When The Earth Eats The Sun

I get dizzy when I think about how the earth is spinning.

Even though every time I look for the horizon there is something to block the view.

Straining my neck, I peer around houses and trees and strip malls.

It doesn’t matter, I know it’s there.

But with my eyes closed, I see it perfectly.

The hungry land swallows the spicy sun and spits pink into the sky.

And the vastness of the pink sky reminds me that I am a speck.

Little dirty speck.

And as the horizon starts titling, the earth carries me with it,

Gathering speed — round and round and round again.

Everything turns over on itself, caught in the circuit.

Thrown off by the new momentum because the earth ate the sun.

It’s getting too fast and things start to collide —

Trees twist and snap and fall into houses and cars.

A shoe flies and hits you in the face.

Sharpies impale squirrels and an ocean-scented candle bombs an aquarium.

The Big Ben crashes into the Pyramids of Giza.

Computer cases, lawn chairs, recycle bins, and cash registers

Twirl into skyscrapers which crumble into their own dust.

Giant squids splatter Wall Street and endangered coil reefs bulldoze nurseries.

Your friend’s bike with the flat tire rings the Liberty Bell and the Great Wall of China coils into a snake.

And you’re spinning with it all,

Tighter and tighter, faster and faster until —

Snap! An Implosion.

Everything is gone.

And you and I are nothing.

Together at last.