Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Don’t you wish you could just keep going? Just chase the sunset until the sea and surrender to day? Prolong the amber of final hours as they evaporate into the violent vibrance of dusk, the pink and orange flower of evening? Let’s throttle it, yeah? Can we just kill tomorrow and the next day with the sick knife of now? Murder the future. Slice its throat and spill the accordion chaos of desire as if it were the gutted belly of a shark, where putrid hunger’s stink coats everything and each breath challenges. What a sham, these masks worn! What brittle facades parading around with care when truthfully it’s the terror of alone that bind the incompatible into tight union, where plastic smiles behind plastic white fences set the tempo to which all should march with such lovely diligence. And when your steps fall out of time, then why not flee? Granted access to the open road is a visa unpunched. If the ruinous filth of hope tears muscle from bone and the agony of every hour is the reminder of failure, then isn’t that long stretch ahead better as an
unknown than as a track circled time and again with helpless resignation? What’s more courageous? The dedication to the fight or the retreat for a chance at living? Somewhere in the upward drift of angora marring blue Heaven there’s a future and it’s the same sky here as it is there. It’ll keep spinning, this cyclone of nervous business and disease of responsibility, but there it would be a distant thrum, like a lover’s heartbeat through a thick cloud blanket. You’d still hear it there, but now and again the engine of escape would drown memory in the flood of new circumstance and grins could crack this stone face. Oh the myth of Summer with her long days and glorious spells of warmth. How she lies as Winter’s dormancy awaits at the end of every road, that blue above blessing and cursing always; this smile a crumbling edifice in the wind of alleged freedom. (at Run)

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