The glowing ember from my cigarette floating through the dark like a torch and the exhalations blowing through the curling blue coil of rising smoke, a rickety red umbrella that you can never, ever open inside, my pack of smokes and my Betty Boop lighter, and a biting rain pecking at my face curling down my neck as I sit on some stairs and watch a dry patch of pavement below become pock-marked with falling droplets of rain until it all comes together and coalesces on the surface of the ground, dark and wet, the once dry patch annexed from above by the falling saliva of the sky, illuminated by a jaundiced, yellow light; the hard clicking sound of the contents of pregnant clouds land on and around me and beyond a drunk couple sings their way down the avenue tunelessly toward me in a slow, unintentionally wistful cadence.
Forty-four magnum pillows and art as weeping willows,
long strands of art falling like the hair of your beloved,
infested with almost-beauty so bad your soul catches fire,
faces with faces that cut razors with razors, throw fire on pages,
Blow smoke on the fever,
float down a river made from memory with oars made from ivory and ebony,
elephantine sense of smell for the cane that walks the blind to and from,
hell and hell and hell will rebel into the heart of all that you buy and sell,
Throw fire on pages and fill up your lighter,
get a sense of yourself and burn a writer,
ashes to smashed faces with glass in your eyes,
smokestacks so high you can’t reach but you try,
And the last thing you will need is lighter fluid,
cigarettes will suffice unlit and glasses empty of drink,
the cellar doors of your soul, closed and opened, pry them open,
find the blast furnace and throw fire on your pages before you burn them.
Alexander Michael Ziperovich
Dangling from a blood-moistened, rusty silver string from the top of the heavens with three broken legs dipped deep into the swamp with my heart in my right hand, my left hand empty and sharp.
That’s where you find yourself, where you know that you can decide what kind of man you are, where that can be decided for you.
Ambulatory coordination after a fist fight I can’t win; the fat kid with the shitty homemade purple wine and my girlfriend in the very far peripheral. “Fucking fuck! Ahhh! I’m in pain, I’m in pain.”
Screaming for a liberal nurse without a grudge to bring some clear, synthetic fudge.
Three shots of hydromorphone and twelve specks of glitter to take home and run with.
I can’t take the way my head feels when it’s empty because it’s so full.
I can’t take the way my bones feel when it’s raining inside me.
I can’t take the way people look at me when there isn’t anything to see.
This place, these places, all these shining, crumbling towers; there isn’t another city in this world I want to see that isn’t in high definition. The corners are buzzing like fruit flies on shit and my ears are tingling and my neck and the little hairs on my arms raise up like rifles to greet the news: you’re not going nowhere.
Look into my eyes if you want to know.
If they’re big then I’m angry and sad. If they’re small then I’m satiated, angry and sad.
Ambulatory uncoordinated dance-steps for fruit fly mingling; mosquitoes in the dead of winter and I sing so loud they come to me and drink dying of thirst.
The plastic-metal Glock flitting through my head like dream sequences.
They say a bullet never lies. How do you calibrate the caliber of the way you fall on your excalibur?
I went to the big ball and spilled red wine on the vest on my chest and the rest of the rest of this mess has ever since been something to try to cry about, something to think about unthinkingly stupid while I never rest. See, it dries up your face, your mucous membranes when you learn that you don’t belong in this place.
God bless, God bless, God bless.
The weak shall inherit the mirth and be blown away by fucking tsunamis made from steel pricks and invisible plagues.
“that was sweet that you loved me kinda haha”
by Alexander Michael Marasca Ziperovich
Dedicated to a dear friend.
There are these things that mean rings,
planets our eyes rotating inside and things we don’t mean or we don’t mean to mean,
backdraft from the banality of love and we chase the fire with more fire to feel it’s strength,
our heart taken back a length.
There are these people that choose us,
hair that we like and sometimes when they feel like it they just chew us to dust,
and we fuss and we scream things and we sing and we breathe and we choke and we must hope that we won’t give in to the soap and cleanse our hearts with nooses and ropes.
