Glebe

What if money didn't matter?

For the love of God

It's pouring all over me. Drops? Fuck that, waterfall. (Simply perception; I still got my rainbows.) I'm drenched to the bone. Can't feel it anymore, I'm not scared anymore. I can't take it. I can take it all. (That's how I feel.) Rain down on me Hell Storm. It's kind of nice in the wrath; do you know what it's like to not feel the love of God? I don't. (I don't believe in that.) What's up? I think this is the first time my hands have stopped shaking in months. (I'm staring at them not moving.)

No surrender. For the love of God.

Love/Leave

“He looked at me like I was crazy. Most of my lovers do, and that’s partly why they love me, and partly why they leave.”

— Jeanette Winterson

Someone You'd Admire

Failure

Failure. Looking into a puddle and pretending it's a sea. (Still trying to swim, or win affection or something fucking futile.) Silly, stupid, empty little girl tangled in sheets. I'm coming back because it's painful here, and I want to figure out why. Used to conquering, but let me repeat brightly and beautifully; Failure. I still haven't seen the ocean. And as long as I'm failing, I might as well accomplish something. Anything. A friend, an adventure, a fucking conversation. Watch me pretend to hold a gun to my head and blow my brains out. 

Neil Young & Crazy Horse "Down By The River" - YouTube

Tokyo.

In Chocolate.

I remember laying in bed and thinking I should get up right now and walk away but instead I ended up holding onto you a little tighter. The more they don't love me, the more I want to cook them food and make them coffee and kiss them all over their faces. I just want to love you. It's the same as when you're sitting in the corner with that look on your face, and I'm surprised you're not crying yet. And I tell you we can do anything, you just tell me what. So we eat our body weight in chocolate until I'm sure I'm going to die from a sugar-overdose, but at least you know I'm here with you. In chocolate and in life. I just love you. 

The Bleachers

We were sitting on the bleachers overlooking the field, where they play some sport that I probably don't understand because I still think baseball and football are better than anything you have to play in a white outfit and some stupid hat but that's not the point. He was chugging on a longneck, while the only thing I could concentrate on was a girl wandering the streets trying to find cigarettes. He was telling me all about this thing they call faith (I call it serenity or a god damn hole you need to fill). And all about this girl. (They love to tell me about beautiful girls.) He quoted the Bible and in the same breath said "NO, you must judge yourself, you're the only one fit to." That's funny, I've been trying to take it easy on myself. But you're always telling me I'm no go at it anyway. He kept telling me I didn't understand, but I'm never sure if it's I who don't understand you, or you that don't understand me, but I guess that doesn't even matter.

I walked home and you were sitting on the front step with a cigarette and tears in your eyes. 

Darts

I was ashing in a candle while I was listening to her tell me that I missed the target that I was aiming to hit. (I think because I was aiming in the first place.) I'm learning that the only thing you can count on are your own two feet and your own ideas, but not the ones you imagine for the future (because they can be construed by all those others' outside ideas and thus making it into something completely new.) but those you feel and live through that shape your idea of your day. Of your experience. Every day. Nothing I thought was going to happen over these last few months came to be, besides the physical destinations. (They came, they went.) But all the other made up futures were just that, mythical endings to stories I wasn't even writing. You know what did happen? These beautiful adventures and memories where I least expected them.

I guess that was the point.

Chair

Always sitting at the edge of my seat. Anxious and patiently waiting for something or creating something or soaking something up. Trying to soak it all up. Make it worth something. You know? The only thing you have to cash in. Your time. Just like this guy says:

In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line. You will pardon some obscurities, for there are more secrets in my trade than in most men's, and yet not voluntarily kept, but inseparable from its very nature. I would gladly tell all that I know about it, and never paint "No Admittance" on my gate.

Thoreau. In Walden.

