever.