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.

Gypsy

gypsykids

Gypsy

Alexander Michael Marasca Ziperovich

1.

The ketamine’s phosphorescent glittery saltwatery. Annie is somewhere in the nether part of the condo screaming; there are two places where the screaming comes from, the bathroom or the bedroom. I am always in the middle. I’m slicing up her mahogany dining table again with my three-razor trick. Tossing the kitty around and then lining it up again and then watching it do the waterfall and finally doing a line or two. “You hate me!” I did. “You’re gonna leave me and my parent’s are going to fucking kill you! That table’s so expensive and you’re destroying it and…” Her voice trails off into the ether after a big blow to my face like a slap of red lightening.

“Nhrruruhhhscrhhnchhchhhhhh-huuuuuuuaaah!” I snort.

“Sczizsciissss…” went her table.

This isn’t working. This K is garbage. The other goddamn ketamine I got from those parking lot kids was far superior the night I got LA tattooed on my right tricep and I would have paid two hundred a gram again but this was all there was, thanks to the fucking pokèmon crew up north.

My teeth hurt.

“I’ll be back.” She moans and draws herself up like a bow and shoots herself at the just-slammed door. “Thump,” I laugh, skipping down the stairs after sending the elevator up.

2.

I’m talking to Santa that lives on the doorstep of the furniture store at the end of the block about dolphins or shit and Gypsy stumbles up. “Alex. Give me a fucking goddamned motherfucking cigarette.” Her hair is a lime-green rosebud nest of wires. Her face is decorated with scars and her neck has apparently been doing a lot of black tar. A bottle of Southern Comfort is hanging from her hand like a rosary. She spits violently into the wind, swaying with one foot in the gutter under the sidewalk. She’s like a beautiful painting that moves.

We embrace and she has Hep C and the saliva I think landed in my eye and we start walking, down the block to buy smokes and I tell her about my wreckage of a life and she tells me about hers, again. We’ve been close like this for almost three years. In jail in a nascent ante-cell by the infirmary I saw her name scrawled with what must have been sharp metal all over the door. I thought it was remarkable, “Alex, they just fuckin’ lemme out again yesterday. Gimme another smoke, man.”

We stop and I turn toward her. She’s all rags and liquor meat but she’s gorgeous. Hasn’t had sex in six years she tells me. I believe her. Lives in a government pad up the street the methadone people hooked her up with.

“Well, Gypsy,” standing in front of Annie’s lobby again, “I need some hypodermics.”

“I got a hundred-pack at my pad. Come the fuck on.” She swigs the booze without spilling a drop. She’s quite sharp.

We rise into the Hill as the sun dips below and into her glowing amber sauce as the sparkling shimmer from the glass and the sun fade away. She unscrews it, takes a thick hit and pours out a few jiggers. “Johnny. Poor bastard.”

3.

We walk into her moodily institutional but relatively barren home save the orange TOXIC! sharps containers and the bloodstains and the burnt spoons and pipes and the little clumps of what look like metallic pubic hair. Her carpet is green. A good, honest green.

She shows me to a massive backpack full of capped orange .29 gauge hypodermic needles

!FOR DIABETES ONLY! and I ask how the fuck I know they haven’t been used. The floor is covered with uncapped bloodrusting rigs. “They’re brand fucking new if they’re in there, otherwise they’re not.” I see my face in an empty bottle of gin on her kitchen counter through the open door. I reach in and grab six or seven and look around uncomfortably. “I usually get mine wrapped individually in plastic but…” She jerks her head away.

“What’d I say?” I’m looking at a spot on her wall to which her eyes have also trained.

Her face hardens and softens and finally a small moan escapes her cracked lips. “I miss my daughter,” she whimpers. CPS took her three years ago after Gypsy violated. The picture on the wall is the size of a credit card but a little bigger, hanging from a nail and a long string.

4.

“This is the fuckin’ deal, Gypsy. If you ever want your daughter back you have got to stop doing heroin and getting arrested. I’ll make you a deal: I’ll give you as much Subutex as you need to stay well if you stay off the streets. You can sell it, or if you were smart, switch off methadone and turn on subs. Your choice.”

Her face is music, agony and dreams spilling from her eyes like black ink.

