I Am Santo

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


Chin high, shoulders up
Wishes clarion in eyes
Carrying allure
Like beaded water that traces
Those fertile curves
And exacts the dendrite push,
The endocrine longing
Of instinct’s furious boil.
The sting of new day
Is the lament of yesterday,
Opportunities not taken
As her gaze lowers
And lioness confidence
Envelopes four-walled solitude
Of this starved prairie.
The claim of naïveté
Loosely buttoned-up willpower
Of fear, nervous wonder, awe.
And the wavering now
Thinly reaches between two
As the draw to become one
Gnashes a seductive grin
On the last chance to beg
For fallow hope.
One snap
And the complexion of fresh haste
Flushes with torrid crimson,
A tide swallowed by the moon
Of fierce attraction
And her irrefutable, lithe hunger
That turns this belly skyward
As if there never were opportunity
To escape unscathed.

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Heavens Dim

This love blooms
With galaxy center force
Shaming light-stealing lusts,
Rewriting time’s relativity.
The past writhes
Slick and parasitic
But with its nebulaic charms
Birthing shimmering futures
From dusty tendril grips
And oh how the firmament
Pales in its white-knuckle press
Leaking spent wishes between
Void clogged fingers.
Lofty simplicity summons suns,
Questions quasars,
Pronounces pulsars
In weak-kneed comparison
To the heated clutch of these heavenly bodies,
The undulating fission
Where sweat and greed
Sting tongues,
Where ardor’s salted urgency
Slickens, stirs, softens.
Just let that universe shade green
In rambling, cheap verse
Because behind all that black
Are these blue dreams
Purpling with every flinch,
Each quivering vision
Of the beyond
As heights seize, crack, open
And rest sweeps celestial reach
Beneath mingled eyelashes
Clichés are forgiven,
Pasts are revealed as stepping stones
Run smooth, eroded
By the torrential bliss
Of now
Reigning like sunlight.


This is not subtle fiction,
It’s true story headline din.
Weighted words on heavy heart beats.
Evil devoid the joy of sin.
Unwatched clocks spilling time,
This carotid squeal and rhyme,
Keeping wayward rhythm alive
In the chest, the cock, the thrive.
Are you serious right now
To go long with stretched promise?
Thinner than pulled cotton 
Unwinding this Doubting Thomas.
I break
Under the soul quake
Of yearning for warm wet
And curled bodies met
In sweat
Thrusted cares fret
Loose from smiles faked
And attentions raked
Like leaves in a pile to burn
Knocked down by Autumn’s chill
This season’s words echo solemnly 
A faith born of summer will.
Seconds murdering connection
This truth-hobbled affection
Passed into memory by lonely dusks
These bodies hollow as husks.
We wait like blank pages
For our story to be written
But time abides no lust or desire 
And against all odds we remain smitten
In pain
Trying not to feign
Gold hope spun from past hay
Holding night terrors at bay
Oh sweet, these thoughts stray,
As this dark seizes day,
As this season kills away,
And then silences its prey.


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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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These vowels, these long shapes passing through rounded lips and coughed in consonant wrapped shells fired from discordant thought, well, they have no target. They’re sprayed into the great above, rippling past cirrus intention and falling short of weightlessness, tumbling down with fury, a rain of shallow indignation and blustery but hollow fervor. Being unkind is the gift of snipers; syllables exacting and piercing eloquence obliterating targets with furious candor. They’ll put out the sun if they have a grand enough reward for stolen dusk, using a canon of perfectly defined treachery tailored for weak hearts, for those get eclipsed so easily by greed’s precision. Their desire isn’t bombast, but ballet. Where the unknowing loose a hurricane of invective into their own eye, the practiced entice with crystal clear skies, force the bloom of their quarry, then kill with unrelenting bright, the exacting heat of an untamed solar lexicon. The maelstrom gathers the lowliers, surfeit kindness like filthy bubbling silt at the edges of gutters, funneled into the sewer of discontent. How they just wanted to join the current. How they wanted to feel a lovely summer downpour on their cold skin, splendid platitudes that cracked the sky into florets of cauliflower wonder that later cancelled care sloppily with a thunderous groan. Here is where those sharpshooters knew better, for their slaughter is merciful, the calf in the lightless stall killed without any flavor of hope tempting it’s flaccid tongue, bellies grown ripe with vapid feed that sweetens the slain. Gathering clouds over a desert is cruelty. Learn to be a sun. Take and kill.


#poem #poetry #writing #writer #poetic #creativewriting #igwriters #poetry_addicts #literary_imagery1 #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #poetsofinstagram #writersofinstagram #story #sky #sun #summer #evening #clouds #cloudporn #storm (at Into the Sun)

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)

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 sun gives warning before it brings night, the ugly dark preceded by firelight bathing the last minutes of day in Hellstorm hues that mirror the flush of this rage. And so this black descends. How fucking tired, your type. How gracious that you’ve been offered comparison to fleeting moments of day. Even if nature’s palette spills this same masterpiece so often that specifics are easily forgotten, much the way you will be, you earned at least a line of dialogue in this motion picture; a walk-on role that’s far more than an anonymous ill-educated hack should be awarded. Maybe the whole film is a farce, and you’re the voice of an audience that’s suffered enough, a tiny ember of the fire that burned brighter than your paltry intellect seemed it could before succumbing to a cold end; stumbling onto a larger truth and barely coherent enough to fuel notice. It’s richly undeserved, your fleeting spark. And if you stand with others, may the mob incinerate quickly in the crematorium of your adolescent jealousy. And may your ashes be cast to the sea, you all forgotten but still the gesture of your dismissal a fleeting muscle memory, a waste of temper and words that leaves scars far deeper than any pathetic attempt at cutting your frail mind could muster. Such big words you use, little boy! How the heavy shackles of your own wretched decisions look so perfect on a monarch that cares nothing for your plight, but will admonish your disrespect with stern warning before lopping off your head. May this be a lesson to your common dimness; this dark will bury you alive. Don’t waste what little air you’ve left shouting blame. The sun isn’t returning for you.

#poetry #poet #writing #writer #creativewriting #literary_imagery1 #poetry_addicts #poem #sun #sunset #dusk #sky #clouds #storm #cloudporn #rage #anger #daysend #trees (at Ember)

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)