The poem begins like a drive with no destination: a dull road, a radio dial turning until it lands on a voice with a drawl, and then the sudden order to get out and walk. The speaker seems to be talking to themselves, and the title "Notes" fits. "Notes to self" turns out to mean musical notes, written notes, and perhaps the marks a tattoo leaves.
In the middle, the poem looks at aging. As you get older, fewer things tempt you, and the speaker sets up pairs of choices, like light entering the eye versus sound entering the ear, or coins tossed in a fountain versus coins saved in a jar. Wishing versus keeping is one way to read that last pair. Then comes the wish to feel every note, which sends the speaker toward a desert and finally a tattoo shop, where the skin becomes parchment.
The mood is dry, restless, and a little wry. The closing lines, "Don't try to explain," refuse to justify any of it.