“Name the lion, Tame the shrew”


“The Archeologist”

My professor, tannin spat

Walked with braided legs

Skin of gin, skeleton pretzel soft

Parched in herringbone tweed

House on cinder blocks,


Dredged from the lake, his office and bed

Paisley socks, pocket protector

For too many words to remember

Blanched beads shift where eyes should be,

a glaucous pantomime

poised now only in parchment


My mentor, of houndstooth heroism

Buckled under water pressure

My glass sings tap water song

Pitching higher as filled until mute


A life in thistles to change young minds

Weeded and greener still

A give in his sides and chin

Sockets now sag, black and thin


Was it cancer or candor of cantankerous kin

I wish to fix my fathers skin

My teacher, slouched austerely, lamenting new learners


In the front row, with rabid spume, I stare

to read his whispered lips

To grant his grimace one last doughy brain to deep fry


An unhinged academic

Now shriveled and sedated

A dapper raisin, a mustached denizen of mildewed page


He tread through thought,

threaded thimble-less at the wharf of wet minds

A drop of blood fell, pinpricked by piers

To paint his brow upright in red


My professor, chemo spat

An archaeologist in his own right

Of wool and leather

Lain silk spun in oak and ember


To pass, baton of Baltimore

Torch of temperament

Through black sagged sacks

He lives in light, in leu of loss


My glass sings salt songs

Pitching lower as swinging chariots

Though not pious in flight

The wind prods the haymaker,

And I,

a secular scorch

in his knotted pine pipe

The big sleep, and dream, goodnight

-Joshua Tool 05/29/18

“A Pound Of Flesh”

“Pocket Watched”

“Troubadour “

Monochromatic morals

Preambling pious plight

Oysters sheen and coral

Our worlds not black & white


Ambiguous by moniker

Rebuke such tasteless trite

Love is simply conqueror

Resplendent through the night


Colors of the troubadour

Sing songs of endless might

The beauty in the boudoir

Ineffable sound and sight


Clandestine to the churchy folk

A universal light

For I am the troubadour

My worlds not black, it’s bright

-Joshua Tool 05/16/18

“To The Top Of The Turret Shell”

Manically myopic I have found myself in black opal

In the glean of your gaze

A constellation of cygnets danced in the mood of onyx

A salsa on the sand

One thousand miles and counting

In our amorous abode of the rising sun

I picked the carrion pith from my teeth

A chagrin in my carry

But not need for the sullen, the heart bleeds and pumps

A lurid language of lust and persnickety restlessness

My moon, your moon, theirs as well

Careening our carnal deeds, the current pulled in

I hung my hat and flag

You lay with moxie, me and him

Compelled in our quandary to find the centaur in the sky

Flaming arrows to light the streets

1,000 miles and counting

To drive or retreat

-Joshua Tool 05/15/18


Loitering the weekly chess match

A park and a landfill betwixt

Chrysalis complimented flight the insects coaxed the breeze into kaleidoscope melodies, like frogs in bogs

My moor of peaty wanderlust with a lowbrow stagnancy of wasted earth catty-corner my serene solace land

My famished furver found facet of a dream

We are left here without boxes

Without circles

Though we are birthed ear-marked for an inexorably nostalgic future

To be remembered only by our online presence and digital love

Lamenting for simpler times

Stead the over-saturated air waves

A trite & tousled trap

Hexed in bewildering and tenuous thought

The malleable make good cities as the myriad of martyrs build better jails

A forced hand in the farce of society

Inured ingrates mocked the sun

The icebergs

The flood

The round earth as it spins on its axis

No poker face bled your physiognomy

A lier to himself

It was time to chose a forfeit or slow passing


And the clouds did shed their acid tongues


-Joshua Tool 05/12/18

“Nocuous By Nature”

Cryptic flowers;

Chartreuse , Lavender, Cerulean, Blush

Bloom & pilfer the sun

Boasting proud necks and handsome colours

Black permeates the eclipsing clouds

They march closer in timpani rolls

as flash-bangs light their way

A late afternoon without sun or moon

Forlorn in the ether

Such affluent clusters of corrupted colour

A conduit to qualm

I strung my nihilism into a daisy chain

I drove my feet through the rhododendrons until morose became moot

I cyphered your colour wheel

The nascent of my afterthoughts

A beginning to and end

-Joshua Tool 05/11/18

“I Don’t Clean Myself For Me”

My face, blanched and cut with rose

Niacin flush, naive as prose

Chattered teeth bequeathing cold

Spiting my face, I cut my nose.

Orange aura with palpable pulp

Belly burnt like gizzards gulp

Pathos purge and pencils dull

Writhing hearts swallowed whole.

Golden guillotine, ring my neck

Picking your brain up off my bed

Pillow talk with musky breath

Salted skin pressed on my chest.

Your voice carried between my sheets

Robbing river banks for free

Murders flock and black the sea

I do not clean myself for me

-Joshua Tool 05/06/18