Alexander Michael Ziperovich
“Who the fuck took my bars?!”
We all just watched him devour a handful a few moments ago. “You popped em all, man.” Static, head lolling about like an untethered balloon. “Fuck, how’d they just disappear, did I set em down somewhere…” Eyes dewy, wet and perplexed, wandering, he’s lost his pills somewhere inside himself; the operative phrase being “he’s lost.” His entire being appears as a blur. “Who took em!?” Words from the frothing mouth of the angry benzo-orphan/gorilla that has replaced our friend.
He’s lurching about like an injured bird, trying to make sense of nonsense, ostensibly searching for the pills he just ate, for they might fall from the sky – sadly, horribly, he truly believes, no, he knows, that the xanax is not inside his stomach inside his abdomen, for that is an impossible conclusion.
Enough anterograde amnesia and fact is throttled hard by the frictional fictions of the sinister, too sick to puke, slipping into the fissures of the missives of addiction issues stemming from short-acting benzodiazepines that try to trick you as they switch you into believing they didn’t get you.
Dogs chasing tails, I suppose, foggy travails of a bellowing firehose extinguishing floods in the snow not knowing damn well the floods aren’t fires and that these kind of fires aren’t diminished by a broken pharmaceutical firehose in a denial pose.
“I swear on (insert his most precious) I just fuckin’ had em’, where’d they go?”
Like arguing with a schizophrenic in her visions, like screaming at Mt. Everest for being too tall, like water asking a river to indemnify it for forcing it go down a waterfall, like a raindrop falling, angry that it fell hard, creating a dangerously cruel pathology in the plant that grows from that drop of water, leaving cellular scars, created in hell’s heart, kept in bell jars crystalline-metallic wells that eat cars.
“Dude, will you just please shut up if I give you another fucking xanax?”