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Arty, Gosh


ISSUE:  Autumn 2001

Twirling 2,000 feet high, we’re hauling
four stiffs clipped by mathematics,
by friendly fire, by plus and minus dividing

four multiples . . . terrible OOPS.
The results, four youngsters
bloody as the Sunday comics.

Also along, the butter-bar
El Tee who accidentally
called down the mortar fire.

He’s heavy as the Titanic.
Can’t quite admit life is fiction
and say, GOD DAMN IT, OOPS!

The clouds reflect the explosions
below as pink roses for a funeral-home
touch. Got no Hippie Jesus on

board, but a Jesus Nut holds the blade on.
The wind croons A&P Beatles,
while the Lieutenant’s a bagpipe of groans.

But, heah, to goof is religious,
El Tee. Even Jesus,
God’s own man with the bachelor lips,

screwed-up there with Judas . . .
invited him up to supper
and suffered his cold kiss.

Yes, Judas called down friendly fire,
also. That’s why there’s tons of soot
and smog in Leonardo’s Last Supper.

Can’t raise the dumbbell of regret,
El Tee, you’re standing on it. Walk
away. Even JC couldn’t get his rocket

to lift off an inch—LOOK,
MOM, NO HANDS. You want OOPS,
El Tee, now that’s your oops.

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