There are these feelings,
living beings, betrayal with no meaning and ecstasy without seeing and we believe them,
until they leave us and we are left without and we don’t shout but rather we put our mouth
to a spout that sings better for worse and we cannot go on but we continue to work and work.
There are our hearts,
our hearts, our hearts, our hearts like art but the end without existentialism or big words,
just our love and desires and dreams and joyous burning passionate fires, we must light them,
candles standing tall in the cavernous wall that mesmerizes us and we think that it separates us,
But it does not,
hearts that cannot be eloping,
chain-gains that won’t stop hoping,
addicts that do in fact stop holding (hi),
and we thought to ourselves that everything was so broken.
And then there was a poem.
Alexander Michael Marasca Ziperovich
The ketamine’s phosphorescent glittery saltwatery. Annie is somewhere in the nether part of the condo screaming; there are two places where the screaming comes from, the bathroom or the bedroom. I am always in the middle. I’m slicing up her mahogany dining table again with my three-razor trick. Tossing the kitty around and then lining it up again and then watching it do the waterfall and finally doing a line or two. “You hate me!” I did. “You’re gonna leave me and my parent’s are going to fucking kill you! That table’s so expensive and you’re destroying it and…” Her voice trails off into the ether after a big blow to my face like a slap of red lightening.
“Nhrruruhhhscrhhnchhchhhhhh-huuuuuuuaaah!” I snort.
“Sczizsciissss…” went her table.
This isn’t working. This K is garbage. The other goddamn ketamine I got from those parking lot kids was far superior the night I got LA tattooed on my right tricep and I would have paid two hundred a gram again but this was all there was, thanks to the fucking pokèmon crew up north.
My teeth hurt.
“I’ll be back.” She moans and draws herself up like a bow and shoots herself at the just-slammed door. “Thump,” I laugh, skipping down the stairs after sending the elevator up.
I’m talking to Santa that lives on the doorstep of the furniture store at the end of the block about dolphins or shit and Gypsy stumbles up. “Alex. Give me a fucking goddamned motherfucking cigarette.” Her hair is a lime-green rosebud nest of wires. Her face is decorated with scars and her neck has apparently been doing a lot of black tar. A bottle of Southern Comfort is hanging from her hand like a rosary. She spits violently into the wind, swaying with one foot in the gutter under the sidewalk. She’s like a beautiful painting that moves.
We embrace and she has Hep C and the saliva I think landed in my eye and we start walking, down the block to buy smokes and I tell her about my wreckage of a life and she tells me about hers, again. We’ve been close like this for almost three years. In jail in a nascent ante-cell by the infirmary I saw her name scrawled with what must have been sharp metal all over the door. I thought it was remarkable, “Alex, they just fuckin’ lemme out again yesterday. Gimme another smoke, man.”
We stop and I turn toward her. She’s all rags and liquor meat but she’s gorgeous. Hasn’t had sex in six years she tells me. I believe her. Lives in a government pad up the street the methadone people hooked her up with.
“Well, Gypsy,” standing in front of Annie’s lobby again, “I need some hypodermics.”
“I got a hundred-pack at my pad. Come the fuck on.” She swigs the booze without spilling a drop. She’s quite sharp.
We rise into the Hill as the sun dips below and into her glowing amber sauce as the sparkling shimmer from the glass and the sun fade away. She unscrews it, takes a thick hit and pours out a few jiggers. “Johnny. Poor bastard.”
We walk into her moodily institutional but relatively barren home save the orange TOXIC! sharps containers and the bloodstains and the burnt spoons and pipes and the little clumps of what look like metallic pubic hair. Her carpet is green. A good, honest green.
She shows me to a massive backpack full of capped orange .29 gauge hypodermic needles
!FOR DIABETES ONLY! and I ask how the fuck I know they haven’t been used. The floor is covered with uncapped bloodrusting rigs. “They’re brand fucking new if they’re in there, otherwise they’re not.” I see my face in an empty bottle of gin on her kitchen counter through the open door. I reach in and grab six or seven and look around uncomfortably. “I usually get mine wrapped individually in plastic but…” She jerks her head away.
