The Tabernacle of “It’s Good Blood.”

The Tabernacle of “It’s Good Blood.”

The Tabernacle of “It’s Good Blood.”

Alex Ziperovich

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The red clay path is a snake suckling blood, children’s’ feet dripping droplets from slices in the tall grass into its round, kind, killing face.

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“The killing have started,” Yes, they certainly have. “Anyone who has the power to lead a rebellion against the Khmer Rouge will be exterminated.”

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I scream and claw against the granite of my forehead; I spent forty-eight hours in the jungle nether region between Cambodia with the Vietmen guerrillas. I poisoned the river and fed the shrimp to Pol Pot and Duch and Brother #2, Num Cheam.

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I saved Chum Mey the horrors of Tuol Sleng.

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They tell me to stop, but I cannot. My desire to understand those at the top and bottom of the regimes that crumbled human bones to make more human bones to feed human bones to human’s has become me, I am completely lost to the total mystery and there is hell that is sweet with wine and honey that awaits me. For I know nothing, somehow I was there.

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Traditional Kampuchea, reincarnated? It’s possible. From 77-86 I could have been leading the rebellion that finally brought the Vietcong. I don’t understand how a nine year old child does that. Influence, I presuppose.

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Chain-smoking, back in S-21, the University of Madness. I am now the guards, the supervisors, the prisoners, the cameramen, the documenters. The documenter. I breathe breath deep so that they may all be there, stagnant, statues in time and place. I unhook the shackles from Chum Mey’s bleeding ankles and remove him, throwing him over my back and out the back door and I am shot in the back of the skull.

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This is my political phantasmagoria and it will not recede nor will it retreat. It will only bleed me, until I can possibly, one day write a decent thesis on the insanity of the sanity of perfection and biology and the psychology and theology of a being that is one man and one country united in a desire that is to be misunderstood and destroyed by itself by its own fear and bloodlust.

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It curdles in my mind like angel dust while saving us (me) from having to deal with reality; the past grows back like amputated legs do not. I am walking from spot to spot to spot, leaving one drop of blood like crumbs for a trail and where I stay will be where I will resurrect all these tyrants from hell and I will hold a conference a council a confession and I will be professional and take notes on legal paper while I have their fingernails slashed open and their throats razorbladed and I don’t know how long this will take but I am willing to go to any length.

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Justice? There is no word profound enough.

I have the same goddamned human blood-lust.

Since I was ten and saw that the world was wrenched.

I just want revenge. I am the same, yet different, diffident, defiant.

I will kill to keep the killers quiet.

Back to the Killing Fields to work on my diet.

The Fashionista @ The Funeral Parlor.

The Fashionista at the Funeral Parlor.

AZ.

Dedicated to all the artists pushing their game up… you know your name.

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The outfit is a synaptic reaction to the directing of every cinematic, erratic reaction beyond the children construction worker’s borne into napkins unsanitary, this world is a place for the graveyard patronization and every time you just know you are out of gas at the gas station.

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Every single thing is so black it’s bright and every single piece of every tingle of the colour white just isn’t right. I force myself to write; the IV line from my TV just will not fulfill my needs tonight. I go on like a starving Cambodian, hoping and hoping that one day this world will not be so broken and damned.

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God, is there any sort of plan?

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The six o’clock news saying I need to speak on parking; I’m barking up the wrong street and yet I continue to discontinue not talking. Walking on, once again, the world is a world that I can comprehend, which is the essential problem. Robberies and arsonist martyr’s and all varieties of problems but I may say this: to be a saint one must fall and rise to the point of the stakes.

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Great.

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No justice on this globe, only a head made to explode, agent orange looking special like the bottom of a glass of scotch, stretched out on metal. Metallic efficiency and the worlds’ gift’s to me is shifty and shady and I might just say this to say that everyone is dying to be crazy but unable or able and lucky or something that’s fucked, see, and I’m supposed to stop my cursing and swearing but this place has my face graying like stained paintings.

