My life.

Magnetic metallurgy will pull you through my script like gale wind and tidal currents in my current titles, it’s not idolatry to believe that me could be making you flee; back and forth like an exorcism, indeed.

Well, let’s see.

Ten years and slot machine change without change and now I changed; sobered the fuck up somehow but I’d be illuminated greatly if I could see you face the things that have passed directly under my eyebrows without immediately stroking out.

Let’s not be melodramatic, Alex. This is illustrative of the illustration of integer’s of integrity and all the nights in the streets and all the other nights in the sheets, my nose burnt out like a bulb – unable to sleep. Feels like red roses that stick you every single fucking time you hold them, apparently someone higher up in the management decided I had the time. I deliberated and watched the clock but I always knew I’d be writing instead of inhaling lines.

Like the betrayal of a titan for flame, prometheus had the brass balls and look what happened to him, it’s kind of like the OJ trial plus the paradoxical reality of his ass pulling armed robbery after Cochran passed on blazing cameras in vegas, makes no sense, like eggs and licorice for breakfast.

Spoken. Licorice black as a Chevron ocean will twist your arm until you writhe and scream, the blood pulling and pooling in your mouth but you think you remain similar – there are no resemblances that I can tell but you feel free to imply whatever you like.

Pull you like whipped horses in a carriage.

Pull you apart – twin children concurrent of the divorce – their parents.

Pull you apart like Muhammed, think the Sunni & Shia gunmen.

Pull you apart like blood and your skin during a facelift on more twins.

This is loyalty to the cause I’ve endured. Ninety nine problems of my own and I own them all far, far too long, the lease with a fucked up rate that can’t be stalled like the car itself I’m driving which I hope crashes into all walls.

At least I did before I smelled this bourbon colored flower yesterday.

Like a Nazi scientist with a good heart; conflicted but about his business inserting typhus and syphilis to study the art of zombie making whilst drinking fine wine before the allies started invading, listening to Chopin or Brahms or even Beethoven with a family he loved once upon a time before he knew his heart to be as black as volcanic ash colored mud. He used one bullet from one gun; before he did it he inscribed the initials of the people he hurt on the bullet and now he’s floating somewhere between purgatory and hell.

Oh, well.

Roses are red and violets are blue, I guess.

At least that’s what they say… now, could you resign yourself to my fate?



i’ve been scared of spiders since forever
and forever is really just how far back i can remember
which is not that far


“it’s like an antidepressant!” here i refer to just one bump
arylcyclohexylamines for everyone! especially me!
i’ll beg & i’ll plead for just one more grain of something crystalline

our favorite thing?
ketamine pee is blood urine
a bleeding dick?
oh, how lovely,
did i mention involuntarily being committed more than a few times around the country?
california fifty-one fucked me – i must be unlucky?
“ghhrrrrn”, the sound of me snorting my brain into a psychiatric ward is funny!

drugs love me/as a writer it was exhilarating forgetting

yes, dissociatives aplenty mixed with amphetamines so i never sleep and miss a moment of
this deliberate, horrifying waking dream that is the reality of casually
breaking my brain with a drug they call









burn, burn, burn

and you couldn’t figure out what to do

she brings me a cup filled with ice and water
that man by the steps , “i need food”, he keeps begging
i stumbled up on him chanting “food” and “will you help…”

our bloodshot eyes, they met
i offered him some bagels from across the street
he waved me off with fierce eyes full of the no_thing of hell
this man did not want bagels
this man with all that blood in his ears, beard dripping
eyes all fire

he wanted fire, real & crippling
there were deliveries and deliverance’s
that had to be made

his eyes spoke crispy
the devil ‘s constituency don’t want food
satan and his emaciating impatience

the devil ain’t hungry
he already ate

the man

Falling Apart On Jeff’s Floor / Slumber Sets Sail

Folly Within The Fable, “Slumber Sets Sail” by Jeff Richmond & Austin Lambert (Thanks for writing this song, guys!)

YUM! Vomit. YUM! Vomit.



Falling Apart On Jeff’s Floor

By Alex Ziperovich

I’ve been awake for seven days. No, six probably. Yeah, six or seven days I think. Jeff’s eyes are red whirling tops in the twilight of his bedroom. Everyone’s asleep again but I can’t sleep anymore. The same screaming fun-fun done-done thing keeps repeating: a day happens and then when it gets so dark that it’s almost light everyone stops talking and the fun stops and the done starts but I don’t know how to turn it off, turn off my fun button inside the pulsating, psychopharmacological experiment that is my brain. I’ve been stumbling around in circles trying to find someone to listen to me ramble for hours. Now I’m sitting on Jeff’s floor crying, playing with my pill bottles and panting.

“I don’t know what’s going on.”
He turns away from me to face the wall, “Go to sleep, fuck, Alex. You need to sleep.”
“I know but I can’t.”
He twists his body back and cranes his neck to see what I’m doing and turns back away, “Stop playing with those fucking pills.”
My brain is buzzing fuzzy, I am not feeling lovely and in fact my brain is fucking me, “I know but I can’t. Christ.”
He’s tired and lost, “Dude, c’mon. Let’s just sleep.”
“I am losing it, Jeff.”

I’m pouring various pills out of the bottle into and through my hands letting them slide through my cold fingers down into my throat.

I convinced my fraudulent junkie doctor that I have ADHD. He gave me three or four different stimulants to try; I’ve been trying them with gusto. Once, his eyes wide and scorched bloodshot, he said, “I try everything I prescribe.” He’s my psychiatrist. We get along great.

I remove my shirt and look in the mirror and I see patches stuck to me, transdermal patches all over my body. Daytrana patches. Selegeline patches. Uppers. Downers. Mono-amine Oxidase Inhibitors.

Attached like leeches to my skin.

I feel like all I’ve been doing is eating handfuls of pills of all kinds.

That is all I’ve been doing.

I’m looking at the bottle of Atenolol I have clutched hard in my fist. A beta blocker. A blood pressure medication. If I take more than three it would probably stop my heart. Yes, I have enough to take me away, to take me somewhere to finally get some rest. A place to give the day away.

Suicide is seeming like a seriously viable option. I remind myself that I’m having a psychotic break from lack of sleep. I’ve been heavily abusing amphetamines among every other fucking drug for weeks. How long can this go on? I crawl into Jeff’s bed and I’m crying and I’m laughing and then I’m silent, listening to my heart thudding in the darkness.

“I hate this. I can’t fall asleep, no matter what I do.”
“I know, me too.”
“I’ve taken like 20 bars tonight, man.”

We’re both laying there with Ritalin and Adderall and Desoxyn and Ketamine and Psylicobin and Xanax and alcohol and weed coursing through our blood streams in the snowglobe of his room trying to listen to the snow falling outside.

“You know it snowed like six inches tonight.”
“Yeah it keeps snowing.”
“We need to sleep.”
“I know.”
I say plainly, “I think I’m gonna kill myself.”
“Dude, what the fuck? Just sleeeep.”

