Spiritual Volcanism

I exploded this weekend. My Adam's apple went sailing over the wall. Hair flew like ticker tape. A pair of lungs--I guess they were mine--inflated to the size of zepplins and burst. Ribs showered the football field, two states away. All of the smoke and ash that had been jacking up the pressure rose into the stratosphere, a dark column of confusion. My funny bone zinged across the parking lot, skidded to a halt in the shadow of a Tacoma's tire, spun there, spun and sputtered out like a firework flower. In the center of a charred circle of pavement my translucent ghost swayed and wavered, a little shell-shocked but so relieved. Now it's Monday; the flesh comes back like footage of detonated sandcastles played in reverse, and this time, I hope, there will only be little eruptions, or better yet, sound seismic doldrums prevailing beneath the sleepy desert.