Eating the Sun

Here are three scary things:
bare light bulbs,
electric power stations,
truth.

Last night I swallowed
a light bulb, tiny false sun.
Swallowed light, sun,
son of God? Indeed,
there was sweetness
in the shards that
junked my jugular.
I bled on the gold rug
which ran orange,
puddle of sunset.

You can't feel the zap
of power stations consciously,
but feel anxious, tasting danger.
It is foreign, as is all steel,
shining hideously,
like time, its swastika'd
arms and legs melding
like some terrible cult,
lonesome for faraway cults
on other plundered grounds.

As for truth, it's more
than these.
Bigger than the suns of God
larger than zillions of
phytoplankton powering
our toys, smoother than
its spouse, delusion.
We work it, work it,
like an old dog his ancient bone.
It whacks our wits.
We avoid the glare.

We're leaving.
Everyone here will become
everyone here.
Light fades, energy flees.
The ceiling cracks its toothless smiles.
The shards will sift soil,
allowing blind grubs
to take us home,
take us home,
to the more frightening
less threatening
nothing
that ever and ever is.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2009