I’m back on the floor in my pile of pills picking up bottles, reading labels, looking for new ones. I feel like one of these pills in one of these bottles will do it, one of these pills will fix me. One of these will make me feel right. I wont ever have to take another fucking pill again. I just have to find the right one in this pit black box and everything might be okay.

I know everything about pharmaceuticals. Benzodiazepines are the only drug, excepting barbiturates and alcohol, you have a real chance of dying from when you discontinue their use or in other words, go through a Dante’s Detox, you think not? Xanax is faster-acting than Klonopin but lasts half as long. Valium is good for relaxing your muscles and works well sublingually. Tylenol is the most dangerous thing about Vicodin and Percocet. You can smoke, snort, and shoot Oxycontin if you know what you’re doing. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing you can. Ask me anything about a psychoactive pharmaceutical and I can probably tell you about whatever aspect of its psychopharmacology you’re interested in, everything except how to stop or how to feel happy on them or off of them. I have everything but the answers I need.

“I’m calling your mom dude.”
I nod as I put another klonopin on the tip of my tongue. God, it’s like strawberries flavored with laughter…

I hear my moms alarmed, high-pitched voice surging out of the other end as Jeff explains that he needs help with me, that I’m breaking down, that yes I’ve been taking “those damn pills” and no he doesn’t know how many. She knows the junkie shrink gave me stimulants. They both warned me.

How strange that it’s snowing and I’m on my friend’s floor seriously contemplating pharmacide.

My parents drive through the snow to come rescue me. They feed me a Seroquel; I feel waves of calm, warmth come over me like a veil and my body begins to relax and my mind finally surrenders and I sleep, dreamless.



When I write I bleed onto the page, the pen like a syringe drawing up my soul and the paper like some kind of breathing, animate test tube being smothered with lives and pain and the angst of humanity; I am just some kind of medium for all these great, purging exhalations, this emancipation of lustration that I must give to whatever impetus that is screaming, calling for these words I scrawl and I scrawl and I scrawl and I scrawl.

I Will Now Expunge

Alexander Michael Ziperovich


i light my eyes on fire after the completion of this

this soul i vomit out splattered onto this page

chunks of hate; love; loathing; desire; regret; pain,

so many carrots, peas undigested

a disgusting rectitude but colorful

the family of blasphemy

and all the world remains indifferent

and all the world remains indifferent to this tragedy

like an illegal mexican immigrant packaging rasberries

as prostate cancer remains indifferent to cranberries

the entire mess displayed like a picasso painting

whilst auntie 2, 3, & 4 do their best to console us,

non-sequiturs about her mother not being consistently complicit

in the love of my life’s tainting? bathtub screaming pedophiliac raping

as if it was a fucked up painting instead of a shattering of a beautiful girl

and the razors inside her were not making loud sounds scraping away her soul,

her soul being sold; sold for nothing, just taken


little girls thrown into slavery

little girls turn into women with infected wounds,

and a life that impatiently needs replacing

or a life they give up to be taken by satan or death

THIS. this, you unfit m0th3r, is your disgusting

complacence, your skull vacant leaving good filled with hatred,

i love this girl you brought into this world only so you could ensure she’d be raped,

raped and forsaken

as you lay dying a ragged old tuberculosis tumor fake caring

amazing at tearing organism in some lonely hospice/orphanage,

perhaps then, just maybe all alone in that pit on your way to the next,

will you know what it feels like to be prey; swearing to yourself everyday

that what you did was not the same as laughing and setting traps,

setting traps for your daughter to fall into until her spiritual, emotional, physical

neck snapped and she collapsed because of something you might refer to as a

“momentary lapse” in judgement but we all know the facts

i hope your tears are of the same blood that came from your child

as you let old men, as you heard and watched and gleefully allowed her to be


Police Brutality: Its Origins, Its Nature, and Its Ontology 12/6/11


Alexander Michael Ziperovich


“You only know who you are through the enslavement of another.”[1]


            In this paper I will explore the nature and the origin of the ruthless enforcement of the law by the police, their oft-overlooked vicious and random brutality, the way they consistently employ an “ends justify the means” philosophy and further why we as a society accept that philosophy, their distinct psychological affect and profile, both in the group and in the individual police officer, and how all of the aspects of what we term “police brutality” are accepted, normalized, and integrated into American society at large. This paper will include personal anecdotes, philosophical and psychological interpretation, and will attempt to piece together a more clear and lucid understanding of the complex ontology of the efficient, effective, and pervasive violence of the police in the United States of America, and will attempt to answer how, when police so often behave as barbarically as they do, our collective, societal conscious reacts or fails to.


            I was going to eat with a friend four or five years ago on a busy sunlit day in the University District of Seattle with human beings everywhere walking, talking, and enjoying life and the light in the rare sunny day in Autumn in Seattle. After I parked my car I needed to get across a usually busy street to reach our culinary destination. The street was at that moment, however, completely devoid of traffic, so I decided to “jay walk” instead of needlessly walking down the block to the crosswalk to cross. I hadn’t noticed the gleaming police cruiser parked idling on my left as I walked across the street, passing almost directly in front of it. The imposing white and black vehicle suddenly pulled out fast as if to strike me; I watched through my peripheral vision its silver grill wrench after me like a fist being thrown or a knife being jabbed, and then as unexpectedly as it started the car stopped, a few feet short of hitting my body. I looked back for an instant and I continued walking and before the air above me had collected the words of frustration that I had muttered under my breath in my terrified anger, I found myself surrounded and then suddenly manhandled and restrained by six or seven uniformed police officers, who saw it fit to press my neck onto a nearby rounded steel bicycle post while screaming at me to “Stop resisting!” over and over; an insane irony, as if I could possibly have done anything to resist this small army of muscled, well-armed men created and positioned for combat. They pressed my Adams-apple down hard onto the horizontal section of the steel pole, sticking out of the concrete like an overturned U, until the unrelenting pressure on my throat disabled my ability to breathe and I disregarded my natural instincts that told me to defend myself against attackers and I let my body go limp in the hopes that they would release me for air before I suffocated and lost consciousness. After they allowed me to breathe, they took my ID and finding nothing of interest in their computer networks, threatened me with jail when I meekly questioned their use of force for jay-walking, and ultimately released me from their custody and fled the scene uncharacteristically quickly (for the police), not charging me with any crime or an infraction of any kind as all the students and other onlookers glared at them after the violence everyone had just witnessed. That night my family and I were deeply contemplating bringing suit to the Seattle Police Department for this act of tyrannical and arbitrary violence until, in my blind rage, I drank myself into a stupor, falling down my stairs into a wall, ruining my face for the moment, and ruining my chances for any sort of retribution. How could I go report police misconduct with a self-inflicted injury caused by my own drunken disrepair? I was left in a state of rage and fear and disillusionment.


