Moon in Sun’s Clothing

hunts for the day, a ranger
of the stars, a big red dot
in the sky, obviously dressed up,

too hot and shimmering
on the lake ripple sunset,
just a few minutes later
than usual. And then

there’s the clunky walk
like the bones are too big
for the skin; jolts of steps.

While the hills are green, bright
green and the fog rolls in
off the coast and the rain
starts so fine it almost

doesn’t reach the ground.
There is the moon
in the sun’s clothing.

A white silhouette on a blue sky
day, uncomfortably revolving,
writing history at its heels
and pushing a wheelbarrow
of ears to god knows where.

Moon in Sheep’s Clothing

listens to the tongues
before it speaks, waltzes
through the airport, watches
the sheared and the plump buy
seven dollar water and pamper
themselves for the slaughter,

hears the words and doesn’t recognize
the language and looks for boys
gelled long black faux hawk hair

for comfort. The fields are turned
to benches, the trees metal columns,
the mating rituals absent and the wind
in the leaves just a loud speaker
of announcements. But then

oh look, there’s another moon couple
in sheep’s clothing, old and wheelchaired
and headed for Quito to roam in the siesta
afternoon away from the flock.

Moon Over the 83 Year Old Spanish Woman Who Called David My Love

(from the moon series - Camino de Santiago edition)

Who fled to Germany during the civil war
and then lived in Madrid for twenty five years
and then lived in this son of a bitch town

and took twenty Euros to buy camels at the bar
but came back with Winston's and Marlboro's
and told us she’s socialist and called Franco

funny names and sang all night with the sweating
old waiter at the bar and you can’t buy experiences
but you can buy cancer and whose husband is asleep

under the sheets while his wife flirts with tourists
and waddles her upper arm skin in front of
Three Punches at the end of the Earth.

Moon Over Finestterre (the End of the Earth)

(from the moon series - Camino de Santiago edition)

glimmers on the horizon, reflects the shimmer
of gold waves, looks into your soul and whispers,

take a step off the edge, and,
trust that you will not fall,

as the seagulls coast over the cliffs,
as the sun sets and unites the heaven
and the earth, as the waves crash
into the rocks as hard as they can
(trying to push them over) , as the tide
comes in and sweeps the sand,

the moon knows what is beyond the sea,
knows like the innocence of a child
making sandcastle, knows far more
than it realizes but keeps the secrets
stoned down at the bottom of the black
abyss, shipwrecked, under the Atlantic.

Cafe Moon for Katí

(from the moon series - Camino de Santiago Edition)

as sweet as the sugar is in this coffee
that burns the soul awake in the morning,
that jump starts the days and the auditorium
seating on the street (for the dog and pony
show) for the face show, for the runway
flash, for the glitz and glam and the drive
to watch ants waltzing down Rua do Franco

as if there were no moon to count time,
as if there were no church bells ringing
for mass, as this long walk comes to an end
and the memories entangle themselves

with older ones, as the dogs sleep
after eating all night and the lizard tries
to untangle an inquisitive web, as the world
spins and spins and eventually I will take a plane
backwards around the earth to find my heart
nestled in the Pacific Northwest pines, waiting
in percolation like a good cup of coffee.

Moon Over Fifteen Straight Days of Walking

(from the moon series - Camino de Santiago edition)

is strong, bold, charges past three
day walkers limping along, walks in legs
used to the pavement, the dirt, the rocky dirt,
the banana leaves, the stone roads, the gravel
roads, the grass fields, the uphills
and downhills, the off paths, the brick
roads, the highways, the mountains, the coasts,

gets blisters and feels them, just feels them,
knows what to do, how to tell pain
what it is, knows when rest calls,
when duty calls, when hunger calls,

follows a natural line of calls as the road
determines what comes next and the only
way to go is to keep going strong, to only
seem like there are stops, to be the walker
that makes the road and know the road
makes the walker.

Moon Over Monte del Gozo

(from the moon series - Camino de Santiago edition)

stuffed with tourists like a turkey
on thanksgiving day, packed
in the ass, rammed into the mount,
jabbering and throwing cigarette butts
on the ground, the giant statue
of the apostles, towering, stone
with metal mounted on top of hill,
surrounded by flash and pomp,
overlooking Santiago, the journey
coming to an end, the disappointment
building with each false pilgrim’s pass,
them wrongly shod, them without weight
on the back, them without carrying days,
them without penance, spiritual or ritual
or religious and from there on the mount
the joy becomes happiness and happiness
never stays too long to be appreciated.

Moon Over O Pina

(from the moon series - Camino de Santiago edition)

is almost home, almost
back to where it started
after a long journey
unforeseen, that pushed
the limits of orbit, the limits
of phases, almost home
to see its brother the sun
and its parents the Relative
and Absolute, almost

to the harbor where
the moon parks, with velvet
docks for cratered skin,
with diamond waters
warm to the touch,
almost home, almost

able to rest its weary bones
in the throne of sky
and start the future one more
time, one more rotation,
one more usual night and day
of burning legs and then Santiago.