“My Blood Is Gasoline”

I was born into arson.

I was bred into flames.

Ive walked into the hot embers bare foot.

Ive felt the heat on my toes and ankles; on my thighs and stomach.

I have buried a lot of futures in these smoldering wonders.

I was made to set the world on fire.

Though I changed my hunger to set hearts on fire instead.

Sometimes lips and finger tips as well.

To rise from ash is to become the true sense of one with the vibrant vibrations that these fires have condensed into a different note.

From lighter. to bon fire to fire barrel.  I have walked every rise and fall that is flammable.

And I will always burn.

I will always burn for anything flammable.

I will always burn for you.

To rise.

From the ashes.

To light your lips, your home or to just keep you warm wherever you land.

I will never stop burning.

I was born into a chemical exchange that kills, yet man is still obsessed with it to this day.

I am fear and curiosity.

I am love and generosity.

I am death and I am life.

I am no different than you.

I just combust under a different temperature.

I was born an arsonist.

And I will never stop rising from the ash.

-Joshua Tool 05/21/17



“Patients Is A Virtue” 

In the waiting room

As I watched the hands of the clock on the wall overlap into another day

The moon pulled tides through my eyes

I washed my face in the tope hospital bathroom

What a mundane tone to clean yourself in

I carried myself heavier than usual

I looked for five familiar things

I paced

I felt four sinking pits in my chest, head, heart and stomach

I heard three intertwining voices resonating over the beeping of the heart monitors

I paced

A cluttered dichotomy of cologne and sterile hallways consumed my nose as I tasted the tinny blood of my tongue as I bit down to distract myself from all my sinking pits.

I sat

I stretched my limbs and cracked my knuckles

Folding my palms over my face

The clock hands now vertically aligned

I was silent

In the waiting room

The doctor came out

“Sir?” She firmly questioned

“Yes?” I stuttered, shaking as I rose from my cold seat

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I just came to let you know that everything went great” She affirmed with a boisterous smile

“OH, THAT’S AMAZING! So it’s going to be alright?”

“Yes, your love is going to be just fine. Just take good care of it and it should live to see a long and happy life.” She stated with an informative and stately exuberance.

“Thank You Thank You! Yes, yes of coarse, I will never let my love slip again. I will take the very best care of it from here on out.” I promised with true conviction

Leaving the waiting room

The sun piercing through the blue morning dew

From that day on

My love has never left me

As I shared it with you

Our love has never left us.


-Joshua Tool 05/10/17

“A Bowl Of Cherry Pits”

I painted you a cherry tree on an old white stretched out t-shirt.

I chose the colors from your personal pallet.

In the midst of my masterpiece, I plucked the fresh drupes from the still wet oil on the canvas and placed them into a plastic bowl.

I know they are your favorite.

Afterwards I made sure my brush strokes portrayed the tree strong & sturdy.

If to chop it down, it’s rings of life would be suitable for your finger.

I splattered blue over the leaves to insure rain will keep it healthy to blossom again.

The thing about oil, is that it doesn’t mix well with water and when it dries, the colors change.

The green turned a brownish yellow and the paint began to separate.

The grass shifted and the tree’s roots began to push through the cracked dry paint.

The exposed roots proved to be twisted.

As hard as I tried to paint over these roots, the paint would dry and crack again.

How could something so sweet have such ugly roots.

And then I realized, these roots are the source that feeds the tree and allows the cherries to flourish.

So I left them naked.

I couldn’t ignore what is not seen and only focus on the product of its labors.

I decided the painting was finished.

The tree in all of it’s entirety.

The sweet fleshy fruit and the undesirable roots in which they came from.

As a whole, what was once buried below the surface is now above ground, yet it still produces such a delicious pitted treat.

Maybe I’ll just paint with water colors next time.

-Joshua Tool 04/28/17


“Taken To Dinner In A Tree Of Then”

With a sigh of being quite cantankerous and the breath of the open windows spilling lilacs, I am contently quiet. To hear the stars wash the sky and share with tress how to move in such cool winds; massaging my skin and mind. To reminisce. To feel again what is family and the blunder of scent to take me there.


-Joshua Tool 04/27/12


“A Bone To Pick, A Word To Memorize”

I sharpened my teeth on the steel of your tongue.

As the sparks flew, they grazed and burned our cheeks, yet I still felt truly numb.

A firework show on forgotten faces.

How could your words still taste so cold in the heat of these metal embers scorching our skin.

I know that you despise my burning belly, but my heart is warmer than this collide of bone and metal.

I sharpened my tongue on the steel bars of this jail cell I have found myself in.

Words fell into my mattress as I stared at the wall and picked at the chipping paint.

Carving invisible promises into the solitude of my memories.

That is that my belly burns no longer.

My heart burns twice as hot and my teeth are softening from grinding them down through the nightmares I walk through every night without you.

I don’t need my moon to shine. I need my sun to kiss my back the way you had nightly before I started sharpening my tongue and teeth.

I don’t want to build weapons out of my bones, I want to make love with my skin and words.

I want to be the one that makes your moon shine and to kiss your freckles the way your sun has.

I care nothing for the battle nor the war.

I care only for the repair of skin, hearts, teeth and tongues.

If somehow we could exchange lukewarm words and exist in the comfort of our repaired persons.

I would meet you, white flag waving, and kiss all the sharp parts of you until we no longer need weapons to sleep.

To love.

To Be.


-Joshua Tool 04/27/17


“My Frozen Lake”

I had cold sweats in a fetal position dream of our perennial passion:

As each bead burst and absorbed into my shirt, a piece of potential grew.

I was sweating out the bad parts of me for the good parts of you…

In my dream we chapped our faces in the arctic winter, walking into the wind.

We held hands through barriers of cloth that promised warmer sin.

Take my blood, take my heart and I will walk with you again.

I shook in the night for it not a fair fight, a climate comprimising your skin.

In the end of my dream, I woke in a scream and stared at the ceiling of blue.

I was sleeping outside as I swallowed my pride, to rest from the absence of you.

I will sweat every night, I will fight the good fight, for our beads and our love will be true.

|You are my frozen lake|

Though cracked in places, I will never ever fall through.

-Joshua Tool 04/22/17


“Someone Fell And The World Turned”

I’ll be your poet and painter before I’m your fuck boi. Don’t get it twisted, with a silver tongue and cheek I will paint you with my head under water. You will be something that makes music have point. Yet not too bury my head too deep in the sand, I can live in solitude with your memory in ink. An octopus couldn’t fight the quills I carry. I have never danced blindly the way that you saw sonnets in the dark. Edgar would value your crazed ways. I can’t help but dream in black holes that we have survived. Neil Degrasse Tyson can’t even explain your touch that supersedes galaxies. I have your record on and its skipping. I have no choice but to bury my head in forgetful sand and fascinate about the little things that made the universe worthwhile. You are forever collywobbles, no matter what fuck boi hurt you. I am sorry I did. I don’t want to be a guise of uncomplimentary tone. I am your poet. Your painter. Your confidant. Your ink. Your pleasure and inevitable pain. I paint myself a master in a monsters skin. I am nothing if I can’t spare you my demons. I am sorry I bleed dark on the page. Can I borrow a quill to paint a new shade and form songs inside your existence.

-Joshua Tool 04/17/17


“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


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