Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Fire-spun furies beckon in hollow tones, a candied cadence sweet as child wonder and hungrier than hindsight, oh how the gray yearns for white or black. Meaning clings like flies to spun gossamer, strands choked with morning dew and shaken under tremulous limbs anxious for feeding; is there a finer delicacy than truth? A world can dip and dive under raging atmospheres roiling to the tune of vapid forecasts, but still that light arrives, that night returns, those hours tick tock tick, the wrap of knuckles, nick knock nick, on day doors and twilight walls housing parabolic hymnals growled from bellies bent by bowing. That rank suffer, it’s bucolic tradition stuffed between drywall and seeping the way dawn does at the end of a sleepless night, hues returning unwanted, sharp edges to the heavy-skulled. That scent flits between bars recited, drunk down shots of notes regurgitated as noxious melody and odious promise, the cloudy spew of each uncertainty held like afternoon, exposed and casting short, acute shadows. Black’s adorable to the fog, the mist, a propped-up, colorless conclusion comprised of nothing, lurking behind every tangible, light-pained whittle; flesh or wood or stone or metal cast, smoothed, soldered, sculpted by love or faith or art or routine. Understanding isn’t resolution or conviction, the dusty cells of the unwavering locked tight against smoky, acrid accretion. Loving the stench of rotting faiths is the key, sung low and out of earshot to those empty of rhythm, devoid of ammunition, intuition. Guessing is divinity, a sunset come around again until it doesn’t, the fuchsia-dipped pall of bones that once framed assertion. And color? She rewards, kisses on the raised skin of awareness, the desaturated, the robbed, swelling with the fever of learning, dreaming, being. For open wounds bleed, vivid drip drop drip, the drawn and quartered chip chop chip, art draining on the abattoir of alleged propriety. Hear that? It’s the song of the stubborn dead, their moans of yesterday crushed under the furious pounding of these marching unknowns. And herein begins that walk, setting heavy foot into perpetual, inevitable dark, spider-caught and struggling with sticky surety. Stop. Absence awaits, ready to dine forever. Better to leave it starving while gorging on today.

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