ALEXZIPEROVICH. (cont.)

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.

Fucked Luck.

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.

I shower.

Cold.

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