Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

Posts By: Jason Santo

Listless skies, forgotten moments in the hymnals of ardent passion, and a pinched indulgence soaked in salt, sweat, fire and clinging need. These forests shredded, seas left barren and desert winds driving razor granules into the tender – crimson rivulets coalesce as words fail; as night mercilessly chokes. Were there only a way to suspend […]

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descepter: How The Face Changes With Shifting A Light Source

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I don’t use drugs, my dreams are frightening enough. M. C. Escher (via f0x)

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The chance to get it right. It’s represented in small moves, smiles and head bobs that spy things now long unnoticed. Pens as drumsticks. A stage as adequate for play as a park. Long windows gathering day. The wonder of wind and its play in the fabric that binds brothers and sisters, lovers, thieves and […]

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Willing

Smooth and rounded, as if gel molded into kind forms hugging small heat and light, they rest among motes of dust as confused days spin around them. Slid into line, they await invitation to welcome with glimmering dim, warmth spreading in a flicker of slipping air swirled about hurried business. Daylight’s kiss flirts for attention, […]

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He wanted to be the first star in everyone’s sky, the glimmer that snuck at the corner of attention, seized thoughts and drew worship. He wanted to disobey the rule of days, burn brighter than the sun and pull oceans harder than the moon. Furtive maneuvers clung to sweat-drenched lust, word spills of oil killing […]

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Birth or death? The soul is set free regardless, shimmering in the refracted gold edges of a beginning, an end. The most beautiful fear felt walking the dread line, balancing hope on each step when a plummet into life – or out if it – hinges on single moves, perfect decisions. Crisis circus, a cascade […]

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I’m a criminal soul, squalid color under tender veneer; birthed wrong, dropped from a barbed womb and hung low despite the buoyant gaze, hopes, kindness shown. Mirrors display ruddiness, mistakes, pock-marked stumbling and hate, always with claws tearing muscle from bone, splitting skin with fingernails coated sticky with practiced rhythms, the oil of this average […]

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One stood near the edge of a concrete pedestal, a forgotten vessel for pleasant inebriation and, wrapped in the incandescent orange glow of the city, a story untold. Beside the pedestal, lazily set down near a spill of tangled vines, was a partner flute – not the same size or shape, but too close for […]

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