I Am Santo

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

You have all the chance loaded
Like Vegas dice
In a casino just off the strip
Filled with desperate souls
Stained with cigarette dreams
And the faith of felt tables.
Truth is,
The death of me
Is that woman
Writhing in language,
Swimming in metaphor
And gambling
With dangerous curves,
The rounded bend
Of ass, breast, thigh
Beckoning like the dinner bell
In a Laura Ingall’s Wilder tale
When dusk played gold,
Men were men
Children were children
And women held silent reign;
Respect paid for the work done.
And yet she works,
Carving the untenable into possibility
And diving headlong into the improbable.
Maybe that is crazy;
Maybe it’s standing too close
To a fire pit in a desert.
But truth will always arrive
Like flame at the end of sparked kindling
Oxygen game.
Friction set.
Conflagration match.
So let’s roll the dice
And see how long this burns
While we dance in the heat
Of our torrid wager.
Praying the story goes timeless
Instead of dissipating
Like smoke;
Words written in ash
Without fame or memory
To hold it in time,
To move this lust into love.

#poem #poetry #poetic #igwriters #instawriter #writersofig #poetsofig #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #creativewriting #fiction #flashfiction #writing #writer #story #shortstory #microfiction #poetrycommunity #igwriters #iamwriting #sunset #dusk #sunlight #flare #daysend #lake (at Chance)

“How long is it going to stand like that?” asked O’Mally as if Gabriel’s statue decided to stand beside the duck pond and wasn’t placed there by Ethan.

“As long as it needs to be,” Ethan said in a low voice, squinting against the afternoon sun’s glimmer off the water. “As long as it’s useful.”

O’Mally was quiet. The ducks were conversing somewhere out of site, snipping at each other curtly as an imitation of the argument the two men had before the statue. O’Mally started quacking again.

“Look, I’m just saying it’s not the only thing that ever happened here. It’s a tragedy and – ”

“And it is public land.” Ethan interrupted. “The vote decided this was what was going to happen, and here it is.”

“Some memorial,” O’Mally huffed. To make his point he spit brown from his tobacco swollen cheek.

“Sorry you don’t like it, Wayne,” Ethan offered.

“It’s not that I don’t…” O’Mally tried to be conciliatory, but the statue was eerie. And what it represented ruined what was a beautiful spot for the families of Avery. “I just wish it was a plaque or something.”

Ethan nodded. It wasn’t his best work, but the effect desired had been achieved. Denny Billings cast in dark bronze, his farmer cap tilted against the light of the sun; forever a child.

“A plaque wouldn’t keep people vigilant,” Ethan said.

“Scaring them and reminding them of a boy drowning is overkill,” O’Mally said again. “Living in fear ain’t living.”

“Tell that to the Billings family,” Ethan said as he turned and walked away. They’d chatted enough about this, and there was a check for $1200 he had to pick up at town hall for the commission.


#poem #poetry #writing #writer #poetic #creativewriting #igwriters #poetry_addicts #literary_imagery1 #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #poetsofinstagram #dialogue #writersofinstagram #story #shortstory #microfiction #fiction #flashfiction #sunlight #flare #statue #jamaicaplain #forresthills (at Warning)

Why bother drawing another breath? It’s only going to disappoint. These smooth pronouncements, oh how they make the legs quiver. Oh how they make the lust wet. And yet, stop. Keep the momentum in a downshift and bless the birthed dissatisfaction of hungry days. Because what’s right is right. Because the truth is a spit soliloquy echoing in the tinny foyer of this private Hell, convulsively alight in an unending, flickering blaze of soft dreams swallowed by an inferno of circumstance. Stare straight into the burn. Don’t flinch. Don’t fucking blink. Watch the wither, the curl into black after hopes ignited, illuminating briefly a path to bliss, then expiring unapologetically like the closes door after a lover says goodbye. Eyes straight. Forward always. The sear won’t hurt forever, because even suns lose their heat, their chaotic passions now only an echo in the still of black; light years of longing reduced to a pinpoint. To be that grand. But all that’s left are little words to carry this starshine need through bustling corridors of indifference. They float like dust motes caught in an afternoon’s amber afterthought, an attention paid like the drop of a penny after being handed change. “Keep breathing,” demands the body. But in the face of lust, the mind lets common cents skitter away underfoot, devalued by the periphery like a star unnoticed at night.
A couple weeks ago, I put out a random call for photo prompts and a bunch of people DM’d shots. Among them was this one by my friend Stephanie, also known as @ichbineincheeseburger. One of my very few real world friends that support what I do here, I was super thankful for her contribution which I edited a bit and then wrote to. Thank you Stephanie for sending this to me.

