Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Your slink and subtle arrogance, a bravado hiding beloved genius with gentle, genderless allure, you swung down from night’s God of War but were every inch Apollo. You basked in the surf of faraway lovers, dipping fingers in legend and serenading diaphanous morality, inviting imagination to meet heart. Ideas surrounded that crooked grin and those flint-struck spark eyes with the surety of a first lover’s kiss, calm certainty that awakened the fearlessness of a generation of assured artists fingerpaint-living in the wake of your thrilling oil canvasses. To say goodbye means revisiting the glory of your aggressive beauty, the glow of your star driving the moon to envy. And unwashed worshippers fall to their knees in distant reverence, your caramel voice run sticky in their ears, weighing their limbs with loss even as they dance to celebrate what was, what forever will be: your gifts. The flutter of tear-dolloped eyelashes aren’t simple eulogy, they’re gratitude issued with choked surprise and the folded soul stirrings of your precious lessons. In the end, we all lift off, but few tell so many they are loved, and they know. Heard in delicate lyric. Understood in long-limbed fearlessness. Inhaled in euphoric confidence. You had eight arms to hold us, and so we try to feel comfort in the forever of your arachnid grip, mourning tasting as sweet as if we’d been kissed by the man who sold the world but who then gave us all that was earned.


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