Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Paths in rivulet diversion, which way to snake depends on sharp tongued lust and an ability to swallow retribution whole like an egg; distending the soft-bodied curl of selflessness and leaving thick skin bulging with greed. Circuitous as they may be, choices emerge from woolen ground fog. The taste of turned wine coats every morning kiss, a practiced gesture of truce for those treading lightly, who attempt footing on vaporous reason but fall clumsily every time, legs weakened by their long journey and the dissatisfaction of nights spent in circulated air with looping problems haunting each stale breath. But sleep comes, descent never shattering bones so much as will, and somewhere Dionysian dreams quicken blood muscle into capitulation, bodies merging like an itch scratched. The comfort of the familar – the warm embrace of security’s womb – sheds vanity and the sting of compromise until both pound gently behind each day like a dull ache; like mended bone before a turbulent swell. And isn’t that better? They’ll assess during those sleepless moments while listening to the stirrings of an outside world threatening new beginnings like branches caught in the wind scrape, scrape, scraping against the family home. Stepping harder would have brought those walls down, and the crooked talons of unrest might have paved the road to bliss, but not before drawing so much blood that the liberated nearly perish from exposure in raw birth freedom. Because that’s pain, that ceremony of forgetting and moving on, and the flesh echos cry with longing for the contentment of what’s known, what’s always been home. Unfair as those small destinies may be, they deserve better effort than the tall glass of escape poured and begging comsumption. Because tomorrow can be the swill, but today must be a sip. Only a taste to wet the palate. Only a glimpse at the reptile courting hot sin.
(at Vow of Thursday)

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