Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Just another set of numbers. Simply another statistic. Another greeting card’s failure and another promise abandoned. In the great gulf between reason and knowing, what’s this casualty but a hiccup on our short hop through such grand drama? And what a fine bit of memorization these days were, because it’s easy to do right? Pay the bills, fix the loose planks, vaccuum the floors, clean the toilets, and trip all the fucking way through every monotonous task as if it were Hercules challenging the wrath of Gods because at least there’s passion in such quiet mundane. At least there’s purpose. Take that away and there’s breathing, eating, shitting. There’s a world that spins and without reason or need for this sack of ideas and belief because it’s too small; too much a leftover from a bygone time when fallibility was forgiven. Or maybe these chances were just used up, a sponge left out in the arid Texas afternoon of August. The cavalcade of horrendous thought that grew like moss over the soft wet of happiness, so prone to the horrid meandering, so suceptible to failure. Because that’s what everyone is: at fault and an acceptable loss sent to die on a gray shore for greater understanding that this is all transient. Nothing here matters, the pull of a tide on the dead strewn in the sand just a reminder that no sacrifice is clean. All are salted with the grit of a crying ocean and the filth of the Earth’s hubris. All are borrowed time in irregular seconds that speed through peace and linger in war. All are digits calculated with clinical derision. One. Two. Three. Four.


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