Bus Moon

(from the moon series)

This moon keeps shaking its head
every three minutes.
The bad news settles in.
This moon keeps glancing back.
I can only wonder.
The sun's announcement
of the coming supernova.
Another pregnant comet
keeps knocking at the door.
The milky way's heckles
and the moon's body image complex.

This moon doesn't write or read,
isn't plugged into any music,
just the malfunctioning bus
making loud buzz and hum,
the intervals of time.

There isn't world around this moon.
There aren't buildings, cars,
soft mountains, olive groves
or the blue white sky.

This moon only needs to get to Madrid
and nothing else.

Where is She Moon

(from the moon series)

In the eyes of every pretty girl.
On the long walk home alone.
In the night falls
and it's never felt this lonely before,
the crossroad blues,

Robert, another drink after this long day
waltzing wheelbarrows of tongues
slow down the street. While them boats of ears
lazy drift down the Rio Tajo.

Something doesn't add up.
She sure was pretty.
But then again she's probably crazy.
How the hell am I supposed to know
this ain't no moon and go seek,
there ain't no water in the desert.
The night is darker than ink
and she won't be found in one day.

The only moons worth finding can't be found
on a Saturday night.

Road Moon

(from the moon series)


The sky, ah the sky,
the black dripping sky.
Sits. Hungry.
Doesn't believe
in eating other moons.
Hangs on by threads.
Knows the world is changed
and remembers how it is was.

Remembers the nights on couch, warm
breath on neck, the throws and the soups
and the why-don't-we-ever-go-out-anymore.

Remembers and wakes
and must keep moving
for the thieves.

Just the skeleton moon now.
Just the frame of a muse.
Just the frail body and stretched
canvas across bones.
Just the reminders of time
and the answer to how long
forgotten. Just the horizons
wisped smoky tendrils engulfing
road moon.