I Am Santo

Fiction, poetry, music and mindscape pictures by creative artist Jason Santo

Careful. Don’t press this day like a nail underfoot. Watch each step. The pain will relent once the weight shifts, left, on the other leg, away from the sun and its perilous truths that stitch across a bruising sky with short arcs; seams leaking longing. Be mindful. Bring full force down and pain will shred the sacred fantasy propped up in between the hours of toil. Those are longer moments, right before the needlepoint hex creases the softest part of the sole and bleeds spirit dry. The warnings wail like claxons at cloudy British dawns, night stolen away by fear of everything, but mostly of that sick wraith called loneliness lurking in the incongruent madness of shapes haunting shadowy bedrooms, the covers pulled under chins and the eagle scream outdoors a reminder that standing behind every terror is alone. And then the pace ends, slow as erosion, and the knees feel like crumbled sea cliffs and the ankles like washed away shorelines. Surging, burning, present churning, volcanic disdain and a past aflame, tearing skin reaching up, deep, waking, taking, staking a claim to the woe of making any deep love that lures from the agony of one foot after the other, of pushing ahead and choking down dreams. Let that smoke waft through gray sun from the ruins of hope, the progress of yesterday turned to the blitz of today; the dreams of tomorrow just sweet steps without pain.


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(at Two Step)

Not sure this happened. Not sure the wind in the trees rustled with answers to longing, or if that was the sound of clouds ripping apart under a sun that warmed too much, a sky that promised escape. And hearing it all was like milk on your lips, the contrast to now, stray white dribbling through the present into the past and the fury of lust left behind in a sour blossom. Each dream allays hope, positioning lovers in nocturnes adorning small spaces far from the real; that tepid present where they lay apart, where melancholia blooms like irises in the dark, opening, spreading black, lessening color but welcoming, beckoning. Such foolish desires for the blush of flesh and the stroke of hard blessing, it’s a sickness drifting on the breeze of autumn, raising skin to gooseflesh as if breath puffed through pursed lips, cooling after the sweat and pulse pounding, where bodies lay in a calm moment, cradling treasure and wishing it could all be etched in stone. Their lips split from the absense of each other through long seasons, unsure of their place anywhere but pressed against each other and those softening, thickening homes of radiant need flooding with demand. The spill of yearning, that brine of finest vintage, haunts every arc of a lonely daystar searching for a moon to cover her so that the world might stand in awe before shaded union and see in the rose of their ardor, those glasses tinted by both knowing and promise. Tomorrow will come, say the trees if you stop and listen. Tomorrow will prove it all.


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