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.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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May 2025
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