LATASHA N NEVADA DIGGS INTRODUCES POETRY UPDATE
words from in(be/tweEn) SpaCe #2

Sometime ago, roughly a month or more, there was this girl on the train begging for money. I had seen her before. Clearly the young woman was on something. Not actually sure what it was though. Just appeared more than just a crack head. What sealed it for me was that she either white or Latina (including South America) with no accent. American. She was definitely not from New York. Something was Tomboyish. Was mid-west. Was being from a somewhat middle class background. Still I had problems placing her. I just knew she wasn’t from New York.

The first time I saw her was over a year ago. She could not look anyone in the face.

She was kinda fading back and forth between her story and the euphoria of what she was on. No, she wasn’t nodding. Just not in real time you know. What I did remember was that a man, (definitely from New York) propositioned her for sex right on the train. Suddenly, her eyes did focus, kinda smirked and sat beside the man. He lifted one arm and like a daddy (I suppose) placed it around her shoulder. Other women on the train, including myself, just stared confused as to what just happened.

I’ve seen her several times since. What was kinda together in her appearance went to wherever she’s meandered. The tendency to scratch at the face (heroin?) was now obvious. So it’s now a month or more ago. I am on the #2. She pops up again. There’s something new about her. On her left cheek is a scar, just healing, across her face. It’s of a bright fleshy tint, slightly puffed. She was slashed. Not once but twice. It makes an X there. Her forearms, usually covered, are coated with marks. Some needles. Some I’m not sure of. In the middle of her speech, she pauses, and stares at one man sitting for the duration of one stop. Her expression is blank but upset at something. Fading in and out, she gets off at 116th. I’m staring now. My chest hurts. I can’t but help mentioned to a woman beside me that the scar is new. She noticed it herself. We’re kinda fucked up by this scar. I’m especially. I’m trying to narrate her story in my head. When she left to come to New York. Maybe for art school. Maybe for becoming a self-sufficient lady in the Metropolitan. Or maybe she did have a sob story. What’s the difference between her and I?

I guess the reason why she stuck with me is related to an old issue of X-Men that I’ve kept for years. One heroin, Dazzler, was given the power to choose her fate by some villain I can’t remember now. She had three choices. One, become a pop singer. Two. Become a super business executive. Three. Become a homeless woman, hiding in the alleys. She chose to become that homeless woman over anything else. She entered that realm. So I guess, in the so-so real world, we make decisions that aren’t comic book derived. {Unless you’re the Bush administration.} Our very karma, past and present, makes decisions. And hopefully, before the end of one life, we all ask ourselves why we decided to live our lives out one way or another. I’m not making any attempt to preach here. Shit, I ain’t got no doctoral papers in Spirituality. I’m just wondering.

And if you’ve read past this, you’ve realized that the next installment of poets in this issue has nothing to do (or maybe they do…) with my thoughts here. So ***** what. Take your pick. Ponder on why I would be crying about a junkie who ain’t related to me and check out the poems.

Ani dohigi gadu donadagohvi, August 1st, 2004, Harlem, Nueva York