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I need some paper and pens that bite like sharks locked in waterless zoos and it is a choice that I choose to write about news and the things that are cruel and beautiful at the same time, simultaneously in fact, I do, I do, I do. I might not. Maybe so, but this is just something that I never knew which is that there is no way to absolutely know so I said no and then yes and did not buy my girlfriend the red dress but I did give up the needle which I feel should be a bit impressive to a few certain people. Even if you hate me and my writing, go ahead and fuckin’ bite me, I took it through hell nine thousand times and you children would just whine and guzzle wine while I was steaming and crying in a jail full of felons that would eat you like a ripe watermelon but no, my masochistic-sadism is the amplified piece of a master, I got a jar full of little antique can’t-speak golden pistol’s, who wants a disaster?

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There is a magical carpet in a mind that’s not mine but was placed before me like fine French food next to ragged, crunchy cloth, feel the silky rocks and drink up before I talk.

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This will be the time of my life like Oasis sang, I want to go out just like we came in with the big bang but I want it to bang a bit harder, for all the poverty-stricken daughters holding their mans’ automatic weapon of choice to slaughter the next heart that’s harder.

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No barter, just trade – they gave us crack cocaine and black tar heroin in exchange for high viral loads of AIDS.

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Killer metaphors over silence, speak too/to fast, and sleep with a violence that I never invented; this world is a sick place and Kurt Vonnegut tattooed on me his ways but the funny thing is that that way is never what it seems and so I continue with these lucid dreams that make no sense except pain like beautiful buzzing bumblebees.

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Acception or an exception to the venemous rain. Hectic, insane, psychiatrical fame, in the hospital with 99 names. Come forward and drink this fruit, I blend it for you the best I can do.

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Hit me up when the weather is now which is the present. I offer myself, my Devil, my God, and my sentence. Don’t mention it. A panther lying in weight, breathless with a death wish that let’s him text kids with Lexus’ and attorney’s in their families that protect their about to begotten son’s from my next kiss.

Hands grasping at venom.

Hands grasping at venom.

Alexander Ziperovich

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There was a girl who was not a girl who believed herself to be without merit for the world,

she went to the zoo to play nice, brought a basket and a sack of rice,

she went to a reptilian keep, black as satt cloth,

to feed the snakes her frothing heart’s cough.

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There were children and vendors, ice cream and water,

she paid them no heed, she was no ones daughter,

she leaned in and blew a kiss,

and the hisses blew slits.

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Carnivorous cannibals, she had her animals, her rice,

time to make nice, had she not the right to her life,

holy mass at the holiest fork in the road,

she through herself into the cage,

and french kissed her bent rose.

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They rose up and snatched her soul like a dirty cop,

and she thanked them with all that she got,

which wasn’t much from nowhere,

they drove up her back,

and she wanted it hot.

Eyelash lashes.

Eyelash lashes.

Alexander Ziperovich

—-

Corneal inflictions ruinous mentions,

Ride the phantom with misted glasses,

BLACK out the pain and let it drain from your ashes.

—-

The bedlam in the crematorium smells of saffron,

Soul on a kebab,

Made and make to crack them.

—-

Youth falls like leaves from oaks,

Split you in the cedars until you’re jaundiced and choked,

Hope but you won’t.

Poetry Tends To Be About Love


Birds that can’t fly…

Tear at a man’s soul, 
Turkeys flapping breathlessly, endlessly
Until Satan’s exhalations crystallize into confetti 
And Hell freezes and Chanel requires their models to have late stage leprosy and
Facially visible infections contracted sexually during the commission of a felony whilst
Meth cooks return to being lauded as men and women of impeccable integrity,
Celebrated for their unending, boundless, inexhaustible
empathy!

God & Satan Discussing Evil

Image

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

“How about this,” god and the devil had already signed a treaty some time prior as god was simply too brutal and calculating an opponent, a master in the conduct of war; satan really had no choice but to accept his plush exile and his secondary status in hell (which he felt resembled Vegas in the summer in any case). They were broaching the question of the image and subsequent creation of man again, bickering like children over plastic toys. “How about for every sixty or seventy kilos of meat in every man you create in your image, you let me throw in an ounce or so of my pure, unadulterated evil?” He paused grinning. “I mean you can’t totally handicap me here and make me completely reliant on some unwieldy army of bureaucrat demons to possess people! The overhead alone on that kind of operation would bankrup-” God interrupts, stroking his cottony white beard, “You want me to let you be a part of the image of man?” The reverberations from his soft chuckles creates most of Asia and reality television. “Listen. I have already decided that my being the sole entity from which the image of man should be derived is already going to be an important part of the book I’m going to ghostwrite so that man is righteous and divine and my PR people all completely agree on this.”