“Let me initially put the issue this way: one is insulted, and insulted deeply, because one loses all possibility of innocence.”[2] George Kateb explicitly states that one is being directly harmed when watched, that it is injurious to one’s “personhood” to be surveilled, or to know that one is being surveilled. Now, anytime I see a police cruiser, or a police officer, or any member of law enforcement stomping around in shiny black combat boots with the demeanor of someone itching for battle, dressed high in blue with all of their variously intimidating regalia on their wastes alongside their huge black Austrian semi-automatic weapons strapped to their torsos, I feel immediately threatened and frightened; the police, through their first act of arbitrary violence against me that I have just described, succeeded in retarding my innocence and now forevermore I am condemned to be afflicted with the fear and the anxiety that was produced from that single incident, it has been seared into my psyche. I will never forget begging and pleading with them for the right to breathe oxygen because I had unwittingly made some police officer angry for a reason I will never be able to ascertain.


Thus, their insane act of violence against me has reminded me that fear is necessary whenever I am within close proximity to one of these men or women or one of their machines of imposition, that I should be aware that as I am watching them watch me, the chance of random violence is unequivocally real and ever-present. My right to privacy, then, has become something of a sick joke. I am forever surrounded by police as they are everywhere amongst us, and I am, thus, almost always in some state of angst thinking that they will succeed in doing me physical harm, and based on the level of unhinged aggression that they unleashed upon me the first time they decided to for no reason whatsoever, I now find myself in fear for my life when I see the police, and not without good cause.


This is the logic of fear that causes our society in the face of so much evidence of unrelenting, unpunished police brutality, so many newspaper articles accompanied by and describing disturbing photographs of violence and videos of police inflicting horrifying mayhem gone viral on the internet, of a police officer pepper-spraying an 84 year old female protester and a pregnant 19 year old protester in the face at point-blank range recently in Seattle, to accept a small line of justification from a journalist that “the specific officer involved has been placed on administrative suspension” as justice of some sort. We have been rendered helpless as children in a den of lions and since the abuse of power that is being inflicted is not quite so overt or corrupt or outrageous as it is in many other countries, and, perhaps more importantly, that those in political power are the least likely to ever be injured or affected by this type of abuse, we are content, as a “civilized” nation and society, to let the issue of extreme violence allowed to run riot upon us by those that are sworn to enforce our law and maintain order as an issue that is one best discussed in private, in university classrooms, dinner tables with family, and essentially all but ignored alongside a proverbial, collective sigh that at least it was not us that was assaulted with poisonous gas in the face for asserting our constitutional right to peaceably assemble and protest.


“The idea of human status contains more than the imperative that basic rights, as currently interpreted, be respected. It also includes the imperative that no policy, seemingly within the scope of rightful state policy, can have the effect of treating a person as if he or she were a child rather than an adult, or as a mere means to an end; or has altogether forfeited consideration as a human being because of some crime or alleged crime.”[3] As George Kateb explains, any true policy respective of currently accepted human rights cannot violate an adult wherein that adult is made to feel like a child, or in other words, helpless, and as I have previously asserted, we have been made to be as helpless as children in the den of a lion in our public sphere due to brutal policing and a lack of strong reaction to this style of policing. Police officers consistently are in the business of delineating who should be rendered helpless, which communities, which races, which religions, which groups, and which individuals are expendable or need to be made to have limited rights and status. Drawing from my own encounters with the police, observations, and my personal understanding of the police on a larger level, they operate on a foundation whose guiding principal is that there exist two types of people with little differentiation or thought as to who fits where excepting the obvious: cops are good and, well, the rest are not until they prove themselves otherwise, there are good people and there are bad people, one must be either right or one must be wrong and there exists no grey area for debate or further examination and if you are not good you must be dealt a swift blow of violence or incarceration; it must be assumed, then, that if you are a police officer, you exist in the obvious and coveted position of righteousness, that if you are a police officer you are a good person. The rigidity in this kind of institutionally mandated thinking leads to an intensely problematic scenario where a group of select individuals forget or dismiss the importance of nature of the means in order to achieve the end. Crime is bad, cops are good, the equation is simple and the targets are plentiful; the machinery of the modern police is an example of what happens when slaves are given weapons and told to forget what they must do to accomplish the task of ridding the streets of crime, but to just do it. The statistics of any department reign supreme over the conduct of any individual officers conduct.


These cops, who are of the same social status as those that they are commanded and indoctrinated to condemn and destroy through physical violence or the threat of physical violence and imprisonment, are filled with a kind of self-loathing God-complex. This self-hatred has its origins in the neighborhoods where ordinary cops come from and they are led to believe that they are somehow better and superior to those that they must enforce the law upon. But this is a shallow lie, a thin illusion that doesn’t work; these men are not idiots although they may often act like sheep. These police officers know that they are of the same social status as those they are supposed to subjugate and you find the slave enslaving the slave, trying to find a realization that he is a master where there is none, he is simply another common slave with a shiny gold badge given to him so that he may work for the masters and protect the masters’ wealth but never work with the masters nor share in their wealth.


This creates “ressentiment”[4], Nietzsche believed that all existence, or all that we could possibly know of it, consists of a struggle between different “wills to power”[5], that various “forces” were constantly at work as the motivators “behind every concept [arising] from the equation of unequal things.” These police officers are a collective force in the grand struggle between differing wills to power and they represent a contradictory, self-desecrating group; the men that are in tow with the responsibility of ensuring the imprisonment or death of criminal elements originate from the same tribe where that criminal element is born and bred and cultivated, they are the same men as those they are charged with murdering and incarcerating. This is a heavy, horrible burden, for who but an antisocial monster can feel righteous when they kill and maim their own? There must, then, be an opposing ideological resistance to being the same as the men they hunt, and from this resistance comes much of the self-hatred that fuels the police in their corruption in the application of the law.


I claim that a specific, externally hidden self-loathing is the primary driving force behind police brutality; a frustration at the knowledge of their own true slavery consumes these “public servants” that the masters have manipulated to their own benefit to ward off “slave revolt” and ensure that they can continue in their complete domination by creating enmity between the subservient and the other, better subservient, the police. This is a classic tactic used by totalitarian regimes; they use their own peasantry as a barrier between themselves and a weapon against itself by propping up one special group or sect creating animosity and envy amongst what was once a whole community, ensuring the ressentiment at being a slave is not focused on the masters but always remains trapped in the peasant quarters, festering and becoming stronger – this is something we can see today in Baghdad and the modern American ghetto: hatred towards the police by the people and hatred toward the people from the police. Although many of Nietzsche’s concepts work well for this composition, I am only using bits and pieces from his entire Genealogy of Morality and reforming his ideas so that they fit my own so as to aid in completing my analysis.


