Fleekin Floygn

Each and every one of us have them in us, these devils and gods that have died in the near or distant future and, with frequency or sporadic movement, traverse across the highways, byways, causeway of the coils in our head. We don’t control them, at least not without chemicals, prescribed or otherwise. Like a play I’ve seen a million times, these stock figures visit me with varying degrees of frequency and trauma, never asking permission to ruin a day or lift up the corners of my mouth. Sometimes that lack of announcement or invitation pisses me off and I simmer over their presence, but for the big players, I’ve just come to accept their permanent tenancy. I have the most compassion for the ones I’ve cried over. Tears are generally a once-a-year ritual brought on by an incredibly compacted period of emotion, and frankly, I hate it, not in a shameful way, but rather the physical sensations of that release are so abhorrent to me. Unforgivable, in fact, if you’re the catalyst. Now, I can never forgive you, truly, incapable of it no matter how much I want to rebuild the pavement, but because of it, your devils and gods are much safer in bed for that fact. No unexpected weekend visit to my cerebellum could ever be worse than that feeling, like someone has taken a huge needle and thread with a knot in it and stuck it through my chest, with only the knot on the outside, and the needle forcing it to break on over to the other side. Sticks and stones got nothing on an internal needle trying to implode a rib cage. So the memorial day trippers don’t usually bother me that much. Sometimes they’re even enjoyable in a masochistic kind of way, our devils. Your devil is different than mine is different hers is different from theirs. Cause every man, even if he’s straight as an arrow, has a hard on for the devil.