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.

A Song Played ‘Til the End

I am not a pop-up poet or a vintage typewriter guy, but I respect the skill of those who are. Last night I won a flash typewriter poetry competition on an old Royal typewriter from the 1920’s. The F stuck and the hard return hated me, but I managed alright enough. Here is the poem, written on site with the 25 minutes given and incorporating my randomly assigned phrase “Stand-up Bass.”


G clef love
a sin left between verse
with the redletter shout of lust
and absolutes etched like granite carvings
into yesterdays’ mountains
made from molehills
In these day to day dance routines
written in urgent blood;
pumped syncopation of our flagrant loss
and the ripening of hurt
with eacn note played by this trio of longing
where grief is the stand-up bass
and your disaffection spills
like fallen notes from a toy piano
discordant as sour orange
bitter in its incessant ringing.
But oh how his blowhard ways
set the air afire,
a brassy inferno
of troubled bliss,
torching melody at every touch.
Never forget those low moans of fevered yearning
They were the bellwether of this end
The chord pulled
Robbing our song of every electric drop
that once gave us power,
that once promised us tomorrow
that once played together
in faithful harm(ony).


I’ve left time even as it tries to eddy around me. I consider the tick of seconds, the rounding of hours and the rise and fall of the sun as a tide pulling away forever. Such linear confines, we instead discover ourselves swimming in a present stretching in every direction with our every interaction; pebbles dropped into the infinite wading pool of experience. The scent of your skin is more a guide to my understanding of where I am than crossed-off days on a calendar. The exquisite bending of your back from kisses to those most sensitive folds counts more than years of settled compromise. The lazy evening spills of our uncommon conversation fill more important volumes than history. The shackles of the clock fail to hold this connection, we act outside of its deliberate restraint and instead we envelope one another in spaces bigger than here; more encompassing that the infinitesimal binding of simple matter. For these matters of the heart steal science and expose it to greater forces than gravity or magnetism, dwarfing the largest celestial masses to sand grains and reducing devout masses to common recitation. God dies and lives again in our mutually unwavering gaze, the fabric of his grace leaking omnipotence upon which floats this certainty like a galleon lost on paradise seas where days mean nothing and the breeze of your sweet breath teases every inch of my greedy skin. Let it all fail around us, rules shattering like ransacked cathedrals. We’ll bask in the light of our union, finding warmth from our awakened faith in belonging; the limitless accretion of us that glows brighter than any star, burns longer than any light year.


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Make Them Cry Holy Tears

Heavens pale
As light-leaked frailties,
Coarse afterthoughts after sullen failures,
Sunsets lost behind cloudcover.
Let them.
Those dieties can fade
Into antiquity
With the hushed sweep
Of hot breath
Dancing on flushed skin.
This lust breeds wildfire synergy
An all-consuming swallow
Of flame over each alleged sin,
Betraying wholeness with need,
A craving that burns
From an alight core.
Damned, they’d say
Shaking heads as if it were a death sentence
But these are stolen glimpses into
Ecstatic eternities,
Quaking, exquisite blinks
Desired more than any gold,
Any promise,
Any reward.
In that moment
The flare of union
Opens hope,
Collapses dreams,
And as muscles lock
Into unreasonable clutching,
Thighs wet,
Fingers tangling hair,
Lips parted,
The posture of divinity
Cracks with eggshell fragility.
Easily attainable,
The whispers of Gods
Deservedly were shunned
By the breathless, frenzied cries
Of mere mortal bliss.
Sing those righteous prayers instead
To those that gnash
As the delicacies they are.
For there are no finer dishes
Than the ones fools claim are served
In Hell;
There are no finer skies
Than those clear enough
To watch an inferno


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Such vertiginous folly,
Were these paths 
How thick and knotted
They’d knuckle
With the failure of shuttered hopes
And wasted first kisses,
Thorns marking 
Every heartbreak,
Drawing beaded crimson
From pricked fingertips 
Seeking to heal and affirm
Such restless waking 
That fled beds at dawn,
Sherbet sun dripping 
Across seed and sweat-soiled sheets.
Let the blood brown
As a lacquer of pained memory
And the vibrant flower of self flourish
At the site of wounds inflicted.
That throbbing trust 
Cleaved, discarded, left to rot;
Every death dissolves into
A fresh return.
And the bud tentatively worships 
At the alters of new flesh
Opening slowly
Even as the scars of past blooms
Breadcrumb mottled histories
And expose the imperfect branches
Beneath our renewed flowering,
Petals grasping
For the dizzying heights
Of adoring light.


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These relic thoughts, swung loose in arid ground where a beating heart once strove, they’re unearthed by the gentle flutter of hope; dusted off through the soft kiss and attentive finger dance. And desert beliefs are awash in fresh rain, dawn’s dew clinging like lovers in morning, out of mourning, entangled in an oasis of promise after so many caustic miles traveled, beaten, tired. Such memories burdened as great stones, balanced precariously on straining shoulders and bent necks, eyes longing for something not a mirage, something real. Here it is. Glowing in the wet balance of newborn day, skin alight and flushed with desire, kindness urging growth and the broken mend, eyes straight, lips hungry for worship, the boulders of anguish dropped like yesterdays, weight banished. Such lightness here. Hands encircle and Spring awakens in the chest, verdant ventricles welcoming, budding dreams blossoming in realities; long forgotten faith washed clean and gleaming. download movie The Mummy now


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It died on the vine, murdered by its own thorns of inattentiveness and misunderstandings, frustrations borne of immeasurable hope turned rancid by routine. Such common failures. The rot seeped as Autumn’s chill, leeching life from each, beauty stultified and care suffocated, delirium spreading. Those caustic words uttered in scowling torment and then the retreat and sought finger knots, loosened permanently by hands atrophied into talons; how they cut, ripping at the precious viscera of union and spilling fetid love, the gored worship of shared dreams. Loss was in season and looking away only hastened the killing stroke. Before noticing the fall would disembowel, the petals of forever embrace shed and satisfaction wilted, commitments abandoned. We deadheaded admirably, guillotined hearts stunned so quickly into stillness that the echo of their beating can still be felt in memory. Bruises fade, but never stop hurting; purple and navy blooms surviving endless Winters. It’s amazing, the dexterous resilience of misery. Seeded in promise, it blossoms within bliss, a cancer devouring every cell of affection until all that’s left is the jail of memory. Life sentence passed, death surrounds and these thorns must dull. Look how sharp they’ve become

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