As the “police are always on the border between legality and illegality”[6] they inhabit an awkward, dangerous position in our societal structure. They are at once the modern guardian of the aristocrat, the capitalist and his wealth, and yet they almost exclusively find their origins amongst the plebian. The disenfranchised and often impoverished neighborhoods that breed the modern American gangster criminal are very often the same ones that breed the modern police officer; the foot soldier cop almost never comes from wealth, status, or power of any relative importance. Thus, there is a class of men and women pitted against their own to protect a tiny, rarefied bracket of power and money for people that they will never know and a group they will never truly play any role in. Here we find the cyclical nature of Nietzsche’s slave morality[7] in play: these police officers and the prison guards responsible for maintaining their captured status that are born in poverty are collected and indoctrinated with a false, propagandist debt which becomes a hope of elevating their political, social, and financial standing and they are sold into the idea that might be achieved through their slavery to the rich as cannon fodder to the violence in the ghettos surrounding the suburbs where they could never hope to live but only to protect and patrol. Thus, they are slaves controlling lesser slaves, but they are taught that they are slaves of a higher “patriotic” order and this is the illusion they must reliably to believe to be successful and rise through the ranks. The police are put in a position where they can derive “the pleasure of having the right to exercise power over the powerless without a thought,”[8] and experience “even a foretaste of higher rank.”[9] The latter is critical to the police officer. Without the appearance of an ostensible access to a higher social strata there would be no gain as a slave police imposing alien laws on other fellow slaves, the money isn’t enough and it’s danger is extreme and constant.

Now that I have uncovered the origins of the psychology of self-hatred that contribute to the violent conduct of the police as a whole force, now I will introduce a more individualistic approach that focuses, ironically, on Freud’s theories on group psychology and “massenpsychologie” in particular. Freud believed there was a direct correlation between the decrease in rationality and intellectuality and the increase in the irrational fervor and behavior of a group. As each individual member loses his identity to the will of the group he succumbs to the simple, irrational desires of the group and loses his own identity and ability to think outside the dictates of the group. The NYPD during certain periods and specifically the LAPD’s Rampart Division Gang Unit known also as CRASH during the late 1990’s is a perfect symbolic police unit to exemplify this theory.

The only way to achieve relative success (success being prestige and rising through the ranks in this group) inside that group was through corruption and violence, and the more that corruption and violence increased the more it spread and the less police thought about it in consequential or intellectual terms, as long as it was somehow framed as “fighting crime”: CRASH’s motto was “We intimidate those who intimidate others.” Officers were awarded special plaques for killing suspects and there were ritualistic meetings and tattoos where officers would congratulate each other on taking out gang members using illegal methods. If you bucked the force’s status quo you would be an instant enemy of the LAPD and a target of their violent regime. This helps explain why arbitrary and racially motivated murder, graft, drug dealing and all manner of corruption went unchecked for such a long period – there was no one capable of pushing the stop button once the fervor of the crowd grew so loud the individual officers voice was completely muted; there is testimony that everyone involved in CRASH operations was aware of its culture of illegality and that around 70% participated, including lieutenants and other higher ups. As the violence and corruption grew and the Rampart Divisions CRASH team’s tactics became increasingly more grisly and blatant (and the fervor of the group’s culture increased) there seems to have been a declined awareness amongst the individual members of the true nature of their own behaviors and actions because they were always construed as being for “the cause” and thus membership to the police force alleviated any responsibility the individual might have felt committing murder or stealing cocaine from the evidence room and reselling it if he had not been so deeply entrenched in the tidal wave of group fervor, deep love, and ultimate loyalty for that group’s cause: wiping out LA street gangs.             

In that specific police unit “all [the police officers’] individual inhibitions [fell] away and all the cruel, brutal and destructive instincts, which lie dormant in individuals as relics of a primitive epoch, are stirred up to find free gratification.”[10] As the violent apogee of the Rampart Division came to an end there were 70 police officers under indictment and far more than 70 unsolved homicides, robberies, and other felonies that were attributed to CRASH and its players.

CRASH is an important case study but it would be foolish to think that because that specific unit was so extreme and its correlatively matched fervor and violently irrational behavior were so extraordinary that other regular police units don’t have a similar culture; I believe that almost all police units possess some measure of what CRASH epitomized. There is violence, excess, misdirected anger, corruption, cruelty, and self-loathing. Whether they are as brash and impetuous as CRASH or as diffident as the officer who uses a some extra force when tightening handcuffs to show who’s boss, these are traits that I believe are universal to modern police-work in the United States. Cops hate themselves because they have the worst job there is, they force themselves to believe they are of a different social status, that they are not from near-poverty, that they are the same as the lawyers, doctors, and businessmen they defend but in the end the truth prevails and they are forced to confront the fact that they have hurt many to defend what can never be their own and to honor those who would never honor them.

The final psychological puzzle piece to me is perhaps the most obvious when trying to gain an understanding of the brutality of police. Cops are subjected, day in and day out, to crime. They are around crime and criminals around the clock and one can only deny himself to be the result of what one knows himself to be apart of for so long; police begin, after a period, to typify the crime they ingest for a living and eventually, in the worst case, they embody it. As CRASH’s motto was to “Intimidate those who intimidate others,” it makes logical sense to believe that a young, right-minded police officer is a different man after 5 years and a different man again after 10 years on the job. One only has to witness how hard a human being will try to blend in and become like what is around him, so this acclimation or desensitization to crime may in fact reflect Freud’s views on group psychology, that something “is unmistakably at work in the nature of a compulsion to do the same as others, to remain in harmony with the many.”[11] In fact, here I will make what may seem to be an outrageous claim: the police are in the same group as criminals, excepting formalities, there is little difference in motive between a cop with a gun facing off against a murderer with a gun. Freud describes one losing himself to the group, the larger, the more powerfully he is consumed and how the “individual loses his power of criticism, and lets himself slip into the same affect.”[12] He becomes entangled psychologically with the criminal mind as the cop spends more and more time around more and more criminals, “the affective charge of the individuals becomes intensified by mutual interaction.”[13] However, on Freud and his Oedipus Complex, I believe it an imprudent if not an impulsive and irresponsible answer to such a complicated matter, a matter that involves the perversion of an individual’s idealization of economic class and social status as two far more important facets of determination than does Freud’s libidinous suppression acting as the master of my theory. Human nature is police brutality, but I am not sure that psychoanalytic theory and moreover Freud provides any concrete answers outside of group psychology. I believe Nietzsche offers many more lit torches on the dark path towards understanding those that would seek to do us harm in the name of justice and his Genealogy of Morality provides an excellent way of understanding the furious rage seething beneath the calm and controlled exterior of many of the law enforcement officer’s we trust to save us from the evil’s they portray; they are committing metaphorical macro-masochism as they try to run from their origins, become anything but what they are, and suppress the truth of these matters. There must be a way to make police more accountable and the only reason police brutality continues to exist is because our police and our politicians want it to exist, but for what reason? That reason is the deleterious nature of the question at hand, if one confronts an entire system, one must be prepared to eliminate and replace that system. We are comfortable in our lazy hostility and we are terrified that if we turn the pressure valve left we will be left in chaos. Perhaps, we will.

















