Moon Over Ten Thousand People at the Beach Taking Sun

(from the moon series)

sweats, an ugly shiny sweat all over
a towel of lilies,

all over rough rocky sand
and the sweat makes a river
for sand ants to float down
chunks of fake crab and cherry pits
and the moon, nude,
turns over, turns red, puts on SPF 15
and can't reach the lower back.

It's just that the waters cold
when you go in and the ice cream
is too far away and it's a good thing
it's June 3rd, Corpus Cristi.

And the moon over ten thousand people
at the beach taking sun wonders,
wonders why they all aren't moon bathing,
wonders why moon tan isn't in style,
wonders where moon burn would take

one poor child, sand castled and topless,
hunting shapes in pales and fantastic scenarios
between kings and queens and shells
once breathing under the dying ocean.

An Ontigola Adventure

I walked through a field of red flowers. It was hot that day and my shirt stuck to my back. It started to rain thick black rain drops. I wondered to myself, is that oil? The flowers closed like eyelids do. But I kept walking on a gravel path. My destination wasn't aware of my upcoming arrival. The black rain drops fell from a purple sky. I swear I'm not color blind. It's just this place here. I remembered what my mother always said. You should always bring an umbrella, even on the train. I looked at the rusted railroad tracks. There came a hum from far away. A black crow approached. I was happy for its color. You better get out of here, he said and I looked at him. I'm sorry, my ears are clogged, I said and he laughed. We drank oolong tea that night under the awning of a Chinese bar. He mentioned his past job as a traveling car salesman and I ground my teeth. But all along that red field sat in my mind and I couldn't look him in the eyes. He could tell and before long we parted ways.

Moon Over the Chorus of Conversation

resounds in the aural periphery, emanates from tongues slobbering
and slipping sounds and stories out without control. As if (suddenly)

and slowly there were a construction crew laying down tongues
like bricks and saliva like mortar. One after the other after

the other until, pretty soon, the great pink wall, finally erect, finally
dividing, finally echoes the tower of Babel, finally is heard

by the outer rings of Saturn, as a chorus to drown the bored
silence of the universe so easily overwhelming.