current – I Am Santo

The break crash whim. The startle. Wind whistle fuckery and a turned cheek to another direction. Hailstorm loss, dented metal and titanium weakness. Bent soul, crooked and weighted, impatient, unfathomable, unwelcome. You’re singing in the breeze, excuses floating past now into yesterday, words finding no mooring like a dingy in a hurricane, gale-blasted and sinking, overcome, drawn down into a heart too weak to allow dreams to float. Sunk in resentment. Drowning in a lack of veracity and staring up into watercolor skies strewn above by the shaking wrist of tomorrow; the desire for your welcome. Hungry for the next flood, willing the pieces across the board with wine-spilled thought and a tickled tongue, such fancy pronouncements bid attention, longing. But as soon as sun cracks cloud, drought ensues, an arid fester, charcoal heart bursting into carcinogenic indecision and wavering conclusions, tissue paper caught in a maelstrom of indifference. You’ll follow through with kindness because soil craves your honor. But demands steal the sky, rob worth and any growth is looted dawns, larceny angering heavens; a weed tangled in a scream for freedom. Disallow that salivating cancer, build immunity and greet the pastel wisdom of invitation to bask in your fire-light. Brilliant fusion. Fist smash lust. Inebriant coercion and flushed chest heaving. Go because another word spill will uncover the relics of something long buried that belongs in the untouched shale of then, not now. Not ever.

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(at Don’t)

Published by Jason Santo on August 15, 2014 | Permalink

No more of this. The rush slows. The polished stones of lonely devoid of their stabbing edges, the flow of days pouring ever deepening calm. The roar hushes. Rivulets of expectation eddy and foam. Slower now – never still – but slower; gentler. There’s a song rising up from here. The words have new meaning, reaching as spray into a hungry sky folding at the corners, wrapping itself into the finite. Worlds collided, spun heavy misgivings, orbited cooling lust, dropped from hope’s firmament and sunk deep into the heart of land and sea. Nothing awaits. The craters formed, the skin drawn as tight as rapid age allows, the valleys of worry digging ever deeper into reflection. Pooling all of the refuse, the stream of hours purges kisses even as it robs openness. Closing off. Shutting heavy iron doors that used to threaten to choke meaning from solitary minutes, yet things pass still. Nothing blocks time’s passage, and so it flits about in waves, screens disallowing the tangle of limbs and yearning hearts, the metal of resolution locking fast bonds with self as need cools. Cascading with it is surrender, but a delicious freedom; shedding pebbles from a whole far more substantial than ever believed. The melody surrounds, the woodwind chime of sweet belief carried on summer air. Not now, it whispers on the breeze. Not now, not then and perhaps never, but be. Just be.

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Published by Jason Santo on July 15, 2014 | Permalink