“I just gave you like ten rigs for free and you’re telling me what?” She’s scarlet in the face more than usual and she’s growling at me. “Gypsy, I just want you to have your daughter which is what you want, no?” This is the culmination of a very slow hour of Gypsy telling me what happened and me trying to tell her how to unfuck the whole thing.

I feel brave.

I go to the wall and snatch the picture and take it to her. She rattles and falls to her knees and weeps. “Gypsy…”

“If you wear this picture around your neck and I see you wearing it in the blocks and you don’t bullshit me we can go back right now and get you like ten subs, which as you know are worth a lot of fucking money, a lot more than some fucking grab-bag needles.”

“You got the real ones? Suboxone? What milligram?” She asks after immediately responding to the word subs by flying up off her knees, looking from the little pale rectangular missing picture to the picture itself in my hand. “I have the real fucking deal, the big boys. Eight milligram generic buprenorphine. Don’t get no better.” She sighs and we strike a deal. We walk back down the neon path.

I run up into the screaming condo and grab the safe and unlock it and throw ten or twelve subs into my hand and run back down. I still have the picture but the rigs I left upstairs. “Here. Wear it around your neck.” She puts the picture on like it’s a diamond necklace and for the first time I see something like hope come into her, violent hope. She reaches for the subs and before I give them to her I tell her, “No more if you don’t have that on your neck. None. I want you to have your kid, Gyps.”

5.

I’m boiling ketamine in a black pot on the stove and somehow the sight of a handful of needles has calmed Annie down. I’m abruptly and arbitrarily throwing crystalline ketamine into the pot, letting it boil a bit, drawing it up into the syringe and slamming myself in my left bicep. The memorial tattoo of my best friend is on my right arm.

Boil. Pour. Stir. Draw. Slam.

Boil. Pour more. Stir. Draw. Slam.

“Fuuuuuuck!”

Boil. Pour the whole bag. Stir. Draw. Slam, into my right arm cause I don’t know any better now and drop myself onto the kitchen floor where I sink into a black telescopic pit where I hear someone wheezing, breathing, screaming, shrieking, my heart is or is not bleeding and this ketamine finally did something I needed.

I got Gypsy sober for four weeks. She wore her daughters face everywhere she went and no one ever gave her any shit. I saw her once a few years later looking terrible and then I saw her again looking less terrible and then I didn’t see her anymore.

I love you, Gypsy.

ASTROPROJECTILITY AND CUTLERY

I awoke from a dream at 7:19 AM. Ordinarily, I’d just be passing out, pills melting into my mouth.

I got sober two weeks ago, however. Ain’t it seem unseemly for me?

Indeed.

But back to the bed; I woke up and remembered the dream I had just had. I was in LA and NYC back and forth doing whatever it was, writing I presume, and I found myself driving through a neighborhood in what looked like Bel Air or Westwood in my stupid BMW.

Some asshole parked like shit and I left-side clipped his scotch colored lincoln.

Furious biblical anger.

I break into the first house I see, incidentally the same damn color as the car, Macallan 12 single malt to be exact.

I went in angry as a pit bull with untreated rabies; threw off my shirt and tried to find someone to blame with knuckles. Pitched my keys at a wall, screamed shit down the hall at two faces, walked downstairs to confront an older Asian (Cambodian or Vietnamese). Turns out they’re all Canadian and finally they ask me, “What’s wrong, bro?”

Dumbstruck. I thought this was earth.

“My car got scraped up. Fuck.

Uhm. Sorry or something.”

Now, here is the point of the story I’m relaying; I have of course remembered dreams, (very occasionally) but never bothered to speak them. This cold morning my mouth came out of sleep like a gaping tunnel producing a torrential downpour of words relating the dream, detail by detail by detail in exact exactitude to my Sophia. It was strange.

————

Last night on the roof there was a dark green late model van with dark tints with a dark-spirited looking man driving fast behind a cop with sirens. Clearly connected. I said, “He’s behind the trees.” I took a big swallow of my cigarette and watched for more action. None to be had. Now that I think about it, it makes me miss the fucking casinos. Action, I require action. At least if I don’t want to feel a corpse, cold as a fridge.