Kateb, George, On Being Watched and Known. in Patriotism and Other

Mistakes (Yale University Press, 2006)

Freud, Sigmund, Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego. Sigmund Freud

Copyrights Ltd., 1959, Reprinted by arrangement with Liveright Publishing Corporation

Nietzsche, Friedrich, Genealogy of Morality. (Cambridge University Press, 1997)

Miller, Greg MD, “Lecture on slave consciousness”, Contemporary Political Thought, 

Seattle University, late Autumn 2011.






[1] Dr. Greg Miller, “Lecture on slave consciousness”, Contemporary Political Thought, Seattle University, late Autumn 2011.

[2] George Kateb, On Being Watched and Known, in Patriotism and Other Mistakes (Yale University Press, 2006) 97.

[3] George Kateb, On Being Watched and Known, in Patriotism and Other Mistakes (Yale University Press, 2006) 95.

[4] Friedrich Nietzsche, Genealogy of Morality (Cambridge University Press, 1997) 20.

[5] Friedrich Nietzsche, Genealogy of Morality (Cambridge University Press, 1997) 52.


[6] Dr. Greg Miller, “Lecture”, Contemporary Political Thought, Seattle University, mid Autumn 2011.

[7] Friedrich Nietzsche, Genealogy of Morality (Cambridge University Press, 1997) 20-27.


[8] [8] Friedrich Nietzsche, Genealogy of Morality (Cambridge University Press, 1997) 41.


[9] [9] Friedrich Nietzsche, Genealogy of Morality (Cambridge University Press, 1997) 41.


[10] Sigmund Freud, Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego, Sigmund Freud Copyrights Ltd., 1959, Reprinted by arrangement with Liveright Publishing Corporation, 15.

[11] Sigmund Freud, Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego, Sigmund Freud Copyrights Ltd., 1959, Reprinted by arrangement with Liveright Publishing Corporation, 22.


[12] Sigmund Freud, Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego, Sigmund Freud Copyrights Ltd., 1959, Reprinted by arrangement with Liveright Publishing Corporation, 22.

[13] Sigmund Freud, Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego, Sigmund Freud Copyrights Ltd., 1959, Reprinted by arrangement with Liveright Publishing Corporation, 22.

First Date

Alexander Michael ZiperovichImage


I’m downtown sitting on the edge of a bed in a hotel room facing a wall. The needle filled with dark, frothing heroin aims up at the ceiling caught between my sooty fingers and the belt is wrapped tight around my right arm, my pinched bicep protruding through the iron buckle in a little square button of red skin. Angie is just sitting there on the bed trying to be near me. I feel like a mass of garbage shaped like a man. Rehab didn’t work. Again. I’m about to shoot up. Again. I’m about to go on a rampage all self-loathing but I have my protective lies and self-awareness; I am a thick-skinned junkie and I can devour any sort of bitter horror this disgusting life can give me. She keeps begging me not to use the needle, to smoke the shit on the foil we have bunched up and charred black strewn all over the room the way I’ve been doing it. The tips of my fingers are covered in burns and for a second I look over and see my face in a piece of wrinkled foil sitting on the bed next to me and my reflection is nothing but a dark formless mass indistinguishable from the burnt heroin. One and the same.

But the smoke isn’t strong enough. It’s not killing the pain the way I need it to. Nothing but the needle is cruel enough to destroy the pain and I knew this before I started smoking the shit, but she does not, will not accept that it is not enough in terms of raw palliative power, she won’t see that I need it as rapidly and powerfully as it comes until nothing is left but the pleasure giving way to a dark unconscious where I can rest.

She refuses to let me be alone to finish this final, ghastly ritual so I cook my shot here on the edge of this bed facing this horrible wall burning my hands on the aluminum cap as it bubbles up, tiny wisps of smoke rising out of the tiny swamp of heroin like spirits, disappearing up and into the ether.

I am on the precipice of consummating my sick love affair with a perfect embrace from the long possessive, silky pale white arms of the carnivore-succubus-lover-god, the great ghost of all desire, heroin. I imagine holding onto a last shard of dignity by shooting up with me between a door and her so she won’t see but she refuses to let me because she says she’s scared I’ll overdose and she won’t be able to help me so by design this will be as brutal as possible for both of us and inside I grimace, disgusted and amused and horrified. I am burning as napalm might consume villagers in a jungle in Vietnam. Maybe I am Agent Orange. Yes, it’s Agent Orange, so toxic and the remnants broken apart, my poison spread everywhere unto everything.

We’ve been walking around the city in slashing rain for a week from hotel to hotel, from dealer to dope-spot and finally to a needle exchange and I’ve done maybe everything I can to get her away from the disease that I am while trying to keep her close to me simultaneously and this is what we’ve come to. This is where I’ve brought us, to this moment here.


But she won’t leave me and I love her for not going away. She refuses to let me die alone. I love her. Why won’t she see what I show her? I’m in love. Run, girl! Run as fast as you can!


This beautiful little girl and I’m watching my fire engulf her and I can’t take it but I can’t stop the flames from licking up at her and ruining her porcelain face and I know they will. Somehow I condemned her to love me in this demented perversion of love. I perpetuate our sick romance in the protection I offer her in the streets with the carnival of junkies, dealers, hookers, pimps and murderers that stare at her like she is a thick wad of cash wrapped in diamonds, a rare delicacy, and in my twisted version of chivalry I offer my most bloodthirsty rage to anyone that dares look at her too long with the wrong intentions.


I’m in love with this girl who is in love with my disease who is in love with my death.


My addiction is a living thing and it wants my soul and then my death and it wants to show other people how powerful it is, how pure and efficient a killer it is. It’s winning now.


Can’t she see what I am? Aren’t I beyond salvation?


It’s beyond me why she cares. I will live or I will die but no matter what it will be horrifying; why would anyone care regardless? I don’t want her to join me in the places I’ve been in my memories, the places I’ll be going that have yet to consume me and yet I adore her, I love her and I feel evil and sick for doing this and yet I find solace in her presence and it reminds me even more of the foul monster I have become, that which I am. My head is screaming and the sky is crying gray death and outside the window you can see the sky and it is sobbing and weeping, the sky is in pain, the sky needs to pour itself out onto this city like a biblical flood of tears.

My voice is quivering and I’m trembling as I tell her it’s going to be okay, and not to look. But we both know I’m crossing a threshold from where I might not be able to return and she seems like she has been acknowledging this and plans on staying anyway despite the damning implications.

–       Don’t. Alex. I love you. Look at me, Alex. Please, look at me.

–       Don’t go away.

That’s not fair. Fuck. Our little song in her little voice. That’s the name and the chorus: don’t go away. She said she knew I loved her when I played that song for her. This scheming bitch trying to take me away from my needle and my heroin and my only hope of rest, what the fuck does she know about myanguish? Everything is wrong everything is broken I broke it I am broken and I can’t fix anything because broken shit can’t fix broken shit.