Satan sat patiently listening and replied when the rumbling of god’s voice began to dissipate, “Yeah, I know you’re going to create the religion thing and have some book confusing, self-contradictory narrative written so you can see who truly has ‘faith’ and find out who the ‘true believers’ are, despite my thought that it would seem much simpler and far kinder to just show yourself indisputably every once in awhile to prove your existence for the sake of not only man’s sanity but his eternal salvation. Look, I think it’s confusing enough with the whole race joke-” God clears his voice to be heard and the minivan comes into being. “Yes, that should prove delightful entertainment insight into man.” The devil slowly continued, “God, you see, you have all the advantages! Throw me a bone here!” He timed this plea perfectly so that it was uttered at the very moment god was being draped in his brand new custom-tailored 20% cashmere 80% angel tongue robe and he was off guard. “Fine, satan, you can have the smallest bone in every man created to do with it what you will and it will be infinitesimal in size,” God lit up the heavens with a sly smile. “And I know you think big things come in small packages,” The devil sits in his rocking chair, one leg crossed over the other. A smug sophisticate. God continues. “But I said you could have that small part of man for yourself and my word is, well, it is the word of fucking god so the deal is done.” The devil sat dispassionately. “Now. Dear satan, do pass that mirror with that white stuff on it you plan on growing in South America with that rolled up dollar bill please.” 

I Will Now Expunge

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

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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

RAGE AWAKENS

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

F U C K E D

Bitter Little Bits Of Hope-Coated Noose-Lowered Rope

Alexander Ziperovich

I need to let off some steam, badly
I think I might do something shabby
shove something into a vein I don’t even have to feel happy,
disappear into the ether floating while slamming while passing water boiling so fancy stirred with a spoon so thin amongst my colleagues,
the faculty of sin, all moaning for happiness within as we grind our heads covered in shawls, my mind feeling like a third world bathroom stall with a gaseous mist seeping in choking on all the incessant judgment of Pluto the banks of Hades with his handsome boat as he casts me off to swim, beating my burnt angel wings just nubs in the current drowning in eternal subservience to a power no greater than the salivating that’s burning my throat as I swallow these grains of green, bitter little bits of hope coated noose lowered rope

so ugly it’s beautiful so hideous it will ruin you so horrid it’s true

as real and eternally infernal as children burned alive in an inferno made from candles and servitude

barbaric with an ax to grind metal sparks flying blinding men that are already blind burning their eyes until they can’t see even the black, all they can see is themselves dying over and over inside of their masks, I paint you a picture and you can fill in the lives and we can look at how disgusting our creation is, especially mine, and we can step back and have a smoke and watch the small embers crawling up into the sky, like a shadow in a gust of wind or a ghost that appears as a nun stuffed into a crib rising up out of it into the pitch as if you’re alive you’ll go up with the smoke away from us, our lungs expelling every single thing you ever wanted into a fine gray dust to be blown around the room of our god, this new soon to be exhumed funeral parlor where after we write brave men speak what they harbor and the thorns from roses are thrown at them until they bleed better spirits for the audience to experience in golden goblets they can really taste the pain in the faces of the poets drooling agony –