Crime interests me; not the punitive shit I’ve been dealt, my fucking red-headed lawyer fucking me at my arraignment on three and a half turn coated misdemeanors not objecting to raising the bail 249,000 dollars in cash from nothing but change. The arraignment took roughly 13 seconds and I was back in the bullpen with the rest of the boys. “Wow,” they all said, dumbfounded. Turns out my mother had the bitch raise bail to keep my ass from getting busted out by my succubus. I don’t know if any of that meets the definitive definition of irony but god damnit, it felt blasphemous. I was not amused.

I was in there during Christmas, New Years, Thanksgiving & the motherfucking playoffs the season my team finally was winning; thank god they didn’t win the bowl or I would have needed high dose lithium and ECT therapy. The guards wearing santa hats with my teams color configuration laughing and smiling and being pigs. Cunts.

The county jail; about as humorous as syphilitic insanity in my mother’s uterus.

Action, moves and scenes; at hollywood park I saw an Israeli and a skinny white man at the hold em’ table exchange a few words and the skinny was wearing a beanie that he removed which then revealed a swastika tattooed prison-style on his forehead. He leaped across the middle of the red velvet imitation with a razor blade at the Israeli and missed. No one got kicked out. They didn’t even revolve tables. This life feeds me impulses and urges that are hard to purge. I like that action, I like seeing that shit, ya know? The whole, ‘break your neck looking at car accidents’ thing they talk about. I try not to every single time but I always do – I still have yet to see a real juicy gruesome good one. I guess there is no prophylactic for degenerated behavior patterns – I called my neighbor’s woman guest a cunt when she entitled herself to humor by telling her friends and me that she smelled cigarettes and “wondered where that came from,” – “I smell cunt. I wonder who’s smelling like that.” Some poor bastard’s wife, too, hand her some humility and a tissue.

I lack the empathy, no, the decency to give two shits. I had diarrhea that day you fucking cunt. Don’t you dare attempt your pitiful wit on me or I will cunt you out. That’s how I stay out of the bullpen now.

Words.

Oh, and I dropped my decade of dropping myself in a poppy field two weeks ago.

Funny how irony works, if it does at all… cunt.

MOVEMENT

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?

Painting Hearts Instead of Scoring Coke

heart

My blood is hot scotch desirous, animalistic unpredictability coursing and I can feel my pupils pounding, black holes swallowing the whites of my eyes. I’m right between euphoria and murder, the golden moment right before you rise into heaven or fall into hell.

I want need some cocaine. 

It’s always the same thing, the sweet burn of the luminous golden scotch mingling with my tongue, tickling the very depths of me with every swallow, the tinkling crystal tumbler raised and tilted at a glib angle as the scotch ripples through me like a stone thrown into a pond. I’m one smiling, laughing witticism after another two or three doubles deep. This is civilized, radiance pushing the dread from my center, a glowing amber ocean in a glass literally scorching the earth of my anxiety, every gulp like a whispering friend encouraging me to live, to be alive, giving me life, new life and new needs, new ways to fulfill those new needs for my new life writing these words, hell, I need a drink. 

I love that phrase, it’s the only honest protest we have left, “I need a drink,” implies isolation and frustration and a reprieve from it all into sexy danger and abundant power, the righteous murder of the maiming our minds do unto us, something everyone can understand. S/he needs a drink. X happened and now Y is Z. S/he deserves a drink.

Tara’s driving my car flying above the purring German engine, the power of it intoxicating, her eyes burning embers ready to catch flame and I see myself inside her eyes, little ellipses containing my deepest reflections. She says we’re siblings. I see it.  

I have her take me south to the lake near the place I got evicted from and I just missed my girl. I walk across the street to this shitty bar PIZZA, the other letters sizzling and popping on and off until the shuddering, crackling A finally explodes popping into the darkness shooting slivers of sparkles that shower down from it like a sparkler, leaving a single blinking Z. Everyone briefly looks outside at the little explosion and I look through the faces for someone familiar. Nothing. I light a Parliament with my head buried in my phone texting the people you text on nights like these nights. I look around like I’m lost, that’s how I feel, and my eyes lay upon a kid with a mad shine in his eyes sitting on a stump of green gun metal, the Seattle Weekly box, his legs dangling over the side. He starts talking to me in rapid fire and I notice his face has meth all over it, and he’s speeding through something about how it’s his first night in Seattle, “My fuckin’ girl got pregnant, maaan, so I hopped on this greyhound with no ticket dude and without saying shit and just got the fuck outta there but she has this uncle and—” Lovely. I think he thought we were friends because we both witnessed the A explode. I nod and return to Tara, letting him tell his stories to the wind. She’s sitting parked in my car waiting me out and anyone else would have infuriated me just for existing; I’m flustered and frustrated and hating drugs, hating the lack of drugs, hating that I hate the lack of drugs but Tara is like valium with a heartbeat and no matter what and no matter how badly I want coke I want Tara to be okay more. This is the first friendship I’ve ever had, I think. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a friend my whole life.