I look over at her perfect, angelic little fucking face and the tears are flowing steadily down from her eyes but her gaze remains, unfaltering, wide-open at me without blinking giving her face the appearance of having two small rivulets coming out of two windows of white and red sky and I can’t really look at that sky, it is so fucking hard to look at her, looking at her is more and more painful as the velocity of the conflict and the self-loathing and the hate and the hope for love and the reality of the pain roaring in my head becomes too complicated, too unbearable and the desire to kill it impossible to resist.


I feel my soul inside my body rushing around looking for somewhere to go trying to find a place to escape but there is no way to get out and there is no where to go.


I need to figure this out. Everything. Now. Not later. Now. My mind is crying the needle in my hand is screaming at me and begging and I need to figure this all out. I could stop this insanity that’s in my head right now, these collisions, this confusion and I’m shaking and everything hurts. 


A walking, talking bomb. A walking, broken bomb that arbitrarily irradiates its targets, killing and maiming everyone, I am inflicting torment and sadness and loss and horror upon the one person dumb or sick enough to attempt to love me. I growl from the bottom of my torso through steel-clenched jaw with a howling wailing behind my eyes where the tears should flow out of and I am ready to detonate. I look over my shoulder at her working hard to look at me through the tears streaming down her besieged little face.


I’m rocking back and forth and my hands aren’t steady enough but the shot is ready and I see a vein but something isn’t right nothing is right my hands won’t stop shaking and I can’t do this – what the fuck am I doing? Then she says this, begging and pleading at me with those sad helpless eyes made of sky:

–       I love you, Alexander. Goodbye.


She said goodbye. I’m in love. Why is this happening? Why am I doing this? What’s happening to me?


And she reaches out her small hand towards me with her big wide eyes and her love for me and it is like something inside me crumbles and collapses into a smoking husk on the floor in front of me, like there was a structure holding my torso and my heart and my soul together and its foundation has been razed and its carnage has fallen out of me until there is nothing left but acute pain inside of me and I look at her hand and I kiss her and I let her touch me because I know she is right, this will change everything and I turn back around and I slam the glinting needle into my soft skin clumsily aiming at a vein with my trembling hand. Oh my god, I’m sobbing, destroying, missing. I’m destroying, destroyed. I missed. Again. Again. And again. Again. Again. I am a weaving tornado weaving the needle in and out and around.


He told me that was my purpose on earth, to bring chaos and calamity to the people that love me, to everyone. He told me that was my essence. I flex my bicep and work the needle in and out and back in and of course I miss and as I sit there with her eyes on my back I can barely breathe and all I want to do is hit a vein and get this dope in my body and get tired and warm and forget but I can’t because the goddamn motherfucking blood won’t register in the syringe because I can’t hit a vein so I take it out of my arm and hot blood is dripping onto the floor from my arm now creating a small dark puddle beneath me and I move the needle to my bare foot and I tie my ankle off furiously, raspy little cries of pain wailing out of me from deep inside where the source of all this agony lives and it sounds like my soul is shattering and falling out of my mouth and I go to war with the veins in my foot just stabbing and stabbing franticly and I can’t hit there either but I keep trying and there’s a little bit of blood but I miss the vein again and now I either hit in the next second or I waste this shot and I can’t waste this shot because then I wouldn’t even be worthy of being a fucking junkie and the blood in the syringe is starting to coagulate so I pull it out of my foot and stick it into my thigh and push but it’s jammed with hot sticky blood and heroin and I waited way too long and it wont happen and I feel her there and I think she’s trying to touch me and I scream like a horrified animal caught in some trap. I plunge the syringe into my thigh and I squeeze the plunger with all my hatred and strength and with a repulsive snapping sound the heroin fires like a shotgun into my leg and it burns me good and long and deep and cauterizing. All pain remains, if diminished by the other.

–       Oh my god, baby. Oh my god. Are you okay, baby. Oh my god. Alex, Answer me!

–       Yeah.

–       What happened? Did you get it? Oh my god, are you okay? Please. Please. Alex. What’s happening? Alex. Oh my god. Answer me Alex.

–       I fucking missed, Angie. Cause of that fucking Goodbye shit you did you fucking made me miss my shot and now my fucking leg is gonna fall off.

–       Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you going to be okay?

–       Yeah, let me just sit here.

Now the heroin is slowly, slowly, slowly starting to flow from my muscle tissue into my bloodstream and I massage the large hard lump in my thigh. I didn’t get any rush but I’m fixed up. Now I’m beginning to start the agonizingly beautiful descent into the stupor of the kingdom of the poppy. I feel drowsy and warm and I tell her I need to lay down and that my leg hurts and I don’t give a fuck about anything and I close my eyes and Angie is above me and on me and around me, her blurry face hovering above me and she is shaking me and crying and I feel her hot tears dropping on me and they feel warm on my cold face.

Painting Prozac


By Alexander Michael Ziperovich
I climb back into the ketamine cave and into the fire, into the luminescent thrashing mind-rape of disassociation. I’m inside Annie’s condo and everything is spinning and shooting these beautiful, malevolent stars and nothing makes any kind of sense. Everything is a fucking mess in my head. Her disorder is on full blast tonight and she’s toying with me on the K, telling me I’m hurting her, she’s screaming at me playing these twisted back and forth games that I can’t even understand in my identity-challenged, ego-blurred condition. She is cannibalizing me as I try to numb or poison her voice out of me. I feel some dark masochistic crevasse inside of me, some tumorous cave within is actually enjoying all this pain. The screaming mixed with the ketamine like a storm, the K hurts me and I feel my brain liquefying but more for me is good, the K talks to me and it just says more and everything is simple that way.

Finally, she goes to “sleep” after circling, hovering around me like a vulture as I sit hunched over my pile of glistening powder like a praying priest. She was stomping her big legs down into the wooden floor, enraged, all around me screaming and screaming and I don’t understand why or about what, not that the K is responsible for that, I’ve never understood what she does or why. I stay up to snort more powder, of course. She’s upright in her bed just howling for hours days weeks years, she’s dying for me to come to bed, to come lay down next to her, a wounded shrieking beast. Even now on the unmoving K platform of cognitive paralysis I know somewhere deep inside that she is gone, that my lovely Angie, the Angie I thought I had or would have or would have had, that that Angie, she’s gone because she never existed. In that long and beautiful dream we shared, us both privy to those few perfect moments but all of it is lost forever, it was never really real. It was drug-induced chemistry like a beautiful nod after a perfect shot of good heroin. The worst moment doing smack isn’t when you’re all the way sober after a really exquisite shot and you feel filled with the anguish of loss. No, the worst part is when you’re just coming to and barely sober enough to realize you are going to be truly sober again. You think about time and how badly you want to just go back and stay there in that wondrous warmth forever. That’s what it’s like with her, I just want to go back to the way things used to be but Angie, the pretty ugly butterfly from the broken cocoon is now resigned in my mind to the equivalent of a dirty black splotch of residue on a burnt spoon after I woke up from our dream, wistful reminiscent, thinking about all that fleeting, impossible to hold on to beauty, wasted gone but I’m still chasing her because I think how, “You do this thing that makes me believe it’s still there and I can’t leave you, baby. I feel abandoned and wrong and scared and crazy, too.”