“What’d I say?” I’m looking at a spot on her wall to which her eyes have also trained.
Her face hardens and softens and finally a small moan escapes her cracked lips. “I miss my daughter,” she whimpers. CPS took her three years ago after Gypsy violated. The picture on the wall is the size of a credit card but a little bigger, hanging from a nail and a long string.
“This is the fuckin’ deal, Gypsy. If you ever want your daughter back you have got to stop doing heroin and getting arrested. I’ll make you a deal: I’ll give you as much Subutex as you need to stay well if you stay off the streets. You can sell it, or if you were smart, switch off methadone and turn on subs. Your choice.”
Her face is music, agony and dreams spilling from her eyes like black ink.
“I just gave you like ten rigs for free and you’re telling me what?” She’s scarlet in the face more than usual and she’s growling at me. “Gypsy, I just want you to have your daughter which is what you want, no?” This is the culmination of a very slow hour of Gypsy telling me what happened and me trying to tell her how to unfuck the whole thing.
I feel brave.
I go to the wall and snatch the picture and take it to her. She rattles and falls to her knees and weeps. “Gypsy…”
“If you wear this picture around your neck and I see you wearing it in the blocks and you don’t bullshit me we can go back right now and get you like ten subs, which as you know are worth a lot of fucking money, a lot more than some fucking grab-bag needles.”
“You got the real ones? Suboxone? What milligram?” She asks after immediately responding to the word subs by flying up off her knees, looking from the little pale rectangular missing picture to the picture itself in my hand. “I have the real fucking deal, the big boys. Eight milligram generic buprenorphine. Don’t get no better.” She sighs and we strike a deal. We walk back down the neon path.
I run up into the screaming condo and grab the safe and unlock it and throw ten or twelve subs into my hand and run back down. I still have the picture but the rigs I left upstairs. “Here. Wear it around your neck.” She puts the picture on like it’s a diamond necklace and for the first time I see something like hope come into her, violent hope. She reaches for the subs and before I give them to her I tell her, “No more if you don’t have that on your neck. None. I want you to have your kid, Gyps.”
I’m boiling ketamine in a black pot on the stove and somehow the sight of a handful of needles has calmed Annie down. I’m abruptly and arbitrarily throwing crystalline ketamine into the pot, letting it boil a bit, drawing it up into the syringe and slamming myself in my left bicep. The memorial tattoo of my best friend is on my right arm.
Boil. Pour. Stir. Draw. Slam.
Boil. Pour more. Stir. Draw. Slam.
Boil. Pour the whole bag. Stir. Draw. Slam, into my right arm cause I don’t know any better now and drop myself onto the kitchen floor where I sink into a black telescopic pit where I hear someone wheezing, breathing, screaming, shrieking, my heart is or is not bleeding and this ketamine finally did something I needed.
I got Gypsy sober for four weeks. She wore her daughters face everywhere she went and no one ever gave her any shit. I saw her once a few years later looking terrible and then I saw her again looking less terrible and then I didn’t see her anymore.
I love you, Gypsy.
by Alexander Michael Marasca Ziperovich
“Cemeteries…” The scant sun rang glass bells upon the tombs, the bigger tombs, the domes and all the decaying white angels. It was hot in the cemetery in autumn, once again. There is no tragic comedy greater than the furnace of sun heating a single blood stream on October in a graveyard.
“But I’m not in a grave. I’m on ‘planet earth’. Why?”
Along the Kinshasa highway in Zaire in 1976’, the same truck stops from where HIV/AIDS originated, that is where they found it, this unholy fever from the bleeding jungle. CIA, USAMRIID, KGB, FSS, even the PLA; it became a household name. The deal of all devils: Russia and America’s 2012 pact against the Chinese. It began in North Africa with the Gates Foundation’s polio vaccination campaign, which inflicted long, coursing paralysis and ultimate freedom from life for the recipient in the form of a single nosebleed. They all marched back to the jungle for the witch doctor’s bushmeat to live.