My wise voice, as Tara might say, is murmuring maybe screaming something about how this is actually serendipity, not loss and that’s true, cocaine turns me inside out into a hungry carnivorous violence I never even let myself believe could exist in me and without fail I end up at some ugly hour of the morning in my shower sobbing, blowing burning chunks of ammonia and ephedrine out of my scorched face hating everything most especially myself trying to wash the fury and hopelessness off of me, shoveling sedatives and beta blockers down my throat knowing they won’t fucking work because nothing fucking works because I’m on coke and coke doesn’t work.

Now we’re in the middle of Capitol Hill, 12th and Pike, one block from the succubus-girl and the condo we lived in where she almost murdered me and everyone is screaming and everything is drugs and pounding bass and kids in middle school and college running around like insane insects in a hive; the people are all game tonight the air electrified with cheap cologne and perfume, hormones and pheromones and the shit-coke I know is down in the grottos along the avenue waiting for me like that evil girl used to, sitting so gently on her bed looking bashful even timid when I would finally crawl back right until she leaped off my cock into the bathroom to vomit and scream, yes, the things I came here for are here. I watch some kid piss on a garbage can. I watch another kid piss on a street corner. This is a carnival of piss, colorfully terrifying, everything pressing into me from all sides like walls of skin crushing me from all directions and this place is a shining blood-red apple staring at me daring my teeth to sink into it like a vampire staring into a throbbing jugular, sticky blood and apple juice flowing down from my jaws onto my chin dribbling down impossible to stop until my hands are sticky and my fingers snap when I pull my hands apart from themselves because I am going to eat this city.

My face is a razor blade on a cokeless mirror, chopping at the clear glass, cutting at the sides— “Alex, you want to see the one that really fucked me up?” I’m in the car sweating venom and Tara will show more of her demons to me, she knows this shit so well. “This is Angela.” She shows me a video of Angela on my phone reading poetry written for Tara. I see a face made of old bone holding two small smoldering eye sockets and as Tara tells me about the Christmas they spent together where Angela pulled a knife on her in a fit of paranoid rage after smashing her boot through Tara’s fragile gifts I start to forget the coke. I don’t forget the coke. The craving becomes polluted with the better nature of my soul as I see Tara clutching at her face in pain as she watches this video and I see why Tara would love this girl made from bone metal— her face is devoid of love and Tara likes to let her heart get strangled. “I know!” I scream. We’ve watched two videos of this horrendous skeletal woman on a stage reading poetry about Tara and I’ve just come up with the best fucking idea.

“Let’s paint!” 

Now, some would say that doing graffiti in the middle of crowded streets full of people and cops is not the smartest thing, especially after having already pressed my luck and beaten a big graffiti charge a few years back. 

I disagree with those people. 

My trunk is stocked. For a moment I freak out, did all the caps go into the duffel bag that’s at the house? Nope, a big lime-green cap sits on top of a red can like a cherry on a sundae. I light it up and sure enough the cap is good (caps often jam with congealed paint and become unusable) tonight we’re having good fortune. Incidentally, we’re parked right in front of the place where I did one of my first pieces, a little monster guy that was up for some five years and has now disappeared. It’s this big sunken parking lot with this huge, huge wall covered entirely with graffiti and I am taking Tara for a ride. We stroll away, a red can and a black can clinking in her blue purse. We casually walk down some steps to a gangplank that leads down further to the lot and I survey it for cops and other undesirables. Nobody except a couple in the middle of either a break up or a make up, I can’t decide. We get down to the bottom and I look at the wall where my beautiful piece used to be. It’s covered in all new graffiti, much of it very, very good. This may sound fucked up, but I love to tag over good blaster-pieces. My rationale is two-fold: 1. Graffiti is all about fucking up other people’s walls and nobody owns shit no matter how pretty or how long they spent on it and 2. Painting over good art will force more good art onto the streets. 