Let me go, fucking let me go, let me fucking die alone at the bottom of a dark hole. Just no more of these nights. No more pain. Please, no more.

I rise up from the chair I’ve been glued to with K and she’s screaming harder and louder as she hears me trying to slip on my shoes and jacket. I’m trying to be quiet so she doesn’t know I’m leaving or else she’ll stop me but I have no coordination and as I grab some cans of red paint I’m making noise bumping into walls and her door. I stagger out and down the stair well and I start crying as I walk into her lobby, numb and I feel something, some part of me is dying. I fall out of her building into the heaving rain and the black wet night takes me into its arms and I start painting these big sloppy hearts on every flat surface I see. It’s a kind of frenzied reverie for me and I do this when her apartment is filled with too much horror and when I do this I run and I paint and I sweat as I run and it feels invigorating, all the rain pouring down my face onto my chest with the sweat dripping down my face as I write and I write and I write, I LOVE YOU and LOVE and IF NO ONE LOVES YOU I DO and my red dripping hearts are everywhere after a few seconds. I spray on walls that look lonely and dark, like I’m painting hearts on myself. I’m looking up through tears back at the rain being tossed from the sky as if to argue with the sky as the clouds smash down into my face commingling with the sheen of tears and snot running out of my nose.

I call my mom, delirious. I’m in so much pain. She is trying to talk gently to me as I pace around painting walls in black drenched avenues using my phone and a lighter for light to write my little LOVE idioms. My mom keeps trying to figure out what the fuck is going on at 4:47 at fucking Angie’s place. My body is jerking these little sounds out of my mouth through my desperate crying to her and I look at some cars speeding up Madison and I think that it might be better to just walk into the paved street and lay down on the soft, gleaming concrete in a little puddle and wait for something to just take the pain out but something says no. “Mom, whaaat… the… fuuuuuuuuuuck?” But she doesn’t know why. None of us know, her family, mine, me, her. No one fucking cares.

I think about her as I push my body down the street with my phone and my can. This poor fucking girl, already in so much psychic and emotional pain that her pain is all there is now. I never wanted to hurt her; I wanted to save her so she was able to save herself. Maybe by witnessing me kill myself through drugs and I said to her without words, I said, “I’ll be the sacrificial lamb. I’ll die for you, I know you want me to. I’ll do it for you, baby.”

I’m talking to myself and my mom and Angie who sits inside my head as a screaming that echoes in my skull at the same time, walking, staring up at the black nothingness squinting trying to see something through the endless sheets of cold droplets.

Everything hurts and every time I spray a big stupid red heart on a wall and I watch it drip crawling down to the street I feel a little relief from this nightmare. I see some cold junkie walking alone through this same lonely rain in the same lonely pain seeing my dripping hearts. I hope he sees them and he feels better or warmer. I want someone to feel some relief from all this. I’m passing on love Angie keeps telling me I don’t even have to give but this aerosol paint on these broken concrete streets in a downpour creating these horribly broken totems for the hopeless and the damned makes me feel better.

I tell myself I give everything I have to give, but it isn’t that much anymore. I gave her everything. More.
Her and the drugs took most of me.

The drugs robbed me of so much. I work with what I have left, some streaky red graffiti that looks like sad, dripping ignored love notes smothered in darkness, running off of walls into gutters like the buildings are bleeding.

I’m walking down these empty streets with the sky smashing into my face clutching my single can of red paint spraying it until it’s dead and I throw it, sending it careening into the street and suddenly she appears at my neck, grabbing at my arms, hissing at me like knives.

I’ll always be alone and then I will die of prostate cancer.

My Friend Jamie, My Poor, Poor Friend Jamie

By Alexander Ziperovich

It was really just me and this obese woman, a drug counselor incidentally, in this rehab. There was the Indian that smoked heroin and bitched about his need to go drive his non-existent Porsche and the Mexican he paid for his dope, how he wanted to kill this fucker. He was a farce- but fuck he was built like a fucking panzer tank or better, a gasoline tanker truck, I mean this massive asshole actually had a jet black pony tail! We didn’t get along after I walked in on him showering in my bathroom. Me and the Indian, no we didn’t get along at all and I left him alone but his eyes really didn’t ever leave me much alone time. So, it was all of us shuttered up in this cramped little hovel a few hundred miles north of San Diego in this post-apocalypytic wasteland suburbia apropos of hell with two twin obese freakishly round half-Mexican “caretakers” or whatever feeding us our pills and cooking bad enchiladas every single day. I mean, seriously, every day and the bulk cheese was applied like the bubonic plague in European history.

Me and the obese woman, we cliqued up right away. She was momming me and I was sonning for her and it was working beautifully at first. See, the reason she came to rehab in the first place was because she felt she needed Gastric Bypass surgery and her pain doc had her on, she said and I believed it, sixteen eighty milligram oxycontins a day plus liquid morphine to top it all off and get the cocktail tasting right. The problem here then is that with her on so much dope pain medication there would be no feasible way for this large woman to get any kind of pain control if she did happen to have gastric bypass surgery to thin her out a tad. It was all sad and amusing and we talked about her hepatitis C and her days following the dead (the grateful ones) and her son doing life in Chino and all sorts of other getting-to-know-ya shit. She took to me. She really did. I wasn’t surprised. And with sixteen eighties a day, shit, sign the adoption papers today.

The TV was the epicenter, the headquarters of the house and we watched the movie Alpha Dog continuously, which tells the true story of this little kid that’s killed with a mac 10 on a California hiking trail because of his older brother’s very insignificant drug debt. “What are we watching tonight?” You can hear the enchilada’s frying and sizzling, all that cheese, these poor fat women, Jesus. “Alpha Dog,” “Oh. Yeah, it’s good.” The Indian absolutely hated Alpha Dog and you’d hear a door slam. I liked it, kinda. I mean, shit, it wasn’t Wheel of Fortune or TV Telemundo and it pissed the Indian off.

Here’s the variable – I run out of smokes and all there is to do is sit at the table outside and smoke or watch alpha dog and eat shitty cheese smothered tortillas. So, I start bumming the obese ladies’ Camel non-filters, which she refers to as “leemacks”. The reason, she explains, is because you never want the fuzz to know what kind of cigarettes you smoke, so you smoke the unfiltered Camel’s backwards, burning up the little Camel stamp and leaving a butt with nothing but hopelessness for any homicide detective trying to find out who dun it. She learned this awhile back I take it, at least before the cops figured out DNA and fingerprinting.

I start bumming her leemacks and she isn’t very excited after I’ve devoured her 7th pack inside of 48 hours. She slows me down getting irritated. Somewhere around this time I use her nail clippers to cut my fingernails and then I remember she has hepatitis and I get a little freaked out. Uh oh, I say to myself, uh oh. I don’t want no fuckin’ interferon. Shit.

