Write like you used to.

Today my finger’s are antsy,
waiting for the right meaning
to find its way into my head;
for the right word or sentiment,
for everything to make sense again.

Reading back over July of ’04,
carpe diem, you know …
and all that;
makes me wonder what it felt like,
to be me then,
and the effort it takes to remember

it was me

is frightening.

Reminiscences are futile, finally,
chicken scratch on a chalkboard
long since washed away,
written over,
overridden with current turmoil,
and the zen certainty that
everything is happening simultaneously.

I never asked for Washington.
I was born here, lived here,
moved away and came back and it has my heart
and I can’t understand, regardless,
a similar connection to a different place.

Home is where your car is licensed.

My eye, lately, takes to rambling
like my fingers are now,
and it has no opinion on consequences;
leaves them for the rest of me,
takes its fill,
moves on. Philanderer.

Wandering the stacks at closing,
i put my hand out,
let my fingers run over the spines
as i used to do often when i was shelving.
I’ll close my eyes and
feel the whispers of those worlds
rasping against my skin.

Sometimes my breath will catch,
there alone,
and I am reminded.

I can hardly stand the beauty of this world.