Moon Over Tarifa

(from the moon series)

again. As if the Atlantic wasn't big enough.
With waves that lap against the shore
and ignore the tourist orb and bells
that ring again and a lighthouse that flashes
in rhythm with the satellites and wind
that rattles the bones on a warm March night
but the moon,

mute as if it never learned to talk,

rises plain and ugly, walks a normal arc
and looks odd, feels ashamed and uses
the clouds, under the guise of beauty,
finally cracks its lips and mutters
a silent prayer over the Atlantic ocean.

Wind Moon

(from the moon series)

blown away to the other side of the Earth,
like a kite dragging a planet
to god knows where,
and there's nothing in the sky.

Except the sun,
the sun setting,
a luminescent orange blinding sun
ball setting on the horizon

and the clouds.
Two lines of clouds,
two lines of clouds parallel
the horizon

and the jet.
The jet inching its way
toward the apex,
straight above the windmills
on the mountain

and three kites.
Three kite surfer arced kites,
dipping and diving kites
crossing the face of a light pink sun.

But really there's nothing in the sky.
Except air. Except the wind.

Moon Over Malaga

(from the moon series)

carried on their backs through the streets.
Smoke leads the way and people cheer

for the weight of a god that died long ago.
While the waves feign apathy and the cliffs sit,
monked, watching the pity carried and led by police.
Bells ring for the litter by the curb, the children drink
in ancient plazas, burn the hours of the night,
and the next Picasso is born
but doesn't get a chance to hold a paint brush

for the giant wooden cross
shaped moon hanging over his head.

The Gauge of Cool

I am the gauge
of cool. If you don't like me
you can walk, if you do,
sit down,
have a drink, let's discover the gems
by the coast.
Let's disseminate rich
from rich, poor
from poor, hungry from hungry.

Let's impress upon the stars
eyes of wonder.
Let's not play the game of couples,
or the game of knowing.

I once knew and now I orbit
in humility, for the smallness
of a bus
that worms through the cliffs,
for the magnificence of vast oceans
stretching from            town to            town,
for the whining
that is the drivel of the soul.

I once knew and now I pretend not to.