Port Arthur, its cheerleader ideal, the prom no one invited you to, ugly duckling, the irritant lodged in your heart, which you choked with beads and feathers, speed and horse, Southern Comfort, that wild cackle laugh. You were the hottest chick in town, could out-ball any guy but no man made you feel as good as an audience and if pearls are tears of the gods yours were shed in private, that wisecracking shell hiding the square dream of love and picket fences you never quite left behind on Pearl's road to fame. The day you bought it at the Landmark Motel, face down, wedged between wall and bed in panties and blouse, your lip cut, fisting a handful of silver and bills, your life zapped by the too-pure heroin you skin-popped earlier, you'd called City Hall about a marriage license, never dreaming your fianc would be removing his pants in a game of strip billiards at the moment you'd lay your works in a Chinese box and lurch forwards. Don't still, my beating heart We're born with a finite number of heartbeats, according to the ancient yogis, who counselled calm, the steering clear of things that make our heart rate quicken, bring us closer to death.  But who wants to be prudent when it comes to the heart? I'd rather splurge, fritter my remaining heartbeats on grape suede shoes and a plum crpe dress, slide on stockings you'll later peel off (there goes a few days' worth), gamble them