I Am Santo

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

Calvin always argued to never think of today. He just kept looking forward, to not just tomorrow, but next month, next year, the next ten years. He planned and executed. He saved. Days were rungs of a ladder and the top was in constant view, his green eyes gleaming as he spoke about each step taken. For that was the beauty of Calvin. His thin blonde hair would stand awkwardly on end in even a light breeze, but his magnetism never faded because he didn’t promise, he just performed. He spoke of what was, but never of what will be as he was too busy making it all happen. Over and over. Achievement was a simple matter, like breathing to everyone else. And so when Cheryl died, the ladder collapsed, the view falling away into the sky as if gravity no longer held his world in place. Because she was his center, his sun, and he’d worked so busily and eagerly that he had no orbit, his plans losing all sense of what they’d been and what was next. Twenty-seven years of beach walks, dinners at sunset, loving during thunderstorms, smiles in the kitchen, the morning bed, the car. So many days of cautious eating, alcohol abstinence, and carefully monitored blood pressure. So much preparation, special accounts, life insurance policies, careful spending and deferred travel. People never realized Cheryl was Calvin’s engine; her welfare drove his accomplisments. He was supposed to go first, not her. It was always the plan.


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The dawn chorus shrilly beat back the blanket of sleep, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. Blades of morning sun sliced through birdsong, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. The humid air was queasy with vinegar woe, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. The rain threatened but never did come, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting.

What a crime these dreams of tattered lust preach, their gospel echoes in a desert keep. The arid morality of a fuck and moan, the bleeding heart stopped and turned to stone. Wherever did the old faith go? But down to Hell where sex burns slow.

The shallow hours couldn’t catch full blame, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. The salt of her skin still stinging this tongue, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. Deliverance from boredom without dollars pinched out, and ruby sat waiting, Ruby sat wanting. No money changing hands in covert accounts, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting.

Flesh kept wet in the thick night’s breath, always a wish for little tastes of death. The climbing urge to curl into one. The final act, the players now done. Sleep came quick despite the world’s turning and that convex sin that set the garden burning.

Summer guests sing high like cricket legs beating, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. Sipping the divine as hours blacked out time, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. Moonless kingdoms crumbling beneath dawn’s rage, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. A glass of wine and three hundreds left behind, proved ruby had waited. Ruby had wanted.


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The belief in you is salvation for a soul left crooked by worry and fault. The twenty hour wakings leave heavy stones on hearts beating with ever more labor that you – somehow and someway – avoid the haunt of misery. It’s not all sadness. There are smiles and laughter poking through the blanket of grim; poppies in a field of death, strange anomalies bubbling from the cursed soil of cracked lineage. May you grow tulips. May your ground be fertile and your hope a constant vernal welcome. The sun shines and you swim in its light with a glee that must live on. May joy be your rule. May where you came from be incidental and no cause for lessening hope. Run to the sun, little one. Devotion to your happiness is the work of your mother and father, but its your responsibility. The choice to live in Spring rather than in Winter is yours. The map you follow to the sun’s warmth is drawn from mistakes made by parents lost in a sea of their own reckonings, the ink of their failure still drying. Forgive them and let your sun thaw their frozen love.


#poem #poetry #writing #writer #poetic #creativewriting #igwriters #poetry_addicts #literary_imagery1 #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #sunshine #flare #lensflare #sun #son #child #running #joy #backlight #shadow #dusk (at Sun Child)

Draw the wind in as breath, filling the lungs of this broken land, feeding the underground with a chill that threatens to seize all life. It’ll just freeze – death is too merciful – and eyes become frozen puddles staring into the turbulent gray, trapped in a purgatory longing for warmth. Bring back budding youth, the curious play of clumsy advances and the quickened pulse accompanying first touch, first kisses, first satisfied sighs. Entwined in a summer of fertile gifts, borne of adoration and respect, the sun retreats suddenly, unexpectedly, a brachial shock emptying health. Stasis remains, along with the trace of better seasons, love that breathed. #tree #branches #winter #sky #storm #clouds #leaves #backlight (at Empty Breaths)

