Not Quite So Poetic

Tonight, I'm a train-wreck
not for any deep reason or choice
but simply that I have the flu:
sobered up only to get sick

possible causes there are many
but from my point of view,
there's little point in picking
nor of further elaborating

Does this seem dry?
perhaps not "quite so poetic;"
well, I can live with that
and the monstrous tables at which I've sat,
the not-half bad people upon who I've spat,
how in my native-land I'm an ex-pat,
the good things I've wrecked,
and even if this is "that's that"
and there's no tommorow...

I can live...
or die with that

See I know a thing or two about sorrow,
though amnesia tends to attend
the sort of blood-singing misery I've seen...
and in some ways I'm still green

All I can really say
is I've felt and sown enough good,
to more than balance out the blues I've known,
and...

I often forget who I am,
do hard or saintly things
that aren't in my heart,
compose poetry with with little soul
and much art,

and then wake up
(as tonight)
at strange if familiar intersections,
by this bank or that minute market:

I have too little peace
and the bardic "nowhere land"
is my only home...

but I'm still seeking