was made with grains
of sand. Molded with buttered
hands. The walls collapsed
in a wave. Too late for I to save.

His castle
was made in the clouds
with a grey shroud of mist
and a cyst full of doubt,
punching with his fist holes in
a fire sky. I was baked just like
the rye.

His castle
was made of milky paper,
sweet as a honey wafer. Pulled
from a cardboard book, smoked
and heavily shook. His grey ashes
landed on my eyelashes. So, I blinked.
He vanished in a wink.

to the kaleidoscope girl, Lucy
in the sky with diamonds
with the pearl tooth smile?
The long and winding road
she traveled mile after mile?

What happened
to the stars in her emerald eyes
dancing night fever moonbeams?
Where did her softness lie?
Her head full of dreams?

What happened
to her freebird skip?
What happened to her spring?
What happened to the silly love songs
she used to sing?

What happened
to long summer breeze days?
Where is the crystal ship
with its pills and thrills
stripped into the blaze?

like a bed that's wrinkled
from a mid-day romp. And I
stomp out of his room. A plucked
flower cannot bloom.

He made me over
like a face after a night of
heavy drinking, thinking he can
cover the bags and dark circles with
mascara and blush. He made me a lush!

He made me over
like last week's leftovers
sitting cold and hard, pushed
to the back of his refrigerator. He said
he'd warm them later.

He made me over
like a plan, till the ****
hit the fan.

about her hippie lovers
she had when she was risible and
younger. Talks about her friends
and covers a big chunk of her  

life. She was every guy's dream
but nobody's wife! Shoulder pads
and big hair, acid-washed jeans matching
silk bras and underwear. Night clubs and

all the beds she's landed in. She rubs
it in like a chalk painting. I'm straining
to hold a smile. This big ***** lady is
entertaining, but not my style. I sneak

a word as she comes up for
breath. It's like watching a scene from
Shakespeare's Macbeth! As I walk
the long hall heading to the door

her starry night eyes
hang on the floor. I leave her
like all her winters, dark and grey
with closets of splinters.

to water a dandelion
like a rose
to read poetry
in prose

to see white
when it's painted black
to think it's given
but it's taken back

to catch a glimmer
in shade
to think I've had it all
for all it to fade

to call a foe
a friend
to think we start
we end

of cards and letters. Burned
them like the golden leaves in my backyard,
till they were grey, flat and charred. But
the smoke still billows in the air

like a pile of dung from a mare. I washed
the scent off my body like salt and
sand after a day at the beach. But the grit
is stuck between my teeth. I blocked

numbers and addresses. Threw out
all the summer dresses, the creamy lacy
halter tops, the sandals and flip-flops that I
wore. But his picture is in my bedroom drawer.

years on him. Years she can
not pull back like her cornflower duvet
covers. Years she stood and hovered
as a slave for all she gave, holding the glass

pieces as they were cutting her hands
and fingers. She wasted so many
briny drops of crystal hops, weeping
as a willow, hanging onto the edges of

her pillow. Soaking up the quilting
cotton, wondering how she got in
all this mess? Still holding onto
barrels full of stress. She wasted

her baby years on starbursts and
screams, plucking every crimson colored
petal for steam. Holding a fist-full of thorns
that tore her from her dreams.