“Alex, I can’t bum you anymore smokes, I love ya but I can’t do it.” She will run out herself if I keep smoking her leemacks and I don’t want her to run out and she doesn’t want to run out and no one wants to run out of nicotine in fucking rehab because it’s fucking rehab and there are no good drugs or drinks. Bastards all of em. Burn em at the stake and pour poor liquor into their face, sober freaks.

“Oh, really? Damn. You can’t afford to bum me anymore leemacks? Shit. That’s okay. I’ll survive.”

It is time for me to get the fuck out of this pit. Post haste. No cigarettes? No, no way.

I call my friend Jamie in San Diego to come get me and he concurs. Some skinny fucker gets word that I’m leaving and comes to try to intervene and keep me hostage in the house of bubbling enchiladas and nicotine withdrawal but my mind is all made up on this one. No cigarettes? Cocksucker even offers to buy me a pack. A pack? He limps away all fatalistic away from my roaring laughter. So, I wait at this tropical Tiki Hut themed bar drinking Coronas this older woman keeps blessing me with acting as if I were Macauley Culkin before the heroin (again, I have this effect on older white women, don’t ask me why) and I’m twirling one of those little toothpick umbrellas in my mouth in the sun feeling great. Jamie makes the two and a half hour trip and I see BMW M3 pull up and I’m out like a fucking ghost in the night, although it is daylight and there is no one to put up a fight, except maybe Charlene or Chandra or whoever the old blond is, she wanted me to stay. Sorry Chayenne. She smiles wistfully and waves goodbye.

What I have not thus far mentioned is that I generated a generous benzodiazepine habit along with my usual opiate one: xanax 20 mg a day, klonopin 10 or how about I just greedily pour the fuckers down my throat as much as I can without choking to death. I would ask that the reader keep in mind that this is only really like my fifth or sixth detox/rehab and so I’m still learning the ropes, day by day. I figure that the bullshit WWI benzo the enchilada twins are feeding me (brand name Serax; extremely short half life and worthless for a buzz FYI) doesn’t mean shit and isn’t doing shit but I have yet to learn the delicacies of a benzo withdrawal…

Naturally, I assume I’ll be completely fine. And I am. Dandy. The drive back is stupendous, I’m free, free at last, from rehab and obese women with leemacks and bad enchiladas and mean heroin smoking Indians and Alpha Dog and the whole damn thing and I get to Jamies house and some  dudes are sitting there on his front porch thriving on forty ouncers and blunts and I get with them and catch a taste of Cannabis Sativa and Mickeys Malt Liquor and we chill. A few hours pass and everything is all good, gravy, gratuitously great.

What’s this weird feeli-

My heart is going to leap out of my chest like in that movie Alien with Sigourney Weaver and I start shaking like a leaf in a storm and I am burning up, red like a lobster shell with a temperature of one hundred and hell degrees. I feel as if I am about to expire. This is definitely not opiate withdrawal. Now it’s time to find out via the internet that if you don’t titrate off benzos very slowly you catch a fun seizure and your ass goes spasmodic and you fucking die, well, my ass fucking dies. Fuck. My poor friend Jamie, my poor, poor friend, he’s happily spinning music on his turntables and I’m trying to bury myself in his couch, burrowing, burrowing. I cannot escape my biology I realize and I suddenly leap up and shriek at Jamie: “We need to go the fuck back now! I am going to die here! It will be everything but dignified! Vamanos!” I am very reluctant to return to bad enchilada land but I know they have that Serax shit there. My “brother” (yeah fucking right, Brady) who said that if I needed anything to call him and who lives literally minutes away does not answer my thousands of phone calls and text messages and who is a complete junkie pharmacist and who would have, I am certain, been able to procure me some valium or something. I’m betting Brady’s high watching the sci fi channel playing with Fentanyl patches, selfish fucking asshole. Oh, Brady recently found Jesus and sobriety after doing a year in the county after trying to kill the sky with a .357 Magnum on the roof of his moms mamsion with the cops surrounding his house and a red dot stuck to his skull. Whatever, he isn’t an option so we go and I’m riding shotgun in the M3 telling this poor child friend Jamie to hit the motherfucking gas. “Get this bastard moving, it’s an M3 isn’t it?!” We pass several police traps and I inform poor young Jamie, who has had yet to catch his own habits, to fucking fly by em’ and keep going or I will die in the county jail. As in, if a pig tries us, speeeeeeed the fuck up with the pedal directly on the motherfucking metal.

We are now about 22 minutes from our signature destination; where the Serax (still a shitty benzo, but hey, a benzo’s a benzo when your heart’s about to explode) lives and I have to piss from drinking Malt Liquor so fucking bad that I am screaming while also shaking, biting my jaw into itself so hard my mouth is a swamp of teeth, blood and bile.

Now we are 19 minutes out and the piss is just going to have to go somewhere at this point and we are not fucking stopping no fucking way my heart keeps stopping and starting and stopping and starting and I don’t want it to stop entirely the way it would if we stopped we are not stopping we are not stopping no cops no tanks no armies we are not fucking stopping Jamie do you understand James? Fucking hit the fucking gas you pussy motherfucker!

ETA 11 minutes and there’s a scramble to find a bottle, but the one I find has nothing I need, it is one of those shitty Pepsi bottles with the incredibly tiny holes. I give it a good shot, I mean I fucking try, but I got a big dickhead and while were on dickheads lets just come right out with the fact that I am a Ron Jeremy sized Dickhead for what takes place. I really do my best to get it in there but it is as if the hoover damn, or I don’t know, the entire fucking ocean is just coming up out of me and this little Pepsi bottle is just mocking me as this river of urine explodes around it and it ain’t catching much of anything at all so finally, I give up and in glorious, relieved, graceful, beautiful defeat and I just lay my ass back piss flying everywhere, a tide of piss cascading down off his seat going off into and filling up every part of his once urine-less BMW. Right as I’m squeezing out the last few drops, smiling dumbly, piss still dripping down off his seat into the pond that is his car he pulls up to the house. The look on his face is priceless as I pause, think of something to say, forget it and open the door and exit, shaking the pool of piss off of my shirt and shorts onto the street and I look at Jamie and his eyes are wide and shell-shocked like he just witnessed a murder or a fucking man die of Ebola in his car, “Uhhh, what the fuck, okay. Okay, great. Fuck. Fuck. Yeah, no problem on the ride, fuck. Oh my god, what the fuck. Yeah, I’ll see you, man. Later du-,” and as he screeches out of the drive way he makes a u-turn and it looks like he’s trying to spin the car so fast the piss will just all somehow fly out or evaporate.

My Friend Jamie, My Poor, Poor Friend Jamie.

Jamie, next time you cannot piss in my BMW when you’re coming off of your Xanax habit.

This one’s for you ol’ boy, take it like an apology or something bro. I’m glad we’re still friends because if you pissed all over my M3 I may have had you murdered and thrown into a hole in the desert. Love ya, pal.

%d bloggers like this: