Border Economics

I keep thinking this is my last chance

staying up late like there really is no tomorrow…reading prose like poetry…tearing the wrapping from meaning like a christmas-spoilt child…scrabbling for that beautiful terror of synthesis, that connective tissue of truth.

I keep feeling that this is my last chance

to close lips to lips…to kootch the warmth of body curve…to celebrate recognition of love…to fritter away desire like a tabloid-target lottery millionaire…to find new joy when expecting mere comfort of repetition.

I keep acting like this is my last chance

pacing mountain tops head-to-head with spinning constellations…tracking tides on desolate island-feel beaches…a gannet for adrenalin, for gut-ecstasies of fear and solitude and wild spirit-soaring grace.

I keep thinking this is my last chance

to hear that perfect tune, inhabit that late quartet…to engulf every atom of that wondrous painting, that thrilling sculpture…to bathe in every nuance-current of that film…to grow with each unique creation…to collect, file, fold, surround them all.

I keep feeling this is my last chance

touching the footsteps of my child in the world…intent on his grown-up breathing, as much as his newborn small hours cot-snuffling…upper-casing Friendship with the ones who are awake and alive, to themselves, and to faltered me.

I keep acting like this is my last chance

to make something that will survive a nano-second beyond me…to sum up a living assembly of dust…to play with all five senses one more time…to tell you stories in words, in pictures, until one final narrative forms then dissolves.

Tell me, what time does the bell ring in The Last Chance Saloon?