Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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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)

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