The glowing ember from my cigarette floating through the dark like a torch and the exhalations blowing through the curling blue coil of rising smoke, a rickety red umbrella that you can never, ever open inside, my pack of smokes and my Betty Boop lighter, and a biting rain pecking at my face curling down my neck as I sit on some stairs and watch a dry patch of pavement below become pock-marked with falling droplets of rain until it all comes together and coalesces on the surface of the ground, dark and wet, the once dry patch annexed from above by the falling saliva of the sky, illuminated by a jaundiced, yellow light; the hard clicking sound of the contents of pregnant clouds land on and around me and beyond a drunk couple sings their way down the avenue tunelessly toward me in a slow, unintentionally wistful cadence.
by Alexander Michael Ziperovich
This screen, this screen, I want to stab it with a smallpox dipped pencil until it’s black with the mumps.
The only pen I can reasonably attempt to use without immediately waking up to orderlies feeding me sedatives in tiny white round cups prior to examining the underside of my tongue is a dagger; little bastard cuts up the pages like cancer and in some macabre, Machiavellian, merry way it’s like heroin injections into journals and verbs. You couldn’t know about my sharpest pen, my .38 fine tip black was the best I could find.
Give me a .1 and I bet you I’d end up gouging out my eyes with it beautifully like a conductor conducting a fucking conduction or an orchestral in a fever smiling like he just licked the best little beaver.
Things get darker. I haven’t gotten to see the goddamn cops chase the pedophilia since last night and it was only seconds and the goddamn motherfucking idiot operator bitch must have told the cop the wrong block cuz’ the dark green late model mini van was in his hand, speeding, behind the cop but lagging just enough to be the demon. “Fuck. He’s behind the trees.”
I craned my neck.
How the hell can a man stand this ball of fire and water and rock? I want to shoot the goddamned planet up like a dying vet, with ketamine instead of morphine so we can just avoid him the trouble of delusions of god. Satan has been running sprints in my mind, training for years everywhere and I don’t complain. Fuckin’ dying soldiers shouldn’t complain either then, jealous bastards. And no one gets irony. Ever. Seriously.
And also fuck those cops they would’ve taken that green van psychopath and fed him coffee to get him to talk when just as easily they could’ve Alexander Dumased his sick face right into the dungeon and had him spend six years and six days and six hours scratching a tunnel.
Him and this learned Italian. Right here, I mean. Behind the godamned motherfucking computer screen. Pardon while I go copy the romantic era from “The Best Of 1245,” onto the last sheet of toilet paper I got left while I take a shit.
And I’m still furious no one understands the GODDAMNED irony I keep pitching. CATCH you fucking alley cat worm feast fuck!
Pardon me, pardon me… I get like this with too much sleep and valium.
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.