I Am Santo

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

There is nothing unreasonable in love
And isn’t that what this is about?
That bubble of warmth
Like the swallow of spirits
Disarming the overcranked mind,
Lulling it like a babe at dusk
And opening the thick skin
Of jaded indifference
And such callous belief
That the heart,
Encrusted in the rigid carapace
Of longing
And resignation
Should crack its malignant shell
Despite whatever seeks to thicken
Such hardening hardship;
Those cursed miles,
The winding roads
And rage sworn hills
Between there and here,
Today and tomorrow,
Always and never.
Sweep such constructs away
Like butterflies on late summer wind
Caught in the fading gold of day
Fragile and beautiful
Demanding of sweet delicacy,
Kisses that taste of understanding;
Sweet but rich
Hinting at lusts strong enough
To crush bones and wisdom.
Let it.
Let the maddening sweep of bliss
Blind and crack
Like the rumbling caution
Of fear’s thunder
So late after the flash
Of hot white yearning.
Get struck
And live richer,
Stunned by the freedom
Of the shattered casket
The still contents of which
Once eulogized
Beats again.
There’s nothing stealing
The rhythm
Of this thrumming pulse
But the pickpocket deceptions
Of belief in limits.
Find faith
And watch wealth grow
Oh so reasonably
That it could even be
Taken for granted.

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Desert this. Pull the ripcord and let the Earth’s drag you down, out like a child from the womb, screaming new song in the catacombs of lost hopes, a lone cry for help among the selfish whores of Babylon who count their gold before the future comes, guiding hands that feed into incisors hellbent on the gnash, the grind, the bloody, ripped tendons of landing without air, like a brick dropped into the sea. Drown, you worthless wretch, and let these failures fill your lungs like seawater, salt stinging and seizing like a lover gripping sex too hard and burning raw tension, as if the sun threw flares and murdered progress. Without accounts or the killing of time, the climaxing fool is airborne, somewhere above, falling, flailing, tugging at useless tomorrows as if the chute itself were to bring mercy, a dear friend catching the onrush of air and hate billowing in the raging atmosphere of sin. Descend and let loose the horror plaguing each decision cached like a bond, the sense trickling and each note subject to matchstick avarice. Such charnel debt in the undone climbs of now. Such an unfavorable return, to waking hours, to the land below, to routine and responsibilities stacked high like coins next to a child’s broken piggy bank; sorted, precarious, leaning and daring one more to be placed on top before it all crashes down, the fall short, the value lost, each blessing taken for granted. And somewhere below or above, the cartwheeling sun teases with notions of beauty, fingers on chest dugging, thighs like vices, light and dark rhythms plummet, withdraw, and voices tense in transient ecstasies forgetting burning fates in the sweet loss of rationale. And then a final inhale before arrival, fierce and brutal. A welcome heart stop. An abandoned fate.


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