Going back to the source was the only sensible thing to do in the interests of National Security they said. Congressionally delicate declination; Suppression via the media; Human complacency.
It was just too far above their pay grade.
Pluralism favors the brave and rarely the incompetent.
EXECUTIVE ORDER MAO-91 was declared. Signatures were scrawled in a darkened anteroom by three men, one Chinese-American, one Russian-American, and one President of the United States of America.
It’s now 2019 and the entire continent has been devoured, eaten alive; ACTION-ORDER-1918 has been activated but the pilots won’t fly the choppers, the soldiers can’t stand post and nothing is working and everything is dying.
EO: PROCEED PROCESS DEEP-SEED-SLEEP-89
The White House that was airlifted years previous to a remote province outside Shanghai in the form of a Buddhist temple dwelling was burned to cinders after the chief-of-staff and all his AIDS were doused with Cherosene and Kerosene and spit on by the counter-counter-revolutionary infectious squads.
They died shortly thereafter, hemorrhaging Khmer Rouge propaganda from the spleens that erupted from their facial orifices.
EO: AUTOMORPHEUS SECTION 3 is initiated.
The President was orbiting the earth with two or three AIDS until a sizable splotch of Pluto cracked the hull. They breathed in the gaseous ship for six years and six months, staggeringly conscious. It seems Pluto has intentions beyond not being a planet.
And that is all.
“Why isn’t really the right question and I already know how, mostly. I think the real question is, is? Why is? What is?” He ruffles pebbles with his broken rag boots, heels like dry planks, splinters in his feet with every single step.
He kicks a rock and breaks his little toe.
The last childbirth on earth, in Monrovia, in the heart of the plague, the child was brought forth. The mother died instantaneously, convulsing while bleeding from her nipples.
The child never saw a picture in or outside of Liberia or anywhere for that matter. No description. No one knows how he exited the womb because there is no one.
He delivered himself.
And he was alone.
And that is all.
Lying prostrate on a thick slab of marble stone he glares up at the sun.
The sun stares back harder. He stares back harder. Ardor. Heroism. Heroin.
He had blinded himself like this before when he should have been in kindergarten so this was no new silly ploy; he had satiated himself by becoming the enemy, nemesis and guardian of the light of the sun, begging it to explode in his nocturnal days without affect.
The light warms his face. He turns away disgusted. “Assembly line garbage bulb.”
A floating, dancing, singing blur. His mother’s face again. “Assembly line garbage whore.”
A caught, designed, mutated beyond control virus manifested. “Assembly line garbage teardrop.”
He propels himself so that he falls face first into the soft dirt. He inhales the soil. It never works despite the centuries of deadly peptides, pesticides, protein-molecularly changed rental signs.
He is immortal until his natural death.
His maternal grandmother died at 103 years of age, chain smoking through the oxygen mask until finally ripping herself out of the ventilator so as to continue swigging cheap brandy. She died a few years later.
“No excitement here.” He breaks his other foot and his shoe unfastens itself and runs off of him into a tombstone like a petrified rodent. He kicks off the other boot and raises his hand to the sun letting it soar into the sky but it only lands some three or four feet from his feet, up and down, like those carnival rides designed for the insane.
He climbs a cliff.
He climbs another cliff.
He summits Kilimanjaro and Everest again and asks the question that has plagued him for all of his sixty-six years: What is?
In a frothy tornado-like motion he screams at the valleys and canyons and plains below and listens for one sound, an insect a bird a snake a Chihuahua but there isn’t the faintest echo. He bites his tongue, sits down and bleeds onto a carcass. He imagines an ocean suspended at this altitude. Even here the graves continue to flower and bloom.
The ocean scarlet with the blood of the last infant-boy-pubescent-man.
He drinks deeply of his mind and vomits all of it out onto the snow and the sand.
Is the question is? The question is.
The answer is:
This place was virulent with hatred far before Ebola or HIV or Influenza.
