I Am Santo

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

They’re saying “thank you.” You might not be able to hear them, but their voices are low, some stuck in the swallow of tears, some interrupted by the kindness of laughter you gifted them; maintaining your memory like stained glass in a grand cathedral of their memory. Cherished. Adored. Caught in the sun. Spilling color across their internal bodies, their unseen aspects, which lay curled as if in the womb and beg to stretch and accept, with only joy able to flood their clutching limbs into release. You opened them. The mania of your energy, the high mountain climb of your feverish staccato, the relentlessness of your wit that fell onto the willing like starlight does on the night of a new moon. The churning pull of their bellies when a frown creased your face as if it were a mask cast from the purest care; it didn’t matter what you wanted them to feel, they felt it. They looked up at you and your divinity was apparent, your flight above them an Icarus trip to the sun shrouding each upturned face with the gentle ash of your undoing. They will not wash, but will let the film of your gift sit upon their faces so that they might – at cold times of weariness – shake with laughter, or so they can – when the sky is warm with love – remember thankfulness with a heart-sprung tear. To say you’ll be missed, kind bird, is a whisper in a canyon, at once understatement and an expression that reverberates not by loudness, but by volume as it careens off equally touched souls whispering their own eulogies. May there be a way for you still to hear them in your rest, and may their soft assurances, praise and thanks help bring you peace.


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Maybe he’s dead. That explains the inaction, the indecision; the inability to agree but instead lay in cold silence and stare long into the dark as tears collect in a pool around his rigor. Beautifully corrupt, like rot creeping into mid-summer blooms, he’s unkind wind promising storms for thirsty hearts and instead bringing razor sands frenetically whipped into stabbing chaos by breathing – so shallow – grass springing around his rock-weighted arms like their hopes, but never growing in him, never creasing his alleged will. That monolithic stillness a vaccuum of courage, the black of color death draws long sighs, quaking thighs, worried eyes and whispered lies. Anything falls from their lips to stir him, ink dripping onto the squalid parchment of his skin under their wet caress, his epidermis now torn pages of a history better forgotten but poured over and over, like gospel, the devout clinging to hopes that the airless caverns of his lungs will expand again, bending ribs outward in great welcoming heaves that flood him with oxygen and bring the moon back to his eyes. Yet still there’s rust, the caustic quiet of his indelicate cowardice ripping apart the vast mechanisms of love, spilling springs and hopes, cogs and dreams like some fragmented clock that tried to keep time to his nature then shattered under the entropy of his desires, whatever those were. He never knew, the seconds, minutes and hours dutifully dropping from today to yesterday as chipped micah gleaming against soul light in it’s descent from top to bottom – hourglass spill – and isn’t that precious? Isn’t that decadence and wonder? His reluctance is a hungry pull of their attention and they cry, assaulted by the gravity of his expiration, their hands cupped and hoping to hold his adoration as he slips through their fingers, silent and unforgiving.


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(at Finished)