“Ambulance/Water Floaties” 

I hear sirens scream past my street about 5 times a day…

I am always worried they are coming for me.

Because I have stolen too many breaths from favorite poets and too many hearts in my memories.
I sit and write

And cough 

These cancer sticks have replaced where I used to breathe on your neck and ears. 
You’re now a soundtrack to my biggest fears.
Like listening to someone talk underwater.
“I’m not waving, I’m drowning” – P.O.S. 
I wade in sweat and sips of what was once your perfect scent. 

Or at least what I believed was you. 
I’m still treading, waiting for someone or something to pull me from the depths. 
I hope they jump in soon because I am gasping and as a smoker I don’t have the endurance to tread as long as I used to.
I hear sirens again.
I think this time they are coming for me. 
-Joshua Tool 07/23/17

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No Oasis For Old Orchids

Our relationship was like the orchids I forgot to water for months.

So beautiful and full of color and life and potential for growth in the beginning; but I forgot to water you.

And like my orchids the sun took you away.

Burnt up and burnt out.

I stayed inside for weeks at a time after that.

Watering my liver down with an endless stream of alcohol, while I talked with my shadow about how badly it wished to be cast at my feet in the sun once more.

To run through the sprinklers and shower storms.

I finally made it outside again, but I sit in the shade.

I sit and smoke

and tremble.

I am not a religious man but for some reason I found myself in a prayer position.

My hands pressed flatly together against my lips, pointed towards the sky, dissecting my face in a vertical fashion.

My thumbs pushing into my lymph nodes.

Staring at the garden as I ponder if this was a taught position or instinct.

Somehow it felt right.

Like biting your nails before a job interview, or pacing in the waiting room of a hospital.

I play in the dirt in hopes to dig up some pieces of me that got burnt up in our drought.

I shook.

My DTs were acting up again.

Better get something to water them down.

I pushed my lips to the soft tops of my knuckles on my now balled fists.

Like at least I won’t let go of me. But I would.

I then pulled my head back and separated my fused fingers.

Even I let go of me.

 

We grew & loved within a carnal connection;

until the weather changed for the worse and withered.

My heart. My art. My blind and trusting romanticism.

Everything I worked for

 

I was doing alright before I met you,

and now even I let go of me.

“Brackish;”

To be clear and unclear at the same time 

I created you in my basement. 
I made your hair out of recycled violin strings. 
I made you breathe with what is left of my screams. 
I made your hands out of old wooden things… 
I found them on the street.
I made your face. Your identity; with broken shards of glass from a mirror I broke when I was 17. 
I made your eyes out of marbles that looked like the oceans southern beach in a hurricane. 
I made your tongue out of the words that I drooled on my pillow whilst sleeping in a dream. 
I made out with you. 
I made you.
I made you up. 
-Joshua Tool 07/07/17