potion lost by unknown souls
effervescent masturbatory master debater
creationism is masochism told from the horses ***
past blast take my soul
make me whole and complete
separation anxiety is ***** envy
memories of mental memos crash past rushing fools
used and abused on cruise control
I misjudged your guided thistle
because missiles are meant for drones not home-oh
listen to the seedless man cry for his dead *****
tediously miserable always unforgiven
what lies hidden within the door
could be a deserted desert dessert
like an after dinner breath mint
or a succinct lunatic on the brink of such destruction
may be distraction fight or flight action reaction
marilyn charles though more bronson than you
Aren’t thou marked for death
broken gasp choked sob
undergod slaughtered in an abandoned euthanasia clinic
euphimistic innuendo more like in your endo
indoor marijuana smoke makes the colors run
my american flag has flown and fled
please jesus save our country bumpkins
napkins go in the lap not as hat

We called it dump country
Tons and tons of junk
Old bicycles and plenty
Of bottles from the drunks.
The legal dump sites
Had not been arranged.
This was now the city,
Things yet to be arranged.

Four little kids, broke ***,
Not much money for toys.
It was the end of the fifties,
Bad times for little boys.
We made our own adventure,
Way before Disneyland.
We left right after breakfast
To us, the whole trip was grand.

We found amazing things
And brought them all home.
I found a gold painted Buddha
Under a kind of glass dome.
Jim found a tricycle there
And cleaned it up real nice.
It was a really good dump site
We went a lot more than twice.

We called it dump country
We had it to ourselves.
Just us four busy bumpkins.
Santa’s ***** little elves.
We found wheels and things
To build our own little cars.
We got cut up a bit sometimes.
I still have one of the scars.

Over in dump country
The one nearest to our place
Sam found a bit of money
One penny with an Indian face.
But what we found there
Added up to a treasure chest.
It sounds silly but they may be
The memories that were best.

Airwaves awash in the new gospel barrage:
calling forth the neighbourhood hack,
Abe Lincoln toon in towering hat,  
the corporation is coming -
will you not
collaborate my friend?

Everything good that you ever dreamed of is here:
Marbonite floored flats with self-terraced roofs;
The swankiest of cars, in imported hues;
Your arm candy drools,
now, brands, bigger brands!

All in your grasp, now, in community gates
shut safe as society decays.

Skies spitting frogs? Pestilences amass?
Listen to the Gospel according to Bane:
in the desert, smell octane. Hallelujah,
everything we make, from watches
to headscarves - your underwear is cheaper
sourced from the next so-lala-land.

Forget your sources tiny of incomes varying:
Bakers, cobblers, tinkerers, we also have
a uniform for you. Oh you rustic
tradition-bound bandy bumpkins!
Abandon your alleyways, and
welcome to the ghettos...where

What you eat, to where to retreat:
we cure everything from heartache to panache.

Wash away your sins in wonder medicines;
Waters can part, yes, see how the Pharoah
is disarmed; Big city dreams, dream
global manna beams. All that is needed for
salvation, is a little bit of classification. Are you
left-wing or right? Center-left or center-right?

The powerdrill tearing down edifices
resonating through noon. A crane arm's shadow
hovering high by the moon. Tablets from skies
now proclaim the new gospel for the land,
the airwaves are awash
of the miracle of Witwatersrand.

The corporation is coming, to a store near you:
Amen! Will you not, then, collaborate, my friend?

The pain is real
The pumpkins feel
When all their seeds
The bumpkins steal

And then
The moment dropped

Like a handful
Of blood splattered marbles

On the floor she screamed out
"Get me the HELL out of HERE!"
We rushed through the door
Down rotting stairs
Out to my car which couldn't start

Starlight lit her frozen grey face
Legs shook with a stones grace
The red car revved in roaring
Ruining our **** poor chance
Of love and all its small revival

On the road

I got it

To work

The road signs curled past
The stop lights the same
America's way
Of keeping us controlled and
Sane

All of that
Mattered nothing to me
Then

Life's preciousness was sitting
Right in my lap
Her eyes looked up at a sky
She feared

She would never see again

In the hospital
Through the gate
Past the guards
Dodging dual fate

I was stopped by arms
Not my own

Wheeled away
To fill out work
With pencil a bend
And a mind past hurt

8 hours I sat
Next to tweaked out bumpkins
Former school yard friends
Clicking my lead
And gripping insanity as if
Dead

She never came out
She never pushed through the
Double doors

I received the news
And I've been weeping
Every day
Every year

Far beyond the memory

Her mocking voice clear,

"We'll live forever, I promise my dear."