This place was virulent with love far before vaccines, cocktails, or morphine.
There is no explanation because God refuses us.
There is no explanation because Satan loves us.
Why there is nothing and everything?
Why there is everything and nothing?
It just isn’t what you wanted.
It is what it is.
And is it?
And that is all that is and all that ever will be.
by Alexander Michael Ziperovich
A Short Story
“…the old man would ever have.” Almost arching his prepubescent back up toward the ceilinged sky, the child breathed in Hemingway’s finale. “Get back to the Abacus. Now, Charles.” He glanced sidelong at the horrid teal wall with the crooked spines of the books. “I’m just putting away my ultimate division scenario arithmetic, Ms. Apple.” He had adjusted the room so that he might read a short story, here Hemingway, over by String Theory, Ezekiel, by addition/substraction he kept the Koran.
The Abacus was a wretched teal bubble stick with which Charlie never would have been exposed despite his extreme calculative abilities, which he could perform in his heart, if not for his father and his mother’s docility toward his father’s hatred for art. “The only art you’ll ever have boy, is the art of selling paint for cash.” It was a wretched time to be alive. It always was. He imagined himself languishing in the desert outside Cairo building pyramids and tombs with massive rock and—. “Back to work.” The Abacus slid into his hand like a snake and he gazed at it lovingly for the sake of Ms. Apple.
He took the Abacus to his corner of the nearly shrill room full of the pain of children being forced out of art into death. As was customary for him and Abacus Hour he turned inward and faced the corner that was his that day at the Academy for the Righteous Arts and Splendors. “Georgina, I need your string theory proposal in two and a half minutes, you’ve had three days by golly!”
He gingerly worked the Abacus with his small, nimble fingers and pried it in half so that a small Papyrus scroll rolled tight fell into his torso. He unrolled the ten foot document about seven inches and his fingers hurt and he knew what arthritis was and he glanced at that horrible wall covering the heavens and asked why, again. “The Beauty and Solace of Man Lie in The Struggle to Achieve the Freedom of Paranoia from The Reality of The Beasts of Servitude…”
Ms. Apple was staring into his physical cave where he was reading his scroll that he had created based on the diseased ideas the Academy suggested he was experiencing due to a strong and difficult to pry open codependency with his mother and the world above the teal. They suggested aversion therapy based on Pavlovian and B.F. Skinner models.
“No.” He knew he would be forced to burn it himself. He had worked on the transcription from only his mind in the fashion of Dumas forever.
“Bring in the slavery bucket!”
All the children immediately turned inward, angst, pain, and humorous sadness on their faces apparent as the color of their scorched eyes. Charlie moved to the middle of the chamber.
“THE SLAVERY BUCKET!” The children chanted once, twice, thrice.
A black crockpot filled with gasoline that supported a single, tiny, white candle appeared.
Charlie fell face first into the drum of gasoline right before the commencement of the Slavery and the entire Academy was burnt from the very innermost sanctum.
Charles incinerated the split Abacus and smiled, burning in flames.
Art or nothing.
But my name is Michael.
But my name is Ziperovich and I don’t think I like you.
You’re a terrible person, you have come alive and created quite a disturbance. The author’s’ book club organizational management team meetings have commenced immediately. EVERYONE is SEEING me. It’s fucked up. I want a quiet, quaint fireplace and a real fur lion coat rug. What the fuck do you know about rugs, seeing your strawberry fields get fucked up, an antibiotic resistant infection devouring your heart in detox and the doctor won’t see you because the nurse is a catty cunt in need of a preview of the improperly proper use of needles and she needs you to need her to need you to suffer and so fuck her I will, I will suffer my writing, this burden this cursing this maligned heart of mind resurgence that I cannot handle without alcohol and FUCK YOU.
That did not rhyme at all.
I’ve been getting screamed at for having eyeballs and a mouth on my face since I was eight so when a prose instructor tells me that my rhyme schematic fucking sentence structural design prints are technically arousing the wrong systems in the housing projects I don’t miss em’, I dismiss em’. I do and do not need assistance and smiles and laughing and hugs and big juicy fat kisses from every single person that I love but I know that all isn’t there but at least something is there; this is a big, fat, mothafuckin’ kiss just for you.
