Exploding Days

All night I swallowed dynamite
one stick after another.  I blew-up
my memories with a teenage smile. 

Now, exhaling in the mirror
all I see are the faces of loved ones
waiting in coffins. 

When will heaven jumpstart forever?
I mean with eternal recurrence coming at us
like a limping turtle
we will all be reconfigured by eternity,
or is that reincarnation?

Either way, today,
I feel like a glockenspiel
that’s been dropped.

I’m splintered but resonate
and I’ve been beaten
by the felt-covered mallets
of so many parades
that I almost forgot
how when I was a kid
on my bicycle
the space shuttle flew over me
and I looked up and smiled.

But I’ve lost everything—

My hopes are static.
Maybe it’s time to change the channel,
I’m so full of noise.

The longest road is still ahead.  And from here
I can hear the whispers of ghosts.
Or maybe that’s just a recording.
I don’t care.

I’m exploding days with dynamite
and I’m still waiting
to meet a sunset I don’t like.

Martin Balgach’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Bitter Oleander, Cream City Review, Many Mountains Moving, MARGIE, Opium Magazine, Rain Taxi, and elsewhere.  He holds an MFA from Vermont College and he works for a regional publishing company in Boulder, Colorado.

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