I Am Santo

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


Crack the afterlife and boil massive sin, because this cook spins nebulaic dust into Godsong and crafts the delicacy of galactic fervor into digestible yearning. Fill up on it, because nothing lasts, the searing nuclear core of suns measuring nothing more than seconds, molecules dissipating like ticks on an old wristwatch; the tocks lost like laundry socks. Yet it all feels heavier than worship, more daunting than judgement. For something so mighty and transient, this recipe for incessant defeat still manages to rise every time, the bread of the true lord chased down with the wine of hate. What a pairing, like hours to moon phases and sugars to death; the felt sky’s ripples into eternity dilute nothing. Space is not as cold as this concave heart that’s slowing each day to a forever still. May it be dined upon in a blink of an eye, prepared for no one and open to greedy consumption; an egg hardened with a soft shell and cracked by stuttering destinies.


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If it’s said aloud enough, then maybe it’ll be true. Love you. Love you more. Love you most. The repeated assertion that you’re the sun around which orbit is necessity for being. The light of you breeds possibility, even in this world of reigning confusion, where clouds billow tall in once perfect skies and shed tears of regret to feed the bloom of wisdom; oh it’s pain. It’s the latest tattoo on thinnest skin stretched taut across bone. A foot, a rib, a shoulder blade. It’s the trial of being marked by permanent commitment. And you are the dried ink justice of these most cherished successes. Or are you? Is it you that sits at the front of each choice as is told in the countless fables before night swallows this busy mind? If that were truth, then would each day be entropic origami folded into itself? Would lust swim so deep in these choked veins, threatening to burst with yearning for more, better, different? No one is a moonlit night in the middle of summer over the still waters of a quiet lake. No one is that freedom to plummet, swim, stroke, hold, and breathe in naked surety. And maybe nightswimmer love is impossible, yet each decision played gambles the ever increasing ante of your future. It has to stop. The selflessness hinting at corners and plaintive claims require action, as this fumbling is Coptic spoken to the deaf ears of now. No one is listening but this cracking heart and your young one which looks this way and to the sun for guidance. May each guide you to new discovery safely. May each dispell the long shadows of a failing self.


#poem #poetry #writing #writer #poetic #creativewriting #igwriters #poetry_addicts #literary_imagery1 #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #dusk #woods #forest #sundown #sunset #trees #plants #daysend #sun #solar #sunflare #nature #child #youth #discovery #silhouette (at Discoverer)

We shared the close breath, both in the quiet solace of release and the noisy satisfaction of killing hunger. Drinking the courage. Letting our atoms spill in every direction and flailing with wild hearts; there was little to be said in the darkness afterward. Tears glimmer and streak, surmounting Sisyphean hills of cheeks rounded by son smiles. Alone is cruelty and the prison warden is this failure to see through routine, to adhere to the course of greater things. The sun makes a promise and keeps it. The man stumbles at each word, no confidence exuded and no sense of duty maintained. No matter how much truth words appear to hold, the hollow echo of their utterance carries more weight than any alluded sentiment. They are as thick as wind, pliant as rainwater and a disease worth inoculating against; a breeze of uncontainable virus sought, dissected, blamed, fought. A bit of air puffed in the face of ardor. A bit of science slighting the horizon, like dusk in the gray. Crack open consonants and each is a yolkless egg chanceless at birthing anything but the space lying between angry neurons, a symphony of rage given tempo by a lazy conductor who waves his arms like that grizzled tree standing long in the day, shadows carrying more weight than any declaration. Fool heart, how you give. Awaiting to receive. More than seed, but in a vacuum devoid of truth’s sun or water. Wretched destinies unfold. All due to the rusted stain of what’s said and what’s meant, the delicate imbalance of candied candor made sweet with sugarcoating, yet lingeringly bitter with coy deception. So it happened. So it’s ash. Sweep up the print and tidy away memory because it fails every time with applied meaning where meaning was absent; where the clutch and fuck were only that and the rhythm behind the chest was a wind up toy’s synthetic patter, graceless and predictable, but never reliable.


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(at Wound)