Gotcha Warhol by Linda Stryker

Campbell's Soup Can by Andy Warhol, 1964.

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.

Linda Stryker

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.