hanging out at the void

I've seen too much
drank too much,
too many philosophical conversations,
too many quietly broken taboos

coffeehouses and decrepit alleys
are littered
with my open-mic ghosts,
motels with the one-night
perfumed phantoms of my loves...
rarely enough money,
never the right combination

these days I'm ill
but not terminal that
I know of...
hard to tell sometimes
and the mind isn't right

But I have fun sometimes:
free pinot noir at art shows
where the women wear Latin,
dark chocolates that smell like mansions,
reading Frost without scansion,
the occasional letter from an admirer

I talk with friends,
research historical figures,
and shop at the super-market
but there are too many choices
and too much pretentious packaging...
and I end up haggard again
caught between isles 4 and 5
wondering what I came for