I Am Santo

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

Why beat? Why strum the soul wire and set time with chest drum, the bass of your footsteps approaching like a solemnly timed dirge that creaks floorboards like dusty ivory keys in an abandoned house, deserted by a family on the run, the way rotting organs flee the dirty bones of a ribcage. It’s the music of loss, singing sweetly in the morning hours that spill soft light over the one side of stirred bedsheets, the other pristine like a home awaiting arrival. That home. Voices caught in the dry plaster springing from wallpaper tears, echoing cries setting cadence to a flipbook story replayed day after day, the deftless duty and failure of earning, the deep longing for connection, the fear of missing out on bliss at corners unturned. It’s like song, searching for an ear but revealed to be tone deaf; such malice hiding in the tides of life, those unreasonable forces pushing and pulling the hands of the needy into fist and open palm and then fall, fall, falling from such grace, winds of passion swirling in like flashfire let loose in deeply inhaling lungs. Explosion or fizzle, there’s char left behind, the stubborn soot of together covering every faith, staining thoughts and riding lyrics that drift through day and then, at the sun’s molten sleep, haunt dreams of lost kisses and sweat-stung embrace. Those footsteps make the floors whine even as they soften with distance, on the turning away, a tune better left forgotten, but as insistent as that circadian rhythm reminding always that this is a melody unsung, but beaten into permanent memory.


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Look at them. Their fibrous wings of tissue-paper aclarity, gleeful acceptance of the wind’s whimsy and nature’s prankster ways; the fluttering of chaotic direction would sink us into vertiginous frenzy. But they coast on haphazard currents, kings of orange and gold webbed faith, black bodies bulbous but such reach into haven sky as if a God took all our misgivings and direction and sewed into into their tiger-stripe stretch our fear of the unknown. They dance after a lifetime of crawl. They take wing to arid climb and we stay grounded. Fly! Break the chains of our imprisonment and shatter the shoulds, silence the supposeds, have not the have-tos. Letting go isn’t death – it’s welcome! Like them, with the warmth of summer pulling them wherever it wants and their flight an askance series of rises and dives; are we no capable of weightlessness? No, we are not made for clouds or skimming blades of tall grass with our bellies. But we can dance, and our rhythms are not here but there, over someplace out of view and impossible to track with the eye, so stop trying to predict tomorrow and hug your heart’s thrumming reason for it’s the easiest faith to embrace. Almost like that breeze you feel stirring through your small hairs; inviting your instincts to tumble into trust.


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