Inexact Sciences (Last Days of Poetry)

I'm good at math but
         slightly unorganized
and these are poetry's last days;
the words are lost and confused
         and can't pull themselves together
to know where to turn.
I gave up fighting them
but I can't lead them...
there's just too many of them!
And asking for help
         is like
asking a homeless man
for a quarter
         and then
stealing his shopping cart
so I can go on a spree
         where
I jack up every word in the language
         hostage-style
and my notebook is the base camp
of simple equations that don't make sense.
I wouldn't have it any other way.

I'm good at music
         but I can't play two notes
together
to sound good
and these are poetry's last days;
stuck in a nursing home
         and not remembering
my name or my face
         but
knowing I held the pen.
The art seems startled when I want to begin.
And yes,
         the art falls apart
when I commence.

I could love you if you remembered my name.
I could love you if it ever felt like
         being the same again.

I'm not so good with science and
         my
         timing's always           suspect.
These are poetry's last days
if I'm to be the
         suburban
Indiana Jones, looking for
         my Ms. Pac-Man
who gobbles my words to press on
and acts like
         the ghosts are not around.
         The ghosts are not around.
         The ghosts are not around
but my words,
         they fall to the ground.
They miss the ears
         and do not make a sound.
Biology and chemistry-
they don't seem to accompany me.
         So
take these words and calculate
or overanalyze and simulate
         something
that you can interpretate.
Just so you can relate.
Just so you can relate.
         Just please,
I want to hear your take.
         Just please,
I want you to relate.

I could love you just the same.
I could love you, just insane.
I could love you...
         big believer
         in nothing,
         big believer
         in too much there...
         big believer
         in nothing.
I could love you just the same
         but I won't.
         No I can't.
         No you won't.
         You won't last.

I'm good with words but
         perilously ironic
and these are poetry's last days
if I have anything to say
about it.
         But I'm afraid I don't.