Those who have no sense,
Bumpkins without experience,
  .  .  .  Spectacular egos.

Euphoria
Eutopia

Europe, eurturn
eugenic

eusless
eudaemonia

euphrenic phor ever

ah, phor naught, all for one

out, out, ****** spot, eu for Rhea,
me for a mnesic urgency,
we have done this all

before, while entangled ina

silliness of soma ancient sort
aitia
is joy strength
ening?
is love weak
ening?
was peace a state of mind?

Were they singing Sym-pathetic Sym-ethotic

silliness of some baser sort? Altamont

December 6, 1969,

rolling hills of green, like Windows 98,

where was I? Speeding

North of Sedona, I remember now,

lugging a tater sack
full of peyote
toward Christmas, far from the maddened crowd
thinking nothing
of
the future
March 7, 1970 solar eclipse as I was
walking
to Chicago, from San Jose, to see

if I could retrace my steps, per haps
find signs
I may have left on history,
exams
I may have cheated on to get by,
but my
cheatling left a gap

how now
how now
the we of me, includes your idea of we
with me intuitive as in
we,
the people who hold certain truth,

assumptive as possible.
real in this sense.

seeming not to fade.

Wandering in cyber-realms impossible,
with in-ness being me, my mind being out-ness...
me
touch, sense, taste, feel
me... let me
be
rhyme on rime, frosty, right on or i'm gone,
eh. Mimeme mnomena phem kiss me lest I

fade away

dysphoria
dystopia

dysrope, dysrturn
dysgenic

dysless
dysdaemonia

aha, phor naught, all for one spot

out, out, ****** spot,

is not joy strength
ening?
is not love weak
ening?
is peace a state of mind?
Being as how we was,

I'da reckon, we was lost.

As a whole,
we forgot who we are or if not who,
what we are

in terms we find undefined in our minds.

As Mobius means nothing in 3-d, until you
seal the twisted stripe and find an umlaut,

imagine seeing,
holding twixt thumb and any finger,
a ribbon, yellow on top,
blue on bottom… hold it eye level, an end
of the ribbon
in each chiral appendage, with the dominant hand,
no, poor biases on dominance

but right has a bias in forms  designated right by use…

crud risc -- we gain speed in the missing info
therefore,

we are born knowing nothing but which hand is right.

Using that right hand, twist the ribbon so the right thumb
touches yellow and the right finger is touching blue.

On the other hand, take up the opposition.

Now, bring the ribbon ends near enough to merge and weave
into a loop, an unorientable or unoccidentable
band ( imagine no seam),
twirl it round
not an eight, a Möbius band, a nifty invention,

ever in public domain and open
science of the non-con kind

confidence games. remember those?
bumpkins in the Naked City buying the Brooklyn Bridge?

laugh at the bar bar
heko heko har har har barbar aryans

swept into the south
as the younger dryas looked on… tic

-- okeh there was a break in the tension--

Möbius trails of information may be wownd,
'round spools of
do-nut shape entangled by the loop which,
as you know now,
has one edge and one side
in the world you live in, remember Muntz Stereo-Paks?

these days you gotta have an old soul t' remember those.

I stole the first one I ever saw, but that's another line of reasoning regarding the path behind me,

not regarding the path in front of you.

We are lost. Or asleep. That's been rumored as
have wars.