I’m pretty certain there are a few people who disagree, would put a baseball bat to my head if they saw what I did. I don’t care. I ask Tara for the red can with the cap and she hands it to me and I see her in my periphery with her head on a swivel looking for oncoming cops as I just mangle these walls, red hearts everywhere in about two minutes the entire parking lot looks like Valentines day. We walk up the slanted drive past the couple who look and smile. Making up. Good. When we reach the street I notice that my trigger fingers are covered in red paint. Fuck. Oncoming sirens.

Go.

I start down the avenue the way it would make sense to go but quickly reverse course, Tara trailing a few yards and we go right back through the lot I just smothered with hearts because everything graffiti is counterintuitive, including getting busted— the cops rarely think to look at the spot that just got hit, why would the idiot taggers still be there, right? Right. We’re back on safety in my car. “Painting hearts with the cops after you is better than smack,” I tell her, my eyes virtually rolling back in my head. Both of us are huffing and puffing and grinning like idiots as we drive the fuck out of there. The craving for coke has not left me but the need for it has. Tara drives me back to her place and I bid her farewell before I drive myself home, by now sobered up from the scotch, where I sleep a most restful sleep, the clinking and spraying of paint cans and the tinkling of crystal tumblers an amalgamate of hissing and chiming softly in time like a strange lullaby keeping time with my cooling blood and my slowing heart all the way deep into my dreams.

Alex Reading “Relapse”

This is Alexander Ziperovich reading a heartrending piece at Wordplay 2014 in Seattle and is a written piece that was excerpted from his upcoming memoir, The Beautifullest, for the occasion.

Xanax Calculus

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

“Who the fuck took my bars?!”
We all just watched him devour a handful a few moments ago. “You popped em all, man.” Static, head lolling about like an untethered balloon. “Fuck, how’d they just disappear, did I set em down somewhere…” Eyes dewy, wet and perplexed, wandering, he’s lost his pills somewhere inside himself; the operative phrase being “he’s lost.” His entire being appears as a blur. “Who took em!?” Words from the frothing mouth of the angry benzo-orphan/gorilla that has replaced our friend.

He’s lurching about like an injured bird, trying to make sense of nonsense, ostensibly searching for the pills he just ate, for they might fall from the sky – sadly, horribly, he truly believes, no, he knows, that the xanax is not inside his stomach inside his abdomen, for that is an impossible conclusion.

Enough anterograde amnesia and fact is throttled hard by the frictional fictions of the sinister, too sick to puke, slipping into the fissures of the missives of addiction issues stemming from short-acting benzodiazepines that try to trick you as they switch you into believing they didn’t get you.

Dogs chasing tails, I suppose, foggy travails of a bellowing firehose extinguishing floods in the snow not knowing damn well the floods aren’t fires and that these kind of fires aren’t diminished by a broken pharmaceutical firehose in a denial pose.

“I swear on (insert his most precious) I just fuckin’ had em’, where’d they go?”

Like arguing with a schizophrenic in her visions, like screaming at Mt. Everest for being too tall, like water asking a river to indemnify it for forcing it go down a waterfall, like a raindrop falling, angry that it fell hard, creating a dangerously cruel pathology in the plant that grows from that drop of water, leaving cellular scars, created in hell’s heart, kept in bell jars crystalline-metallic wells that eat cars.

“Dude, will you just please shut up if I give you another fucking xanax?”

Sure.

PROPANE @ 1412

Alex Ziperovich reading for Move @ Gallery 1412

Alex Ziperovich Reading @ Da’daedal 1

Alex Ziperovich reading “My Poor, Poor Friend Jamie” at Da’daedal’s one year anniversary at The Josephine.

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.” 

Alex Reading Prose @ The In on January 26

Alex Ziperovich reads an excerpt from his memoir, titled “Junkie Goes To Hospital”. Enjoy.

FALLING APART ON JEFF’S FLOOR

YUM! Vomit. YUM! Vomit.

Alexander Michael 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 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 hand. 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, 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 glowglobe 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 and reading labels and looking for new ones. I feel like one of these pills 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 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 on 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 warned me.

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

My parents drive through the snow to rescue me. They feed me a seroquel and I feel waves of calm, a warm serenity washing through me and my body begins to relax and my mind finally surrenders and I sleep, dreamless.

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