The Battleground

In my veins ( that they exist at all is a surprise) there are subtle variations of color in scars that write me a once love letter , to the young sexy skinny junky girl, dancing jitterbugging upon her stilt like heels, her short shorts and blond bangs flashing... Queen of the Tenderloin..( needle her scepter street corner her throne) . Within the flood of the blood of Good Family... Of Connected Italians and new money... The DNA of a gypsy Queen rolled in the veins like thunder: calling out to live a life unlike the suffocating church and family and standards of proper behavior... Which wrote itself upon and within her veins like a strange calligraphy : writing to her of a joy in the forbidden streets( where once she was so young and still as clean as a new penny, desired by all the men, from the suited businessmen to all the besotted street corner boys, crazy in the streets at closing time.) walk up hotels, glib Indians holding out their palms for 15 dollars for a cut of a deal a trick.., calligraphy of a joyful innocent time where these places where as a playground to her.. Where within these veins are dancing the notes of a jazz musician playing his trumpet , after stoking the druggie fires within... A needle stick still written on her neck... Written within and upon her : tattoos of a biker life - ode to her Gypsy DNA: thick tears of twisted skin torn into the arms - when the dream of sparkling streets turned upon her, and then the Grim Reaper for a while surfed upon her rich blood and her sweetness of youth and music and desire.. Devouring as he went ( leaving a bullet piercing a leg vein ) a final testament that her wild joyous abandon had been played out) now within her veins are memories and the changing chemical blood cocktails of stability and estrogen /sadness / and also mature joy of home and love. She has found a home and a happy one.( but still the young flashing face and white breasts of a skinny wild child delirious with forbidden joy surfs the blood tide within, reminding her, that she dared to live a while as nobody would wish her too- and walked among the jungle beats of a surly city night, while loving it, and while the speedballs rang her ears like a long exhalation of music , she was a joyful thing that she knew was joyful for she was a shooting star- about half out of her body , and on her way to the thresh hold of death. One night she stayed under the bridge with an old bum... Who recited poetry and a Gang of Latino Speed dealers who poked a needle into her jugular vein... Singing speed songs to her, the solution went into her, a blood bloom brought a rush of joy... As the full fat moon shone down on these, her fellow dwellers on the Threshold... Not real to those sleeping in the suburbs or driving past with a look out the car window as they were on a street safari . Her veins carry a written account of a life lived without leaving our any dare she dared herself . One of the lucky ones... Not dead of aids or thrown by her pimp in a dumpster , magic of her gypsy heart rode the currents of her rushing blood, along with drugs that sang to her of a thing never named ... An unattainable closeness to the Spheres.