Ah, reason in a maddened being,
such a tangled web.

look for a yellow fuggitchew ribbon,
wit the seal broke…

The wretchedest recklessness civilized savage
Still life of the dead party politic Ba’athist
On acid dispellin’ out
Truth sarin gases
A flask full of blasts from the way passed Jurassic
A passive assassin
Amassin’ a chemical
Weapons grade cache
And then armin’ the youth
With a freshly baked batch
Of this back of the class
To the top of the caste
Stubborn *******’
Cultural iconoclast
Smashin’ bumpkins
And bumpin’ my tunes
On the track
Cashin’ in on the super PAC
Alternate fact
In the ashen green pastures
Of post-truth Iraq
I got stacks of sealed caskets
Of old me’s I buried
And tales of the lost souls
To Hades
I’ve ferried
For taxes from cryptic coin cons
Cemeteried

Though I posted the following poem
(B)efore (C)ovid, a sense
of glee donned my being
the notion arose to trumpet anew
said literary handily crafted endeavor.

Not far from here -
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
regular folks going about their business
unwittingly participated in history,
a couple scant few years
after the American Revolution.

Two hundred forty three
(12.3 score) years ago
countless stripling soldiers
strapping farming homeboys
healthy agrarian lads
raised among generations

unseasoned lads in summer re:
offspring original settlers heirs
family acreage encompassed
wide uninterrupted forested swaths
across sprawling vistas
sparsely populated enclaves,

now heavily industrialized
lovely bones occupying
unmarked never known graves
buried amidst avast
cleft rapacious urbanization
long forgotten innocent youths

hailing within then bucolic
Montgomery, Delaware and Chester county
forsook their young precious lives
voluntarily promising sons
risking life and limb
more often former versus latter

sacrificing stripling flesh
encompassing urbanized tracts
quite familiar to yours truly
suddenly made aware
unbeknownst till yesterday
informative literary handiwork

titled "A Glimpse of Freedom"
engagingly written by Douglas Shupinski
details innocently naive country bumpkins
sacrificing potential sweat of brow,
albeit grueling labor
fostering holistic existence

transforming boyz to men
hardened green soldiers
into battle weary fighters
regarding, kickstarting, envisioning
inchoate cause named freedom
emancipating fledgling America

against British throne
awareness percolates,
perturbs, permeates psyche
synchronizing, manifesting, galvanizing
how past historical events
within close proximity,

where I mostly resided
since birth, now experience
absorption, communion, edification...
with dead souls
nearly deathly quiet
only most perceptive can detect!

HULLABALOO (acrostic)


Hectic happenings—snow days or heat waves

Under flashing lights, paparazzo pomp & circumstance.

Line dancing Hollywood hookers pleading the fifth on Vine.

Lights blinging signs, crowds, streamers loud attention

A ceremonious flock of white doves at red wedding

Boisterous unions picket signs, cons mob meddling

A scaturient family of the bride throwing rice

Loads of breeders drunk scrubs ****** hunting.

Open season for “the business” howling, rug munching.

Oral congratulations, fussing over gushing country bumpkins.

to anonymous readers March 6th, 2021
(blustery and chilly Saturday)
reminiscing about mien kampf,
when precious irretrievable youth
frittered away within
emotional wilderness of mine.

Into lonely senescence -
three plus decades already elapsed
trepidation, hesitation, abdication... unbearably
tugging, shouldering,
remonstrating accumulation
of "baggage" thumb

of right hand ****** out
silently raving, quaking
cursing ultimatum parents
(soffit to fascia in)
saw fit to fashion
and hammer home

red hot poker rage
their singular male offspring
middle child of two sisters,
who long since vacated premises
when both young naifs
prior to attaining age of consent

deploring bing holed up
at 324 Level Road redoubt
(long since razed)
built as summer house
remote from fracas of urban bedlam
still one hundred years since Leipers
bon voyage into netherland

father and mother
imposed swiftly tailored
harried styled tough love
translated meant absolute zero value
toward offspring they begot,
and made quite clear loathing

heaped upon sundered fountainhead
good for nothing son of a...,
he whittled away precious time
reading avast among trove of material
crowdsourcing numerous bookshelves
mostly to impress intellectual visitors,

when in truth middle aged couple
thinly veiled country bumpkins,
donned with "FAKE" literacy
stereotypical "rednecks,"
inexplicably begot wunderkind
agog with inhaling literature

in tandem with liberal
magazines and newspapers
oft times whiled away countless hours
sunup to sundown
sequestered most remote nook
within local library (Evansburg)

few miles walk along country road
served as self taught schooling
since parochial educated regimen
habitually rapped knuckles
courtesy whiplike hickory stick
if pupil evinced slightest

distraction, whence schoolmaster
detected lack of attention
as crotchety curmudgeon
blankly droned monotonously
dull jabbering subjected
stone faced classmates

into instant soporific state
futilely struggling to keep eyelids
slamming shut tight
including yours truly,
who when suddenly awake
realized quite a vivid dream!