– one wrote his masterpiece for you and it was short beautiful truth but it burned and the flames that erupted out of the single page were small cruel and futile like the text never existed and the piece that made a master out of a man now made that man into sand with a stack of blank papers, a match and some gasoline in a can in a bathtub to lay in as he started to burn he began to remember verbatim the words of his poem as he sat like his poem he became ashes in his urn, he drowned in his fire and self-pity and genius but as he died he told the world his words but the earth didn’t hear him and the words he spit through the fire in his mouth were the words that made god so envious and evil and fiendish filled with so much doubt so he smiled in irony at such hostility given to him like wisdom – the things that poets conjure and die for to make you all feel pure and cried for – he died with a sneer on his face that was really a grin and he showed the sky his flaming face as he winked up at god’s ugly face and asked the earth to swallow him leaving no trace of his perfect works, leaving no face from which to know the man with the perfect words instead just a wisp of smoke from something that burned

it’s a dangerous autumn getting darker and the blackest crows line up to eat your eyes and I don’t even care if they start before or after I die as long as I can be the rain coming out of the sky flooding the streets in tides I want the rain to be the tears I cry the tears cascading out of my eyes so the world can feel my rage and pain as I scream lightening and fire in a ruthless hiss at humanity sitting atop Mt. Vesuvius

Once A True Love

Ziperovich

Saltwater, she tasted like everything so I sang and she sang,  we sang to each other like so many saints until we died on the cross, true love shed true blood tis true love as could an artist paint if he had any cruel lust and a canvas with a few bruises, a few cuts

Tainted bed, listen close, the only girl I ever met, poisonous lead, a porcelain face,  enough beauty to break necks, shuttered, dying in a forest with enough God to be seen on the horizon, the sunset disguised as a fool smiling and smiling, dying and dying

I love you, yes I do, I made you grow, I meant to tell you sooner, I meant to slit my wrists in the afternoon before you knew, we all of us here meant to watch the blood sink into the sink like glue, but more like water, so soon we’ll know if it’s no son, no daughter, yes love a slaughter because we all, I mean, I just love(d) you, cauterize the wounds, nevermind, don’t bother it’ll probably cut you

I held on to the tightest ropes on Himalayan slopes until there was no more, just screaming and good dope and increasing suicidal ideations and us both seeking some way to cope with your violations but there isn’t a way and we found that out quick, both fucked in our heads like freed slaves diving, holding hands, from a slave ship

Hate it or love it, my biblical covenant, a way to adhere to, before I said, NO, FUCK THIS, gave it all up for random sex with cute things, what a way to take the shotgun out and shoot things, make sure they’re dead before you begin to cook things with the hot barrel of the rifle pressed against you as you try to sing new feelings

Always the housekeeper, the loud screamer, always the girl without meaning, the non-believer, just danced around ourselves like we always did, one or two grams of this to make us happy kids, to make Alex’s heart skip, that’s just how we sinned and that’s how you’ll do forever like superglue, who are you but a pretty grim face I fell in love with before I said loyalty is something I can’t fuck with, before I said no, she’s insane, how does this work in my favor, does it, does the pain in the rain snorting caine even belabor the kind of crying eyes that we savor, the kind of dying wine that we favor, the silent, mindless time I saved for her?

There once was a perfect girl in a perfect world giving me tissues to wipe the tears from my worthless pearls and then I found out that humanity ran afoul and she looked upon me with every single perfection laid like sun upon me and I rejected my own torture but I despised my own forfeiture and I just wanted it to be like it was when I had random sex with whores that didn’t eat my coursing blue blood until it exploded into the air like dirty, rotten, lovely, beautiful, make-shift true love coming from oil rigs instead it’s blue blood psychotic stomp stomp on psychotic floors with broken psychotic chores, a poet soaking in a bath until I drown like Jim from the Doors

Let this page catch fire, a common theme I know you’ll admire, you might find this destitute lest you’re of true fire, you’ve mired a sobbing poet into a frothing hoe-get and a slothful more-pig but I admire it all, the way you caught me ecstasy, made me believe it all wasn’t a dream instead the MDMA made us just believe, no matter we looked senseless, we were there in your bed looking at each other breathless in love with our fake mutual serotonergic death wish – let’s kiss

I never died I just multiply with girls that would make you sick and defiant and violent if you looked into their eyes, zero shame, but I’m allowed Saudi princess’ that aren’t insane and aren’t afraid you’re now a past mistress, nothing more, I let you live this and then your death is something poor, in your world it’s shit, I got a new way of seeing me past this, just finished fucking the last chick and I just wanted nothing but to tell you what’s on my mind, for laughs bitch, so it’s really nothing, unless you suddenly figure out emotions and feelings and human beings, which you’re incapable of, so I escaped from your dusty rust to bathe in hugs and taste other tongues soft like Persian rugs not hard, worthless love

