I Am Santo

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

A SEASON’S KILL

This is not subtle fiction,
It’s true story headline din.
Weighted words on heavy heart beats.
Evil devoid the joy of sin.
Unwatched clocks spilling time,
This carotid squeal and rhyme,
Keeping wayward rhythm alive
In the chest, the cock, the thrive.
Are you serious right now
To go long with stretched promise?
Thinner than pulled cotton 
Unwinding this Doubting Thomas.
I break
Under the soul quake
Of yearning for warm wet
And curled bodies met
In sweat
Thrusted cares fret
Loose from smiles faked
And attentions raked
Like leaves in a pile to burn
Knocked down by Autumn’s chill
This season’s words echo solemnly 
A faith born of summer will.
Seconds murdering connection
This truth-hobbled affection
Passed into memory by lonely dusks
These bodies hollow as husks.
We wait like blank pages
For our story to be written
But time abides no lust or desire 
And against all odds we remain smitten
In pain
Trying not to feign
Gold hope spun from past hay
Holding night terrors at bay
Oh sweet, these thoughts stray,
As this dark seizes day,
As this season kills away,
And then silences its prey.

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A million fall. Swept up in moments too grand for their tenuous grip on where they’d grown, they catch gusts of passion, take flight, and inevitably tumble. Lost roots, lost security and familiarity, their descent plays against myriad others littering days with the brilliance of chance. Risk is the open heart’s bedfellow, the unregulated beating of longing in chests swelled nearly to cracking by temptation to find better ways, happier homes. Then it’s wind and chaos, the shred of normal and the fire of lust, hope on the wind despite evidence on all sides of a Season’s toll. The fall promises much, then steals everything, leaving a landscape of decay and the memory of fleeting bliss. #autumn #fall #creek #leaves #foliage #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at After the Fall)

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Every moment now is art. Passively letting days slip away unnoticed in the haze of disappointment and anger is yesterday’s sin. Now the world bleeds onto my canvas by the hour. And I soak it in because the knife spreading its wound wider is this pain, the intense ripping away of of my fingers from the cliff ledge. I murdered this life – no misunderstanding how this dirt collected under my nails – how my knuckles strain under the weight of my struggle, aching to the point where they’ll break before I let go. Tumbling into the unknown an inevitability, I’m preparing myself not only for death, but for the gorgeous flood days will spew on my way down. #nature #trees #fall #autumn #clouds #sky #day #bluesky #foliage #poem #poetry #writer #writing (at Final Fall)

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I’m flight. I’m leaves torn by the season’s gale, strewn on the asphalt of your path, your dream. Wasn’t it such a betrayal, the rapid dissolution of cozy afternoons into the flee for company, the mothering of your troops. You always knew the war was coming. It was divined in the passive way you looked to the sun, away from the glorious luminance that constantly endeavored to make you glow, yet failed time and again. Was it so strange that a new world would see value in what you’d taken for granted? An autumn punished by your winter of frozen touch. Enough! Let it all freeze under your hand and die. Death by both of us, the fire of my will and the chill of your indifference. And so a world will be born anew, with the combatants unleashed from their separate corners, an eternal fall stripping the world of life in gorgeous splendor. But what an extravagant end we’ll bring, filled with all the gentle catastrophe onlookers love to behold, our yellows and oranges the fire of unsettled differences; the debris of final judgement. #autumn #fall #newengland #street #leaves #foliage #tree #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at Battle Cries)

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My spirit exposed, a pin-hole camera recording the subtle striations left in mid morning’s wake. Rays of beauty too slight for periphery sorrow, only unflinching hard attention – rebuked affection and a dilated heart. Can you see it? The smallest hint we’re at play in a miracle? Does it matter when you’re off in pursuit of the freshest scent of righteous ownership, the dogged quest to be beautiful and perfect. You want to outshine the sun, steal glory from the center of us all and have a legion bask in your glow. My concrete eyes stare right through such posturing and I love long into futures absent you, my decadent dusk and desolate dawn. #sun #sunlight #sunrays #clouds #sky #autumn #fall #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at Midday)

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Bent brick, rail thin, rationalized structure in a convex eye. Sinking fast with uproarious tragedies, the kind that allow laughter as echoing ghosts down close wet alleys. Shapes here and there, fleeting in the bounced orange leak of city light rolling overhead; they’re the spirit of our best days lamenting the present with curses. Damn you! Fight or crumble! But just sitting ill-placed on the edge of a stoop, as if forgotten by time and season – left to rot. Then what? Pain? Retribution? Happenstance crucifixions at the gateways of forgiveness, arms barring any approach. Your edifice isn’t anywhere near as weak as these great walls holding up the lives of delicate strangers. No, it’s powerful, unyielding, and it will kill every last fucking child of good milked from what was; pronouncing the past a sham and dictating futures of cold reality. The wrecking ball was action, yet your silence left more rubble in its wake. #portsmouthnh #brick #pumpkin #autumn #fall #alley #city #newengland #door #doorway #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at On the Outside)

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Hang on. There will be harsh wind and cruel rain. Hang on because letting go will fade us like sun-stained newsprint, our story lost. Cling to me. Show nature your tenacity and weather each graceless intrusion, a sky crowded by the rolling cotton of mistakes, of misunderstanding’s webs clotting all progress, trapping joy in thunderclaps. Surrendering or enduring, falling or holding fast to the familiar, the safe. It’s so much easier to open your fist and let the wind take you, but the pain of separation won’t end. It will always be a death forced on you by inevitable change; a season never expected but impossible to avoid. #leaves #autumn #fall #tree #sunlight #sun #sky #bluesky #deadleaves #foliage #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at Held)

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Crisp, grey November. Flatter senses with the death of seasons, seducing with the tightened chill of truncated days. We bundle warm intentions, shoulders bunched and necks made stiff behind scarves of red, orange, brown and black. Candy love promises and chocolate prayers blessed under pumpkin candlelight, absent in the fattening of our need for comfort. This thirty can kill you, each one a frozen knife twist deeper through each layer, you’ll bleed beauty into the monochrome swallow. Each sunset carrying icicle hurt, stinging against the valance of indifferent facades, stabbing until it melts through a heart unchanged by time’s lack of forgiveness. A thousand more leaves fallen, each a regret choking gutters of hope, covering over every promise with the sloppy decay of inevitability. So she’ll march through. So she’ll murder every single moment in the deceptive still. #november #fall #autumn #newmarketnh #leaves #foliage #gray #sky #pond #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at Fallen)

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The cold drove you away; the reality of winter hiding the sun’s gifts, robbing the day of sweeter scents and bare skin. Huddled for a season, for a lifetime, we’ll dream of longer days where words drifted languidly on humid air caressing our egos, our sex, our sense of right and wrong. And we’ll sip to remind our bodies of heat; a practiced game of making loss sting less than the bitter wind cracking our brittle hearts. #cafe #portsmouthnh #breaknewgrounds #fall #autumn #empty #winteriscoming #poem #poetry #writer #writing (at Hidden Chills)

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My path is littered with death. Husks of once vital, thriving splendor congregate at the alter of my footfalls, worshipping nothing, granting only the sound of cracked bones underfoot. I won’t walk, not a step further, surveying the victims of my purgatory. I’ll stay and weather a Winter’s wrath to see life renewed, or I will fall among the rest and wait to be crushed. #fall #autumn #leaves #sun #sky #trees #seasons #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery #literary_originals (at Arrested)

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