“Big Dipper. Small Moon.”

“Big Dipper. Small Moon.”
In the colloquial constructs of the cities cathartic capsize
I swim soundless in the deeper end of my self serving minds eye
Feeling aloof in the absence of the hair that stood on your arms and fevered neck
I made out like a thief in the night when I stole that very first peck…
…Day 1,160
I calculated every possible pain that you could cause
I failed math.
– Joshua Tool 07/31/16

“They All Seemed Obtuse, When Circle Took The Square” 

Admittedly my native language is English, which is why I can’t understand why I cannot understand how to communicate with such bitter of tongue. In the droll of sick and drugs I punched my nose into Ginsberg hoping to find a testimonial of theories which I can maybe somehow call prayers. I pushed my knees under the shallow waters of the poorly caulked tub as I tried to cling to the ideas of an embryonic existence. I watched the humid walls tear up as they tried to find the words of loss. How do I escape seasons when there is a passing shadow behind my neighboring curtains. Am I a martyr, a mason or a magician? Carving characteristics out of concrete jungles… These thoughts carry me throughout the daily chores. Money, greed, love, when can I define the latter? 
-Joshua Tool 03/07/16

Mind Your Onomatopees & Q’s

Being reduced to cardboard & cashmere wool

I couldn’t believe she’d ever felt safe enough to fall asleep next to me

Snoring the way our mountains slowly moved as I’d chop you down to a monogram

Ensuring you’d stand for something beyond my incessant rambling

I remember the small pauses before polishing your naval with speeches of protest

I would read your lips and study the clock as your belly grew bold and buckles grew grotesque

I fevered with patterns though I promised you rock

Encumbered by my heavy flesh

Constantly pulling on my skin to make sure I’m still existing

I made sure that even our god damn trash looked good

Spewing sounds and rounds from my mouth like a machine gun

Like speeches of keeping my fucking name…

Singing to songs too times too fast

The way that children do

As if we were gifted the same unknowing of a metronome

Growing up is and outdated idea

God is an art form

We became pregnant with pragmatic principles

Where as: The sorting of socks

Where as: Taking time for leaves to fall on our chest

Either swaying in the pew, or in the bathroom stall, taking pulls from pocket shots, beer cans, cigarettes and all…

…Got is an art form.

Falling asleep…. right next to me….

Self sacrifice is something for casinos.

11/23/15

You Used To Call Me On My House Phone

  

Such milky quiet that stretches 

An ambivalent track of looms 

Colors made of negligence 

So beautiful and true
My anhedonic frivolous 

Is malleable to you 

With a closer noun to black and white 

 Grays more pronounced as mute 
See it’s all math, as figurines 

Relinquish, what is truth 

Such texture, such philanthropy 

Pillars ramble, cowards prove
Towers flinching in objective eyes 

Costly now, to Saturn’s tune  

I cannot hold a fist to rise 

A gravitational Fuck You. 

Joshua Tool – 10/09/15

“The Human Condition”

The greater of two evils; is like choosing your breakfast cereal with the advantage of brand name Vs economy. The economy version is just as much a familiar push and pull, wrapped in a generic (still as pragmatically germane) gentrifying & geologically “privileged”. It is moving your weight to the other foot that is still in a cast. Sugar Vs diabetes. Yet privilege, nay “freedom”, is to trust another language without understanding it, with pure tonal significance. To tattoo yourself with the antlers of Ecuador’s intrepid cacti. It’s a false accusation against your own self reflection. To question your scissor hand preference. Left; No right! Wait… just cut. Fabricating the fabric of your curtains. It’s opening the blinds to see that equality is in your mailbox. It is in your toothbrush. So clean up and smile pretty. Stop thinking your answers are in the recycling bin. Someone is drinking from it. I’m pretty sure Israel is still fucked. 

