Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Grip fevers of lust
And hang from 
the sawdusted scaffolding
Of beleaguered notions
And one-way truths
Denying forced-bright collusion
And the sighs of criminal yearning.
A conspiracy of mingling breath
In faraway homes.
An allegiance forged in unison
Despite crowded distance 
Of days filled with toil,
Nights colored like oil,
And tear-streaked windows
Through which light trickles
Like hope after a ledge leap
Without a net.
Free falling logic
Batters the ears with caustic wind
And the worship of lips
Healing kisses, licks, sucking
At the bliss of tomorrow,
The flesh of promise,
Steals fears
And lifts, 
Aloft like tossed feathers,
Determination to live.
Extract these bottled dreams
Riding cresting waves 
From this green sea coast
To that indigo shoreline,
For awake once again 
With the imitation of faith
Are hands absent gratitude
Left to wander
Lonely corridors 
Of pretend ecstasies.
Swinging in the air,
Crooked neck snapped
A grin creases cheeks 
Wide, side-to-side
Unable to hide
Cradled joy inside,
The spread thick groan of longing
Echoing in weight-stressed beams
Balling fists
When toes used to curl,
This love was hung out to dry
Before it was ever
Made wet. (at La Grande Morte)

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