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

“Ode To Ma”

The click of the burner raised my ears.

Smelling the sizzle of browning butter. 
Coloring each slender bead of rice with a spice that only the South knows as home. 
More splash and turning with a wooden spoon. 
How can I remember things that I haven’t experienced with this array of sensations? 
Nothing like a home cooked meal. 
Our memories retract as our stomachs fill. 
You taught me soul: 
Love. 
Warmth. 
That a family meal wasn’t just something to pass the time. 
That it is re-energizing.
Cathartic. 
A social phenomenon. 
As we taste together. 
As we share our days. 
We are one. 
We are love. 
I sparked the second burner.
And asked you for the salt. 
This is everything.
I love you. 
-Joshua Tool 06/27/17

“It’s Kind Of Like Drowning, Only To Know You Will Be Resuscitated” 

Do you remember the first time we saw each other outside of work? 

I brought you to the everlasting DIY venue, The Flux Capacitor.

You wore a green belly shirt and black puffy oversized parka.

I was so scared to touch your hand but I wanted make sure you were safe next to the pit. 

I failed. 

The tide pushed the bodies and you were slammed into the wall. 

I felt so bad.

But you took it like a champ.

That’s the first time I knew I loved you, yet was still scared to touch your hand.

This was the purest form of how we were or knew each other. 

Now we hate each other.

Well, I assume you hate me.

It’s hard to find hate in my memories. 

Yet I try to wash your name out of my mouth.

I will probably be losing moments of my life very soon. 

Like trying to write on a blackboard with a pen. 

Soon I will find myself doing push-ups as I think about this moment. 

Where have we come.

I am still a creator.

I am still to overcome a task of the relentless daytime tv of prison. 

And I will.

And I don’t care where you wind up, as long as you are happy and the kids are safe. 

I will keep this with me as something to pass the time and smile.

And cry.

If only words were made of clay, I would smash the mold and reform where we have come.

Mabye they’ll have clay in jail. 

-Joshua Tool 06/16/17

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?