I Am Santo

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

I’ve left time even as it tries to eddy around me. I consider the tick of seconds, the rounding of hours and the rise and fall of the sun as a tide pulling away forever. Such linear confines, we instead discover ourselves swimming in a present stretching in every direction with our every interaction; pebbles dropped into the infinite wading pool of experience. The scent of your skin is more a guide to my understanding of where I am than crossed-off days on a calendar. The exquisite bending of your back from kisses to those most sensitive folds counts more than years of settled compromise. The lazy evening spills of our uncommon conversation fill more important volumes than history. The shackles of the clock fail to hold this connection, we act outside of its deliberate restraint and instead we envelope one another in spaces bigger than here; more encompassing that the infinitesimal binding of simple matter. For these matters of the heart steal science and expose it to greater forces than gravity or magnetism, dwarfing the largest celestial masses to sand grains and reducing devout masses to common recitation. God dies and lives again in our mutually unwavering gaze, the fabric of his grace leaking omnipotence upon which floats this certainty like a galleon lost on paradise seas where days mean nothing and the breeze of your sweet breath teases every inch of my greedy skin. Let it all fail around us, rules shattering like ransacked cathedrals. We’ll bask in the light of our union, finding warmth from our awakened faith in belonging; the limitless accretion of us that glows brighter than any star, burns longer than any light year.


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Make Them Cry Holy Tears

Heavens pale
As light-leaked frailties,
Coarse afterthoughts after sullen failures,
Sunsets lost behind cloudcover.
Let them.
Those dieties can fade
Into antiquity
With the hushed sweep
Of hot breath
Dancing on flushed skin.
This lust breeds wildfire synergy
An all-consuming swallow
Of flame over each alleged sin,
Betraying wholeness with need,
A craving that burns
From an alight core.
Damned, they’d say
Shaking heads as if it were a death sentence
But these are stolen glimpses into
Ecstatic eternities,
Quaking, exquisite blinks
Desired more than any gold,
Any promise,
Any reward.
In that moment
The flare of union
Opens hope,
Collapses dreams,
And as muscles lock
Into unreasonable clutching,
Thighs wet,
Fingers tangling hair,
Lips parted,
The posture of divinity
Cracks with eggshell fragility.
Easily attainable,
The whispers of Gods
Deservedly were shunned
By the breathless, frenzied cries
Of mere mortal bliss.
Sing those righteous prayers instead
To those that gnash
As the delicacies they are.
For there are no finer dishes
Than the ones fools claim are served
In Hell;
There are no finer skies
Than those clear enough
To watch an inferno