#poem #poetry #writing #writer #poetic #creativewriting #igwriters #poetry_addicts #literary_imagery1 #igpoets #igstories #mobileartistry #lovely #creativewriting #microfiction #sun #flare #sky #dusk #evening #bright #road #driving #windshield (at Ruin)

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)

At the edge of antiquity, the crumbling vacancy of hope is a mistake taken wind, a mast erected and gathering the warm southern breeze, spread with the fuel of sunlight. The mist rises and the balance of these limited fortunes diminish with each course navigated. Stay or go. Fight or flight. Worry or indifference. The world melts into dusk tones, and the torrential song of rushing to an ocean’s welcome through tight channels deafens. Got to make time and heed that call, bleeding from mountains tears of frigid seasons and expelling rocky nightmares that grind teeth in hollow hours spent holding onto false dreams. Nothing is real except the draw down into something greater where, buoyed on salt and naïveté, the limitless expanse of wet futures are divided equally by drowning and soaring. But her whimsy lists and footing remains even only enough to roll with the fierce motion of her demands. Staying afloat proves to be the goal of tomorrow, sad as that appears; the rapid descent from craggy births to the vast, unpredictable nature of the sea is what so many yearned for. Freedom to choose the path from a humble beginning and draw fractured land and rich soil into this racing grip. What frail ships we sail! Bring everything with you, enrich the terrain with the scars of your hubris and that level becomes a challenge to hold head above water. Such arrogance diminishes in the truth of final rest where tides rule. Wherever the journey began, regardless of accrual, balance sheets even. The depths consume regardless of merit or deficit.


#poem #poetry #writing #writer #poetic #creativewriting #igwriters #poetry_addicts #literary_imagery1 #igpoets #igpoems #spring #nature #waterfall #rapids #river #newengland #sun #lensflare #flare #checkmyshitjjabrams #woods #trees #spray #mist (at Falls)

Dance in the light, child. Know the gift of every color and spread your sweet vigor, enthusiastically melting hard cynicism with curious wonder. Dance with those rays as they flood rooms with winning fictions, your play and song. Midnight holds no sway over your smile, and darkness can find no purchase while your eyes shine. You’ll forever be our ferocious beacon of truth, the distillation of our brightest intention and most blinding hope. Lead us out of the black so we can know your thrill, your whimsy, and your cacophonous joy. Remind our nights of the beauty of day. #child #son #love #cute #light #flare #shine #sweet #play #smile #jtsanto #poem #poetry #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at Alight)

No. No, no, no, Goddamn it. Sink your teeth into this night and pull the sun from its brilliant murder of the horizon. Cancel the descent of night because she’s worth saving, worth the toss of a lifeline into the ocean of anonymity she threatens to drown you in. Are you so obviously average? The color of your soul so pale as to disappear under moonshine and one faint star’s light? Sing your song louder and paint your masterpiece with confident hands blasting canvas into convulsive treaties that find peace in cracked belief. Crane as industry across dusk, and find the strength to build, fight, fuck and keep each lowly sign that your are here to make a difference; that your name isn’t but a gravestone etching weather-beaten by uncaring skies. #dusk #sunset #moon #venus #portsmouthnh #newhampshire #night #flare #crane #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery (at Unsupported by Fainting Day)

Bled by light, chemical burns and crushed within fists shaking from violent rage, dark eyes penetrate. Cancers pervasive in the edges of this self portrait, growing, eating, fucking and clawing with eagerness to end the tinny clarion setting hairs on end, tearing kindness from saints. Glares and flares, deepened stares, the enemy of reason and a switchblade heart equipped for the surgery of hope. Extraction and filth, piracy and modern nuance, teeth stained with the blood of decadent nocturnes. Sleep and see his visit; arising from the depths of destruction, a castoff angel with seared wings seeking revenge on the people of the sun. His damage floats on the sea of dreams, flotsam in the flooded corridors of peace. #irispad #day23 #sept23 #selfportrait #edit #selfie #flare #polaroid #writing #poem #writer #streamofconsciousness #poetry #words (at Under the Carseat)

After the thrive, when promises dripped liked early morning dew, the decay set in; challenging hopes, chasing dreams with the sharpened teeth of reality. They fell, the shared home of their experience dropping away as the might of cacophonous days forced change. Never of heart, but of circumstance.

The wind is what sets this course, each gentle gust a new affirmation. Setting a Northern path, their sinewy forms dip down, scratch at the earth’s surface, and are carried back upward after a silent pause. There is no choice to be made here. There is only flight at the hands of feeling.

Their instinct was to reach for light, always. Veins swollen with reward for greater goods never understood, never believed so much as known, their triumph earned release, gravity’s pull tangling them together in an air dance to unwelcome land below. Nowhere to find root, they clung to shadows and with the help of nature’s breath slid together into new destiny.

When the seasons shift and they collide into spring, they are reborn as one. Perfectly green and moist with heady lust, their stems intersect and together they bear the weight of the first rain.

© jason santo & jennifer summer | 2013

Another collaboration with the immensely talented artist Jennifer Summer, this time it is her photo, my edit, with me writing the first paragraph and us alternating until she wraps it up with what I believe is genius.

@jennsummer #poem #poetry #autumn #writing #writer #autumn #fall #sunset #flare #jsjswriting (at Thrive & Fall)


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.