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.
The Ekphrastic Review
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