These Words I Write Have No Right

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

It’s so crucial to be neutral these days, hesitate before I let myself go bleeding away,
decimate the page with my sordid references embedded inside splintered, decayed
sentences, remove myself from it and say it’s abrupt literary fucking, you can’t
stop my blistery wondering, it’s like the stars are on fire directly in front of me,
you can see them up close, unfurling of a rose, a ghost, caught in an inferno
lost in the woods during a forest fire, going to burn down our funeral pyre
die a mortal, a coward and a liar worth nothing, I just think it’s about
time we had this discussion, my brushes with death a few minor
digressions, the point of this is that the points I like make blood
like blades and they cut deep if they have any grace, they’ll
leave gashes in your mind that you can’t wash off or stitch
you piss off momma bear it’s hard calming a violent bitch,
you’ve lost your innocence, your presumptions intimate,
so infinite, our collections filled with what they gave us,
knowing it won’t save us, we just got spat on charity,
bent down, collected their spittle, the generational
learned with their belligerent fiddles, out of tune
ballads of knowledge and philosophical riddles
that don’t end with a lesson but rather they
begin with the same redundant toy titular
thistles meant to scrape your shins and
break your wind until you can’t run
and painful is sin and your mind is
just a piece of the giant lake of hot
burning oil in the desert with the
limbs of soldiers dead in wars
that we adore for hating the
people under the other
stars, like loving afar,
I love you, it’s hard
words weren’t ever
going to kill, maim
you or stab, hurt
or leave scars
I just wanted
to show you
the way I
collect all
our hell
in
a page like butterflies in clear empty jars

I Will Walk Straight Into The Cold Ocean If I Sense You Don’t Adore This

Alex Ziperovich

Needs all connected ineffable, all fees uncollected not collectable, travails of another person borne to settle like dust from a savage storm inside yourself to make you feel your love re-reflected until you’ve had enough, but it’s not enough it never would be you keep staring back into the darkness until a light relaxes into your eyes and your pupils dilate increasing in size and your heart explodes in the good way into a million hearts and you feel something, anything, probably something better, probably something you could write about in a letter to someone important or someone that knows your soul bounces and flails about like an unfettered feather, although who needs fettered feathers when feathers fly and feathers flounce askance and feathers go anywhere they want anytime they want to dance?

For us our blessing, two hearts too thin and our blood an ocean opera rearing back for a massive wind and the wave that will carry us into the sun and perhaps to a happy place where, beyond it, we can see all our misery and pain and we can gather it all up, and they’ll wait for us with sturdy steel locks built for our fate, for us to bury our shame into a small steel box – it’s all smiles as we hear the click of the locks and we release all the fucking hate and we relearn how to walk because in the gardens bathed in perfect light streaming down from the canopy sometimes you bounce and sometimes you find you’re exactly happy and free

A tear slowly rolling – a rivulet shining inside the sun, the sun shining so hard it kills the numb, the sun is slowing rolling down your cheek, effervescent as it runs, bless it when you care to, never mess with it like a perfect hairdo and be proper and always make sure you tuck in your halo and the wings that carry you

Flowers upon flowers upon pedals upon pedals, metallic dream factory lollipop creation machine, we keep the floors gleaming serene watch the magic pop out like bubble fun from a child’s mouth, no more ouch, get a bandaid, I have several, here is one you might just need to use to bandage up your mental, or maybe it’s a blanket you can curl up into it and sleep one perfect dream after another in the perfect dream blanket, it’s basically up to you, let this poem represent your happiness and if I did it wrong I’m sorry I’m unaccustomed to writing things that are about happy shit – but I think it works, in fact I’ll make that a declarative because I said it did and god damn if happiness is anything but a poet writing poetry trying to give it away, trying to let love live…

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-
EVERYTHING GOES INCREDIBLY FUCKING WRONG.

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.

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