HALO CHIPS

I've tried to keep this a secret
but the burden, she overwhelmed
crumbling, flaccid poltergeists
homes inside the savant mind
dripping in caves of 12 cent stamps
the chorus can almost be heard
through the gentle tremble
of the Macintosh feedback
I never promised you plenty
I only promised to not lick the knife
but the culinary harpoon reread
keeps me caged and in time
with the bagpipe
"Don't you try to mix it up with
a holy man, Rhoda!
Because the Lord ain't one for
spare change
and I don't feel like washing
dishes in Purgatory
you nutty, nutty kunk-binding wino!"
So, the slices of feathers
walk beside the brazen halo chips
while the preface is reread
to the cortex-retro-hippodromes
I never promised you a rose-tinted
contact lens, my sweet
orange peel misanthrope,
I'd never believe in a million years
that the last words I'd speak would be
"barstool keepsake, keep me, my darling"
I'm the last man in the boat
the last man to hold his breath
and I can feel the crowd
pointing and staring at the fresh fruit
that I plundered from the packrat's napsack
the way they all chuckle when they whisper to me
"The icons are cheddar, knave.
The icons are butter, Mojave.
The icons are chocolate to most of us, Sidney.
But the pieces all fall to dust."

I tried to keep this a secret but the burden she overwhelmed.