Two Birds

I’ve been washing my hands in the same sink for over two abortions now and can’t seem to rid the familiar film soft water stains on my skin

I’ve been chewing the ends of my pen for two marriages now

I  still can’t seem to scrape the red dye out of my raised fingerprints

See my father was a good man

He taught me that blood is just something that won’t stop

It will continue flowing and staining everything

We use it to mark birthdays on outdated calendars

In the process of age I’ve contemplated eating my vegetables and quitting dirty habits

I even got lost in a “To-Do” list the other day and then forgot to pick up my inner child from school

It’s okay, my father knew this would happen

She’s going to be staying at his house for a while

See my father was wise

My father was word

My father was bond

My father is dead

But he should be cherished

Because he is never coming back

His name is Jesus

Have you heard of him?

I Heard It In My Teeth

I’ve been looking for something to die for, turns out I’ve been dying to live

I waxed this thought something shiny

And within the forgetting of myself

I found a post it note reading:

We are not for the latter, we are for the unhard boiled Easters

See I found this to mean god is an art form and death is a melting pot

In the immortal words of Daniel Johnston: true love will indeed find you in the end

Nothing is yellow until you squeeze it out in your morning orange juice

Nothing is gone, it’s just someone else

My teeth will never forget their counterparts

I wore your sweater in the shower just to see if your colors could wash off of me

Turns out bleach isn’t real

Meat & Potatoes

I am bobbing for newtons apple of my eye that cries for mall nutrition children on the late night tv programs that stroke my insomnia’s alter ego as gravity proves that NO; You indeed can not fly!

I never donated

I probably never will

Sitting in a still pool of my own filth and drool I questioned myself; loofa? Or bullet proof?

I went with bullet proof

So I headed out to where strangers are home and snagged some chips from the neighborhood blocks bodega below me

Don’t worry; they were all natural, usda organic certified, no artificial flavoring added, non GMO product of my imagination.

I dipped into to a real dive of a bar and started slinging shots of whiskey followed with a splash of time back

Thinking to myself, when did my mind snap?

Further I found myself on the brink of extinguishing the little chance I had of getting laid this night, as I squeaked the whiskey film on my teeth around with my tongue as I grew bored of the room and knocked back a few more Jack & times

I continued in thought walks through the vast static, that is conversations of who liked who’s status on Facebook and circumcised my right to scream at ants

Bulletproof

As my ears wet with something of whispers

Come on in, the waters fine

So I wade with the spitters

With the late night hangover pushers

Chasing the sun as we howl with the moon

Breaking up clouds in the black of our swoon

I danced on the edge of a curb with my new sun chasing friends as they swayed back and forth, squinting one eye to watch my balancing act on the government yellow gutter

Thinking to myself, the suns almost here

I wonder if the infomercials are still on

Maybe I’ll catch it so I can get the number to donate

Hmm, well I don’t know, those things always feel like a scam

And in that same instant I lost my footing as I slipped on the wet concrete and fell into a pile of yesterday’s deflated trash

This was just great. Drunk and now I am covered in rotten food and unfamiliar liquid

Sitting in a pool of someone else’s filth and feeling quite the fool, I questioned myself, loofa? Or bulletproof.

Why didn’t I just take a shower and go to bed?

Joshua Tool – 10/08/13

I Want To Grow A Garden

I want to grow a garden. I want to grow a garden and measure time by the shadows that stretch from the soles of my feet and bare toes. I want to pull wild rhubarb and chew its sour stalk until my mouth runs dry, with the summers sun on my neck and the mist of fresh rain moving through the humid air. I want to run my fingers through thick blades of blue grass as the man on the old wooden stage shreds his banjo with a southern slur. I want to watch the lights go out and stare at the silhouettes of family’s on the hill staring in to the July sky as the fireworks explode in a pyrotechnic song. I want to feel. I want to feel free again. I want the sounds of crickets and screen doors chirping and creaking as we tell stories on the porch with fire flies and rocking chairs softly swaying back and forth into the hours of sunsets. I want to grow a garden and pick wild raspberries and smash them into my cheeks until my belly is content and my hands are riddled with crimson sticky stains. I want to be free. I want to grow a garden.

Joshua Tool – 07/10/13