Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Desert this. Pull the ripcord and let the Earth’s drag you down, out like a child from the womb, screaming new song in the catacombs of lost hopes, a lone cry for help among the selfish whores of Babylon who count their gold before the future comes, guiding hands that feed into incisors hellbent on the gnash, the grind, the bloody, ripped tendons of landing without air, like a brick dropped into the sea. Drown, you worthless wretch, and let these failures fill your lungs like seawater, salt stinging and seizing like a lover gripping sex too hard and burning raw tension, as if the sun threw flares and murdered progress. Without accounts or the killing of time, the climaxing fool is airborne, somewhere above, falling, flailing, tugging at useless tomorrows as if the chute itself were to bring mercy, a dear friend catching the onrush of air and hate billowing in the raging atmosphere of sin. Descend and let loose the horror plaguing each decision cached like a bond, the sense trickling and each note subject to matchstick avarice. Such charnel debt in the undone climbs of now. Such an unfavorable return, to waking hours, to the land below, to routine and responsibilities stacked high like coins next to a child’s broken piggy bank; sorted, precarious, leaning and daring one more to be placed on top before it all crashes down, the fall short, the value lost, each blessing taken for granted. And somewhere below or above, the cartwheeling sun teases with notions of beauty, fingers on chest dugging, thighs like vices, light and dark rhythms plummet, withdraw, and voices tense in transient ecstasies forgetting burning fates in the sweet loss of rationale. And then a final inhale before arrival, fierce and brutal. A welcome heart stop. An abandoned fate.


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