the process of anosmia

on this patio
a random breeze
carves me
like a butchers knife.

i still don't know
where it came from.

i can still smell your
scent like a bee
on a bloom,

but it's a little less
than yesterday.

i still don't want to
believe
that the human heart
is nothing
more than a kite
on greasy string,
with icicle hands
trying to hang on,

but it is,

and memories
will one day turn into
fog.

in five years
these mountains
bowing before my eyes
will still be here.

and in five years time
this scent
will be nothing more
than a shrub
on a tomb.

my shoes in this town

this entire town reminds me
of you, and
there ain't a damn thing
i can do about it.

we left every inch
of our footprints
with their halos,
and well traveled soles
everywhere,
mountains,
roads,
and shopping malls.

everything
is the only thing
i can remember.

and now
that your gone,
and i'm still inside
the oven
that is this town,
the only thing
i can do
is measure
for a new pair
of shoes.

when my head falls off

one of these days
my head
is going to fall off.

it's not going to be
tragic,
hip,
or comedic.

it'll be more like fresh
toast on the kitchen
floor,
waiting on a dog.

school rd.

a crow
sits on a stopsign,
and
there is never
a cloud
in the sky,
just people.

there she is,
existence, and
not a care
in the world.

goddamn.
sometimes all there is,
is give
love.

and how beautiful
it must be
not to care,
when you give it
all away.

and if you care,
some crow will eat
you.
it's like this,
and it never makes
sense.

in between albuquerque and phoenix is flagstaff

the sun sets
in my eyes

this table,
on san francisco st,
flagstaff, az
has always been
here,
somewhere

i once slept
in this town
a million times,
while
making hangovers
as easy
as
microwave food.

there were girls,
drama,
bars,
and books,
just like any other
town.

i only stopped here
for a moment,
to get a coffee
and
embrace
the chest
of
some stupid
nostalgia.

in a few minutes
i'll be gone.

the sadness as we become strangers

they say phoenix is
an oven,
around the 4th
of july.

this parking lot
is hell,
and there ain't a damn
thing anybody can do
about this.

she arrives
with her daughter.
we smoke a cigarette
like zombies,
not really knowing what
to say,

we stare at whatever
is in front of us
and all i know
is that my brain
keeps getting in
the way.

people are walking past us
with their red,
white, and blue
cookies.

her daughter
is reading her book.

we sign the papers
saying
that our account is
seperated.

bobby,
the banker
keeps a respectful distance.

the divorce is finalized.
a future that won't be
is carried by the
wind
back to the heavens.

her daughter and i hug
one last time,
she kisses me
one last time.

and i hold her,
like i'm tattooing
my heart
in her chest.
i never want
to leave that little girls
grip.
ever.

we divide
in opposite directions,
walking back to
our cars.

if i look back
i know
they'd be able
to hear each and
every tear drop
hit the concrete.

i just wanted to wait
till i got in the car.

it is on this day that
i drowned myself
in a safeway
parking lot.

and they say it doesn't rain in phoenix

it began.
with two pairs
of feet,
walking to
the other pair,
making
one complete
footstep.

this happened
in chicago.

these conjoined
feet walked
everywhere,
underneath the best part
of the sky.

these feet made maps.

these feet constructed
a home.

and two years
later,
these feet seperated,

leaving footprints
of mud
everywhere.