How phallic of me to challenge your false. How arrogant to question your mind. How crude to call you cowardly. How can one bear such arms. How can one desire more as to flood your fleeting with such passion and song. How?! How can I keep you in quiet. How can I cater to your catch. How does one taste without smell. How could I be so cantankerous. How could this be… so inspired? A single smear of paint on the wall. A simple stain from your ambiguous all. How can something this beautiful, be so abruptly sleeping as I question in calls.
Joshua Tool – 01/28/13
You snuck into the kitchen at 4:00am on a Tuesday morning. The ceiling fan was on that night. I remember because we couldn’t afford to run the air conditioner. I felt the bed shift its weight and I slightly rolled as gravity pulled me into the vacancy of your previous position. I was awakened by the squeaking of the old pantry doors folding crookedly onto their hinges and the quiet pull and pushed roll of the utensil drawer as you went for the can opener. I lay in the same spot I fell unto, ears perked like a hound. I cocked my head and just listened as I heard the same can opener grip and pierce its teeth in and crack the mouth of a tin can of pineapple. You continued, almost strategically quiet; slowly and circularly sawing its top open. Pushing and rounding back to the beginning of the original puncture, its horizontal edges became outweighed by the wake of pineapple juice submerging the dogtooth grooved sliver of tin beneath the dense cubes of this sugared golden fruit. As if a vertical bow to a Titanic-like scenario. A mid morning snack. I stared at the black ceiling as my eyes acclimated to the dark and I was eventually able to make out familiar possessions we had acquired from birthday gifts and thrift store raids. I swept and balled the satin sheets into my fists in the place your hips would lay. I listened to the soft slop of the can’s condensed consistency plop into a porcelain bowl. I continued to lay in your spot on the bed. Waiting for you to finish and come back. You gently left your bowl in the stainless steel sink with a soft shuttered echo. I lay still waiting for you to return. I heard more creaks in the hallway. I heard a fumble for the remote as the static of the fleece blanket rubbed against your skin. I saw blue under the crevasse of the bedroom door as more static of a late night infomercial snapped on. I heard everything. I suppose I should just go to sleep.
Joshua Tool – 01/24/13
Misanthropic air balloon tugboat
of a rabbit down a whole lot of mirrors that spell out fear backwardly of love.
A genuine 1950’s stereotype.
I am the bed sheets in the wash.
I am the itch under your waistband.
The notch in your belt.
I am the scotch that catches in your nose hair.
I am an island.
I am not a rock.
I am the drool on your pillow after a somber sleep.
I am the bloodshot red in your
don’t know how to touch
don’t know how to feel me.
A truant of
your mind seems occupied with colors and washing
machines controlling our children.
A fan of your senselessness is going to fuel
the summer air was so warm that it kept me in
a stance that you held as we stared under fireworks and funnel
caking on the present like you’d never known makeup.
I am lost in your foundation.
Joshua Tool – 01/18/13
Skimming the dusty silk pedals bound round your head and hair, I found myself petting your eyelids closed with the fine of my fingertips. Paying for sleep with ancestral coins. Needing in the grass and weeded nest we’d formed and weaved. Supple hands that craved and carved simple scratches into headstones of packed sand. Words without context. Meanings without definition. A bountiful bouquet of beached birch bounding bayside basketed beds brought by bird bathed waters. I made a mask of fire to wear when the sun forgot us. I made this mask in the shade. Burning brilliant, as a funeral pyre of will, smoking silent and staining still. A screaming and crackling light of love. The night was without rest in the splinters and ashes of dully painted rowboats as the sea collected our colors. I brought a flask of fire for when our lovers forgot how to talk. I found this flask under your leafy pillow. The initials embossed into its base were stolen. It was not of your name, nor taste. Moving deeper into dark, I rolled my pant legs to the knee and descended into the grid of soft polished sand and water that hummed beneath the black canvas of cackling cosmos. Now waist deep into the cold oceans grasp, I thrusted our bed into the vast static of waves. As I corrected the cast in the cantankerous current, I put on my mask and drank from your stolen flask. I whispered into the flames to spark a dream… Goodnight my love. Don’t forget to tip your bartender.
Joshua Tool- 01/11/13
You are the pretty kind of homeless. Cold raised bumps on your arms and that dirt film under your nails. A slight vacancy in your smile, with an artsy desperation in your blue sky eyes. We’ve got our trash bags stuffed with articles and quotes from books and hangers protruding the barriers of our cases . Readily an ease to leave anything behind on the train tracks. You made me a matching necklace out of wood tie shrapnel and wilted flowers. As the whistle and slow steady clanking and chugging of the trains wheels snapped and slapped the tracks. We fell closer. Close to a cheap plastic bottle of canadian whisky. We owned the night. We drank in the wind that followed us into the currents of freedom. Splintering our fingers and wrists trying to maintain balance we stared at the open cars wisps of dark tracers and southern lavender. We fucked in a freight. We followed up in a frosty morning frame of forested fate. You left me in chicago.You left me in a crate. I met my brothers in a gas station bathroom. My worlds never been the same.