“And you must know the rules in order to break the…” – fuck off. No one has ever got it. I feel like my cerebellum has been filled with dog shit for so long that at this point in my existence nothing makes any kind of sense, especially small bets, not being not sensitive and I have no idea what that even means because double negatives are the one evil incision some mathematician did to English. Probably a German bio-physicist or an oil worker or a fucking U.S. Navy Sailor threw it up on his sailboat, I don’t know; third eyes been blind since forever so I have nothing to go with, not even a small basket and it is very unlikely that you will like me.
I don’t like to drink while I write just like I love to drink when I fight but I drink to spite the page, burn it matchsticks fireplace habitual pyrotelekenis, I had to ash my cigar(ette) so I just drink the fucking suds out of the import. What import.
I think my poor schizophrenic friend ran through the airport again.
I ran through a dream filled with drugs sober as a jail.
I’m trailing my mom on a dark, shadowy, drenched wide-avenue with what seems to be an oil drum sized jar of xanax (which I see first in the small 1 milligram blue footballs swimming like water and then, of course, the morphine, small scarlet like dried bloody fists) sitting in my hand. The top is off and on and she’s saying shit about that but I always say I need to make peace with the pills which is why I still go into a bars and drink something; but she’s hurrying forward as if in a rush to meet with a very important friend in this downpour not really paying much attention to the morphine. Perhaps, she has become myself from times past.
I stir around the xanax like the chicken base of a soup to listen to and loosen up the morphine which float up to the surface like red clown noses from the sea making silent, Morpheus sounds.
I finger them carefully, gently, fatherly. I want to be good to these small pleasures I was afforded when the world would afford me nothing more.
Finally there is a corner and my mom vanishes but her voice echoes back to me in the darkness.
The first hardship commences and I reach my fingers into the morphine and remember something: I just got sober, from buprenorphine or subutex or suboxone to those that don’t know about this and the drug that got me sober, a synthesized pygmy and now Bwiti root bark vine, has set my opiate reception system back to the stone age.
For instance, if before there were 1,000,000 employed secretaries receiving my opiated pleasures in my brain for me to hear, now, there is only me at a desk with no fucking chair.
Thus, in laymen’s terms; a single vicodin could drop me to my knees.
I remember the advice, it was very specific, “a 20 milligram morphine could kill you, you’d fall out, mate,” and I started grabbing and knifing for the morphine harder and harder and everything dissolves into strings of the morning.
And it went on like that for several minutes.
I scratched NeVER AGaiN on the tank wall in the county jail.
I scratched Blood in, Blood out in Francois on my bicep above the river styx.
I have embraced Christ, Allah, and the Israelites.
Please tell me that it’s over.
I’ve given everything. I intend to give more.
The fucking cigarette count is 1.
Life ain’t right.
I can’t help it.
This is how I feel about my life.
I love you and you and you and you.
I’m trying so hard to love my damn self.
Let me go.
Release me, God.
Release me where you see fit, just somewhere I can also fit in.
Because fitting in the wrong places has always been particularly special to me.
Not no more.
My mind grew an inch after a few hematoma head injurious delicates.
I’m trying to resurrect myself like Lazarus.
But my name is Alex.
I’ve returned from the dead.
It feels eery because I don’t understand a goddamn thing. Nothing.
Everything is The Great Paradox today. Everything will give anything to go away.
Even the strength of a meat-processed heart.
Art. It’s all I no. I’ve always and forever told myself no.
But now I write for you.
Everything to dust because of artistic stupidity wherein lies the genius of the world’s cunning.
Keep it coming. I’ve learned that it never stops like rotated, well oiled locksmith locks.
The rain falls in sheets; imagine the pain for the people in this world that cannot see.
Not ocularly. But the way the IQ of the universe spins us into frenzy and we don’t remember who we are or who we wanted to be but we made sure that we know that none of this will be free.
