Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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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.


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