Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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The cataract bleed of morning streamed into the blur of crooked life. It’s the viscious haven for a thief that long ago replaced lock picks with words, dexterity with eloquence. What’s of value is the soft kiss, the moan, the candlelight flicker on the anguished face of ecstasy. Her dream under his plying effort, the wet answer to his stumbling logic, fallible will and toxic grin. “Let her love me,” he prays to the night and the stars laugh, light failing over their million year flight to the changing face of her beneath him. The moon hid, sang the thin song of distant cicada, and she disappeared in a tangle of hair and sweat, hot breath and the expired wick. A pinch of smoke swirled and she was gone. Empty paragraphs lined the walls of the sun’s triumph, palms exposed, heart vacant any hold despite trust, kindness, and fierce tumble. Awake but thoroughly in slumber, a dawn’s brilliance stutters at the door of this longing. Winning time and again robs the lottery of its worth, and shows the whole affair a rigged set where success isn’t earned, but is stolen with flatline veracity. Belief is the waft of her perfume hanging in the morning air. And it is just as transient.

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What is this I must know. So damn gorgeous. Who are you and where have you been all my life?

I suppose I am a man lost in a works undone by disclosure and heartfelt rumination. Swimming free in the ether of each moment. Hoping for a different outcome with every dive below the surface.

To see what's what in the world of Santo

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