Joshua Tool – 01/04/13
I always find myself in the dead of night. In the whisper of solitude. A creaking of steps. A clunking of boots on the linoleum. A scraping and squealing of chairs on the hard wood. A hard head that rests heavy. On the shoulder of the love seat. The backbone of the bed. I always find myself in silence. In your scent. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. I stare at my hands in the blood stained sink. A bruised ego. A torn sleeve. Screaming as I wake. I always eat my words. I always eat my words. I always stare at the process of your hands. I always smile at the grimace of your stance. I always eat my words. I always spit in signals. I always wake in sweat. I always scream at your silence. I will never hurt you. I will never eat your words. I’ve always been a lark. The swelling of a tree. A tire swing. I always bite my tongue. I’ve always left too late. I always keep you close. I always chew the tips of my fingernails. Biting bits of skin. I always knew. I always eat my words. I always knew I loved you. I always eat my words.
Joshua Tool – 12/30/12
Not paste, nor paint, nor poem could still or frame even the faint of your presence. An erratic mellow. A soft eager on the ladder of your neck and winged bones above your breasts. The hallow of drums echo less than your riddled tongue and curved words. It is in the deep of your irises. In the stare of your polished pupils. A constant. A consistence in your flight of thought. An unfiltered delicate in your pearled teeth and kept nails. You can never be touched or tamed or named by the words of men or the quills of my pen. These are simply attempts. Attempts to push your presence into paper. To paint you into a paused palette. Writing a map to the place you are still but without frames. An exposition in every etch. An erratic mellow as I sketch. A piece of time. A perfect rest. A symphony inside my chest. Be still my beating heart.
Joshua Tool – 12/22/2012
There’s a sex in your sandy steps. A truth between your teeth. A pause in your colloquial conquer. A sputter in your leash. A greater lipped ambivalence. A love that digs too deep. An absolute in your toes that yawn. A perfect obsolete. Touch my ear, my lungs and keep me in repeat. Stay with me in folly and fortune. I’ll love you most complete. Wake like tides and frequent hearts, the day I shan’t retreat.
Joshua Tool – 12/17/2012
Digging my heels into the packed dirt and bowing my legs and feet to fit the eroded canoe shaped path, I spread my arms to maintain balance. Hiking to my secret mountain. You follow closely behind in my tan corduroy jacket that’s sleeves exceed past the tops of your hands to your softly curved knuckles. The cacti and sandstone begin to form as walls the higher we exhaustedly push further into the vertical footpaths. The still of winters sun soaked afternoon grows into a shadowy forceful wind atop the boulders round peaks. I glance back every few steps to make sure you don’t lose footing. As I bend my ears to hear you sweet and softly speak an array of winded soliloquies. The breeze growing and rushing louder past my ears. We finally make our way to the top of this sacred spot and carve our slanted seats into the gravel. Taking comfort behind the main of the rock’s peaks. After catching my smoky breath I exhale and offer you a beer. You accept, though hesitantly nurse it for our entire conversation. This would become the conversation that changed everything. The cityscape now starting to spring to light as the sun says hello to other mornings. Now on my second beer I stare into the horizon and back to the loose gravel we cautiously push our hands and feet into as a pseudo relaxed sitting stance. The discomfort of my muscles became out weighed by the serenading sound of your voice and contrasted scenery. Though it not the words I want to hear. It still remained musical. Making a mutual agreement that I quickly realized I could not keep my end. As the dark flooded through the trees and red clouds we finished up with our words and beers. We began our decent, surfing down the pebble filled paths. I again checked on you every few steps. You slipped and slid for a few steps and I offered my arms to gain composure. The closest I’d come to holding your hand thus far. A simple chivalrous graze of fingertips and wrists and I knew I couldn’t fight the feelings that had been building like my secret mountain. Moving through and under shrubbery we finally end at the flat of land. Only A few moments left in this story to grasp. I begrudgingly forced my feet to follow the faint of grass that lead to the car. I wanted to keep you in this moment. I wanted to kiss you in this moment. We eventually made it to the road and into the car. The drive was dark and filled with more music. I will never forget this evening. You will forever be a part of my secret mountain. You will forever be a place in my heart. You will forever be.
Joshua Tool – 12/12/12
A fevered wild poise races through your blood into the tips of your lips and fingers
Pulsing to tops of cheeks and shaky teeth
I grab hold to try and steady my hands and heart
Heart murmurs becoming the beat to this dance on a wire
Sitting in the dark with your skin pulling in the moon
The car acts as an iron lung, if to step out, my breathing would end
Placing words into the tops of your fists
A party favor from the cocoon in which we spin
A fevered wild boy racing you through the tips of my tongue and thoughts
Pulling at the moon to illuminate your eyes
To shed light in this darkening space between palms growing dimmer with each breath
One door has to open for another to close
Just hope mine isn’t locked from the inside
Joshua Tool – 12/08/12