“Memoirs Of An Alcoholic”

Sweating small things like a glass of ice tea in the middle of a southern July 

I favored myself sweetened in spirits 
A friendly ghost only I could see
I took to my pockets for a small bit of change 
I found nothing but the same thing
No new colors
No nuance of old happy 
In the forgetting, I remembered that one day we will inherit the soil like our last names 
I promised to squirm through bad storms to try to make myself a good seed 
I want to make myself fruitful lest no garden will grow fermented 
-Joshua Tool 03/01/17


“An Arthritic Arithmetic” 

What clamoring the sun made as it beat blue over the mountains. You were hardly a person in its blinding brilliance. Observing birds and car alarms from our one available ear. To feel your warm bare feet pushed against the tops of my own as we swam in the resonating religion of the work week’s persistent pull from sheets and into showers and shaved body parts. I pulled at your naval to see if you still smelled of sweet Florida oranges and embossed my natural baritone into your porous ripe flesh. Making ripples of songs to the beat of laughing children in the next room. A drum that beats for no one that has grown to see what drums are made of. What freeing notion to touch the mirror and have it touch back. To look down to see a shadow that has taken more body than before the sun beat blue over the mountains. What clamorous concepts of clones with free thought. What cantankerous curves a path found us in the dark. To find a drum beating in the next room. Of laughter. To find us bound; before sun beat blue over the mountains. 

-Joshua Tool 03/01/17