“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 
Today:
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

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“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

Concrete Vinyl 

“Concrete Vinyl”
There was a song once.
It was called “Collywobbles”.
It was strong and sultry.
Operatic in way that’d turn your hair into spikes.
Silky like a French dessert.
Oh, how I craved your butterflies in my stomach.
Like and post sex cigarette.
The way it moves like a saxophone could change the world. 
Coltrane would be proud.
This song was an anthem. 
A prequel to the a cappella Hallelujah.
It was a dance in the dark at a 1995 block party.
Smoldering logs on the patio fire.
Explosions in the distance.
Air, so still, you’d question if it were even there.
This song made grown men cry.
This song felt like the first time you rode your bike without training wheels
This was a magical song
A song that vibrates at the frequencies of fables
This song tunneled space and time 
This is your song.
This is my song.
This is our song.
This is love.
No matter the noise or the silence
This song will sing. 
As will our love. 
-Joshua Tool 01/31/17

Zeal & Collywobbles

“Zeal & Collywobbles”
I spoke to you softly under the murmur of the dryer in the next room.
You danced on my tounge with hot breath smashing your nose into my cheeks like you would with wild raspberries in the fresh summer dew.
I played the architecture of your spine in a sweet melody of skela-tones as the window whistled and howled for colder nights.
The warm flickering luminance from homemade candles tattling on our shadows.
Lapping up your laughter like a kitten to a teat, I dug my knuckles into your hair and kissed your charismatic undertones.

Whiplash and the cracking of backs.
The sugar in your lip gloss stuck to my teeth like Cabernet to a white carpet.
I kept your song on repeat through my dreams and hummed it under my breath in empty rooms.
Your kind hands cradled under the weight of my shoulder blades as we shuffled through memories still to be made.
I saved these moments in the small space between our bodies before we’d move our molecules fast enough to fuse together.
Splashing in colors of static & stare downs.
If love is a choice, than I’m all out of options.

I choose you.

-Joshua Tool

01/02/2017

“I Still Have Fingerprints In Portland”

I swallowed an echo once

I let it sit inside my chest to keep my blood punching through my skinny veins 
It was an echo of your voice
That playful tone from the first time I heard you laugh 
It’s still somewhat there but a little more restrained 
I keep slapping my xylophone of a chest to make it reverberate back into that solid note again
Instead it just bounces around up through my spine and into my head that multiplies into migraines 
It’s hard to think now with all of these echoes in my head
I can’t remember much anymore 
In a desperate attempt to preserve this song of serendipity, I held my breath as long as I could and began slapping my chest over and over 
Yet the echo had gone too far into my head 
I tried once more… “Thwack!”
Instead of feeling your echo come back into my heavy lungs and skinny veins, I felt it bounce out of my ears and my head began to clear…
…I am able to think straight again, but it is much quieter now without your echo.
-Joshua Tool 09/30/16

“Modern Life”

Intelligence, yet without answers

Blind procreation as millions starve
Desensitization to a sex, violence and death
Broken families in million dollar homes
Voices in the gutters
Pfizer tells you when you’re gonna be okay
But everything is so clean now
Systematic racism, sexism , transphobia, homophobia, phobia, phobia, phobia…
Remember intelligence without answers?
We were all born female in the beginning, so put your dick back in your pants and tell someone you love them with honesty
Litter
Global warming
Denial
War on everything
Money over people
Greed
Hate for anything not like you
‘Merica
If you are scared of violence, don’t lock your doors
Pick up someone suffering
You are made of the same particles as a goldfish
Wait… What was I saying?
Entertainment.

Force fed media.(Fuck you Fox News)
But there are enough cat videos to keep you safe
Fuck that
Listen to metal, drink whiskey, love someone truly and sit on the roof while you watch the earth fight back and destroy what we have been since we gained intelligence with answers.
Nihilism.
Such a beautiful constant.
-Joshua Tool 09/10/16

 

“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