We didn’t know exactly what pumping
was, iron or otherwise, yet Arnold
(there’s that name again, like Jim, or Jesus,
common as snot) knew otherwise as well
as iron — it takes two fingers to lift
a joint, but inhaling kills your recall.

“Remember the small children,” he recalled
and how they swung with glee from his pumping
biceps, the cop of those kinders, lifting
them higher than he’d flown as just Arnold,
merely Mister Muscle, er, Olympia. Well,
enough. He’s more popular than Jesus.

Wasn’t that the Beatles? Ringo Jesus,
and John, son of God? I can’t recall.
Fox News says, “no more recall puns.” Oh well.
I’m bare and falanced on this stool, pumping
Anchor Steam like a barbell. If Arnold
wins, it’s not the only spit worth lifting.

Call me Chock-full-of-nuts-and-bolts, lifting
software left and right. It’s not what Jesus
preached. Stealing is wrong, kids learn, while Arnold
points the righteous way, past chads and recalls
to politics for the people, pumping
them for campaign cash at dinner as well.

It’s kind of like groping, with rewards. Well,
when Arnold speaks, donors (with diamonds) lift
forks of fois gras to face, free hands pumping
checks from nether regions only Jesus
has seen, while outside, the poor are recalled
beneath the night sky’s stars. Ursa Arnold?

Orion, more like it, warrior Arnold
with quiver (lo, Conan’s gonads!) stacked well,
arrows aimed at Sacramento. Recall
his wife’s televised hair flip, nose lifting
itself (no plastics involved) to Jesus,
or in that general direction. Pumping

gas isn’t Arnold’s job. “Gimme A Lift!”
the un-well shout, their clenched fists pumping.
Uh, take two. “Recall This!” Can’t? Try Jesus.