PostScript: I slightly refashioned
above crafted semi fictitious poem
(written scant years ago)
cuz poignant pathos
to plod along boulevard
of broken dreams still persists into present.

note...this is someone speaking at me

What shall I the mighty chi bring the you the chunt this time?
Would you like to dream we're in a movie on a couch perhaps?
Or were nightmares too much a part of you and this which is mine
that I bring sings of much untrue
... too different a tune
That touching the twists in the road led to forked tongues
When the truth of deserving better haunts all you do
You can't accept the gift of life that delivers more ease
and class than you
Done with your luck because even if you owned your own pond
   you couldn't figure out how to **** a duck
  or sew mittens or sings songs
and on and on and on
Quoi(what) twa? Little needy vices turn cooly boy munchkins into
molly jumbled ripped up torn about scratchy bopped bumpkins
Coyote hosiery got coquettes working the windows
   of your soul again dreamer
Lights out vicious confused bishop...
   of freedoms true reign my... black satiny sheets
of mine their a' plenty of stains
So I ask you again, if you please, in all sincerity
What should make disambiguation of
the solipsism that is your only sensation?
Joy stampedes rain, summer in the southern hemisphere or maybe
You should stay in your place set for a man that can watch from afar
as the spin class whip and pipes of unknown undergrounds each and every furthest extreme form
And continue to bounce(as my ****) the days to night and the avenues of extreme are really nothing more than
The view of a sky with  Santa Ana breezes light, as I the foxy,
watch the morning sun...alight...  as I am, light and perfect
Another day to make gist of your black magic and all that you've done

to anonymous readers March 22nd, 2022
(blustery and chilly Tuesday)
reminiscing about mein kampf,
when precious irretrievable youth
frittered away within
emotional wilderness of mine.

Into lonely senescence -
more'n three plus decades
plus three extra orbitz
around mister sun already elapsed
trepidation, hesitation, abdication... unbearably
tugging, shouldering,
remonstrating accumulation
of "baggage" nothing
to thumb button nose at

think hitch hiker pose
of right hand ****** out
silently raving, quaking
cursing ultimatum parents
(soffit to fascia in)
saw fit to fashion
and hammer home

red hot poker rage
their singular male offspring
middle child of two sisters,
who long since vacated premises
when both young naifs
prior to attaining age of consent

deploring bing holed up
at 324 Level Road redoubt
(long since razed)
built as summer house
remote from fracas of urban bedlam
still one hundred years since Leipers
bon voyage into netherland

father and mother
imposed swiftly tailored
harried styled tough love
translated meant absolute zero value
toward offspring they begot,
and made quite clear loathing

heaped upon sundered fountainhead
good for nothing son of a...,
he whittled away precious time
reading avast among trove of material
crowdsourcing numerous bookshelves
mostly to impress intellectual visitors,

when in truth middle aged couple
thinly veiled country bumpkins,
donned with "FAKE" literacy
stereotypical "rednecks,"
inexplicably begot wunderkind
agog with inhaling literature

in tandem with liberal
magazines and newspapers
oft times whiled away countless hours
sunup to sundown
sequestered most remote nook
within local library (Evansburg)

few miles walk along country road
served as self taught schooling
since parochial educated regimen
habitually rapped knuckles
courtesy whiplike hickory stick
if pupil evinced slightest

distraction, whence schoolmaster
detected lack of attention
as crotchety curmudgeon
blankly droned monotonously
dull jabbering subjected
stone faced classmates

into instant soporific state
futilely struggling to keep eyelids
slamming shut tight
including yours truly,
who when suddenly awake
realized quite a vivid dream!

PostScript: I slightly
refashioned, repurposed and revised
above crafted semi fictitious poem
(written scant years ago)
cuz poignant pathos
to plod along boulevard
of broken dreams still persists into present.