Australia. Australia Stuff

Alex Winston

The Collection

I collect madmen. I wish I could write about you, but the words don't fit. Just like you. Besides maybe "chaos" and how badly do you want to care but it doesn't come easy? I wonder if that's frustrating. Or maybe it's indifference (but far less satisfying). But it's this silently beautiful kind of thing. And now you remind me of a lunatic. And I've met many but none like you. With that mind that I can't see, but it's not void like you say. Something, even if  beautiful, chaotic nothing. I just don't know what I'm looking at yet. Like when I'm standing next to you and that thing sucks my soul right out and I freeze. And at first I thought it was a bad thing, but now comfortable with I just don't know.

And I really don't care. But I guess now I love you too.

Add one more to the collection.

Fucks Throw

It's like I've been avoiding writing about the fact that in every single place, you stay there. This is because what you are there cannot be stripped from it's location. (One in the same, inextricable.) Whatever I am at this geographic point in space and time will start the mutation process as soon as I switch shores. It has less to do with physical being and far more to do with the collective experience. Like what do I look like to you? (What the fuck do I look like to you?) I know you see something different than that little boy in Manhattan, and it's fucks throw away from your head on my stomach listening to my breath, because you love the way I breathe. (Or the fact that I'm breathing.) But that's okay. Because this here and now, is supposed to be a completely different reality that shows me a little more of me through you. (Or just this. whole. thing.)

(It shall be sweet.)

All your written words inspired me more than fingertips. The same as looks and glances and too many fingers plucking strings. How funny, when usually too commonly touch can walk you straight into the deep end, far too high over your head. (Do we overlook the silent value?) But it's not drowning, it's breathing underwater. In disbelief that you could be breathing underwater but you have this new source of oxygen. Life support. Anything to rattle your damn bones up and out of that sleep. That sleeping state of the walking zombie apocalypse that may just be a figment of my imagination. Oh to feel alive! Should I shake you? Or kiss you clean? If honey is so sweeter than vinegar and justice can not be served by anyone undefining, then it shall be taught. (It shall be sweet.) I pray for it to be experienced and felt because it will heal your soul. And save your head.

My Best Friend.

Crying. Reading letters.

"stop lookin so hard. sometimes he's right under you nose. let's not let that happen again. be ready mr right is looking for you too sam he's not too far away. let someone want you the most and earn you. its what you re worth."

Losing.

On losing. Not winning. This is what I'm talking about. Those things that happen and you think? Why did that happen? No good. And things happen well elsewhere that seem good (for others) and you can feel that jealousy (or resentment) but that's where you lose that wisdom? I can't deal with this like that. Something more like I'm so glad that happened to you, I'm so grateful that happened to you. What's ever happening here will change, sometimes the road just swerves. Always swerves. SO, you can not tell your good from your bad and your bad from your good, because every bad has good, and everything good will change. So I feel liberated. To hold that future and that past and that now and know they all slip like water through your fingers!

I'm not losing anything.

Wussuuuup

Namaste Yo from samanthaleev on 8tracks Radio.

Window Sill

Two hands on the window sill, leaning over the ledge looking out over the street. Rocking back and forth. How many window ledges have I to look out over? It doesn't matter. Each is different. This one's black. Now. From such moments of infinity and life to those of darkness and death. And I feel them all. I feel each second. Trying to run for cover when those catches of drowning set it. But that's not the point. Running is never the point. Having that break, shift of consciousness is the point. Becoming mentally better and stronger and less reliant on everything that is fleeting, including emotions. That's where the internal stability comes in, that inner peace. That inner breath of Godwhole. 

Empty Space

Before you judge others or claim any absolute truth, consider that you can see less that 1% of the electromagnetic spectrum and hear less than 1% of the acoustic spectrum. As you read this, you are traveling at 220 kilometers per second across the galaxy. 90% of the cells in your body carry their own microbial DNA and are not “you”. The atoms in your body are 99.9999999999999999% empty space and none of them are the ones you were born with, but they all originated in the belly of a star. Human beings have 46 chromosomes, 2 less than the common potato. The existence of the rainbow depends on the conical photoreceptors in your eyes; to animals without cones, the rainbow does not exist. So you don’t just look at a rainbow, you create it. This is pretty amazing, especially considering that all the beautiful colours you see represent less than 1% of the electromagnetic spectrum.