 |
 |
 |
|
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. |
