Gotcha Warhol, says the soup can
The tragedy of near-Earth re-pixelization
dribbles down hinterlands of forgiveness
stabbers stand on their tip-pointed heads
but canonization is allowed in
only on Sundays
do they go under virtual avalanches
of leftovers, left over from scrabbling
carnivores & vegetarians nibbling
in the trashcans of masqueraded detritus
with but one gripping impulse
horse-sense must be stopped at the checkpoint
of no return
coupons for ten percent off
to regular customers who pay themselves
short shrift in thrifty marts & steer smart
go-karts in the parking lot half the time.
Monday, Andy says I hear the can calling.
I thought he had to pee but it turns out
the schmucking schizoid
always tells the truth.
His can ruled our menagerie of sound-bites
left unedited by clowns sporting orangey sutures;
it tried to fit into Campbell’s girdles designed
for ghost-faced Lemuridae under Dalí’s pink goalposts,
but failed at genuine camaraderie in the aftermath
of finding gold-leafed pandemonium
inside its odious little tin navel.
This poem previously appeared in ditch poetry.
Linda Stryker lives in Phoenix, but sometimes in her head; her cat and piano are in there, too. She is a poet, teacher, radio reader, and tennis player. Her work has been appeared in several journals and anthologies including New Millennium Writings, Highlights for Children, ditch poetry, and The Speculative Edge, among others.
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