I Am Santo

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

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.


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