There, payments to be made for the sin and the grades and the problems I have with the fear of AIDS and I want the world to know my name. Alexander Michael Zip…
They called me Z I P. “Zip, what up!?” Things have perpetually been a little, little rough.
I survive and thrive on the pillow I lay back knowing what I know and I die knowing no one else will ever understand or care or maybe wonder or even like it but this is the way my life was unrequited. I’ll tell you about it. It’s hard and makes things impractical when I have to speak about it in tones I don’t own that make me feel like heaven’s made from stone.
Too many adjectives and I rhyme too much, they’ve said. And Papyrus was too much, distracting.
I was distracted when I was interacting with the children locked away with me in THE Aushwitz for teens and I tell you now, I spent at least one week a month in the Hobbit which means I can’t spell time.
There is a spellbound way about me because art must be the only thing that is beautiful and lasting, everlasting like the dreams we are having and heaving and breathing and believing that we need em we go 5150 trying to achieve them and they work and my mind hasn’t worked because I injected some temporarily rich asshole’s work into my work but I Now I work and things have stopped having to hurt and I feel like the earth is not cursed and the plagues are not disease and I am not going to die without my entire chest on my sleeve because I give you my heart as utter as it is, utterly full of the knowledge and stone of my arms reached out alone to nothing trying to shake his hand and say something…
This is NOT for everyone that said I was a fucked junkie piece of shit that would die soon this is for the people that admire a survivor won’t allow anything to let him slide down anything that leads to bullshit, I lost my talent for the tired lies that replaced hits, so when I attempt to shake your hand feel free to shake your head, too, because you know that I am THE man.
Irony has never worked since the far edges of civilization and because everyone told you Hemingway was the best than you have been politically reeducated. Political science taught me how to smile as you kill and whistle while you don’t dance and prey and become pray everyone the light is on and if you want what there is for you, you cannot allow the docility to cast you and accost you, you want your enemies to love you and want drugs to answer hard questions and you want everything that was not ever, ever, ever correctly planned. Myself.
I imagine the day my father was certain I was a junkie. It was the night when I was wearing long shirts around the house with small red hue and he crept down into my room where he pulled up my right sleeve and shined a flashlight into me.
It taught me how not to want to be.
I learned one or two things since then but most of all I have learned that this is and is not the person that I am. I am what I like to call, The Great Paradox, as are you and you and you and none of you have EVER TRIED TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO?
Blood in, Blood out
by Alexander Michael Ziperovich
Curdling type A sitting up in the tier thinking, how could a man get this way?
Robs my loyalty & my wealth; we know what comes first, you abject coward.
I want to ride; spit unhealthy ideas into the back of your mind.
I can’t; my life is too important – your life isn’t noticed.
You threw me in jail cause you weak, “you swore you’d never hit me,” whilst sobbing. Ha.
You’re three times my size but your heart is paperclip’s for detectives: you ruin lives!
You have no heart, even with my protection when the beef would spark and was on.
You run into the bushes and hope no one sees. You’re a part time DA attempting felonies.
Come trot into my forest again and they will make you see. Let your eyes see me.
You don’t like jail because of fear of the unknown you rat bastard; Sammy The Bullshit.
Even listen to the same beats as me despite your ‘creativity’ trying to take lesson plans,
you can’t; you’re a dump truck dumb fuck with an index finger that loves to write blood.
Blood in, Blood out
Blood in, Blood out
Blood in, Blood out
Blood in, Blood out
And that’s all I got to say about that particular piece of shit.
PS: what you need is a little time to reflect pelican bay status and that can happen for you without me or my real people squealing like a B I T C H.
Over & Out.
You Know Who You Are
Alexander Michael Ziperovich
Emotional division, subtracted wisdom and a fan of the system.
You murder lives that are always just blossoming, growing; how is it going?
Walk into my foyer, enter loudly, we can have a party. Holding?
There is the finale and it has approached us; you are the friend that turned to dust.