My fires burn the sky. They melt air, turning it to a confused tumult the color of an expiring sun. Tendrils of hope stretch for daydreams, but the chorus awakens with its homilies of a false prophet giving saccharine advice. “Heed your heart,” he claims in a sweet, reedy voice, thin as aged wallpaper in an abandoned farmhouse. “Know your desires and balance them!” There’s no scale upon which one can weigh affection! There’s no prescribed amount to cure a heart’s woe. There’s merely the flooded rage of dusk governing over your restless hustle; the beauty overseeing your clumsy failures. May it all burn in a gorgeous inferno, where our names float with cast of sparks into the cool of night, mixing with stars, #dusk #sunset #pond #reeds #backlit #backlight #fire #poem #poetry #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at Somewhere Else, Not Here)

Cup morning in fingers stretched to break skin. File days inside right angles, checked off, finite and clear in their expiry. Awaken with the ghosts of other lives clinging to the mind’s eye and shake them clear as dust from prominent shelves, brandished keepsakes maintained for the kind fetch of frivolous collectors, sycophants bathing in the blood of lunar musings. Oh how they wish to know the folds of each thought, overlapping with electric distress and crossing synaptic chasms with radiant pain imprinted on the retinas of those prying to look closer, reaching, craning, searching for calm in cataclysm. Shhhh, they’ll softly fall as flakes of cotton December snow, coating the branches of chaotic unreason with the insulating pour of their musings. Thick in the white, the black burns and escapes as night into the kill of evening, when days surrender to madness and the whirl of a cosmos dying, birthing, igniting, freezing conducts symphonies in silent madness. #poem #poetry #hand #silhouette #literary_imagery #backlight #blinds #morning #shadow #dark #writer #writing (at Cold Morning)

Shimmering and sun soaked, she jumped puddles like they were acid-filled, stinging hurt awaiting her errant footfalls. Umbrella tight in hand, the rain dribbled around her edges, staining pools of spent tears with ripples of impact. Light stung at the corners of her eyes, but she moved fast to avoid it all, undistracted by the reflected beauty of the wet brick surrounding her, the history gleaming brilliantly for her pause. Too many unchecked items on the list. Too many hairs pulled out of place by the damp air. Too many faces to catch her stopping, umbrella laid as a bowl, chin tilted up in welcome to the sunkissed wet as if she were the reward at the end of the rainbow. #irispad #day13 #sept13 #jump #rain #puddles #sun #sunshower #portsmouthnh #filmnoir #wetstreets #backlight #ally #poem #poetry #writer #writing (at Hurry)


Diving from the sun.
Piercing eyes,
a flare,
the shine of a stare
too long at hope
and warm acceptance.
Dance with the periphery,
live at the corners
with affordable prisms
that skitter as insects
under scrutiny,
fearful of capture.
Hold out hands,
flex fingers
and find gold play
and coal shade
drift with each turn
of the wrist.
The broken glimpse
cannot be clasped
in any hold
but that of the eyelid,
vision stealing angles
of phosphorescent greens,
lightning blues,
cordial oranges,
and the yellow core
of celestial pull;
a little piece of stardust
laying at the edge of your frame.

Squares watch with perfect order the chaotic play of sunlight’s shimmering end, sparkling denouement fluttering by wind that dares to throw shade before passage. Curled as one in blur, lessons play and their bond merges fondness and idealism, sanctity of quieter moments protected inside from the bluster of colorful flight. Still the distance swims around them, unnoticed but crawling through perfect lines, ninety-degree angles aligning in a world where symmetry silently attempts rule over beauty’s flooding banks. It will reach into all corners, consuming progress while abetting wonder. #irispad #day7 #sept7 #square #window #windowpane #blur #family #silhouette #backlight #trees #leaves #writer #writing #poem #poetry (at In Order)