Patti Smith is 65 today. I've always been drawn to her. I'm not really sure why, but if pressed to give a reason I would say it is her realness. I strive to be real myself, though I think it comes natural to Patti, it isn't something for which she has to strive. She just is. It's not easy to be real in such an unreal world. Somewhere, somehow, in my unconscious meandering, I have made Patti an archetype of the female, my Anima, my alter-ego. She seems to have struck a balance that I want to strike as well. Perhaps I have and just don't know it. Stranger things have happened.
I wrote this poem after waking from a dream about thirty five years ago. I didn't know very much about Patti at the time, which should be evident to anyone who knows her or who has followed her life and career. This, admission however, isn't offered as an apology. It's a reflection on how little we know at times of someone, and yet, with just a few raw facts, some hearsay, a scattering of observations, a couple of half-baked conclusions, we make a decision to either reject them or take them into our heart. Often, the decision turns out to be all wrong, costly, regrettable, but once in a while we strike it rich and form an admiration and attachment that lasts a lifetime. The latter is the situation I find myself in with Patti.
Punk Dream
Harvey cut my hair too short.
I didn’t tip him.
It took me a month
maybe more
to adjust to my new-wave reflection.
Thank God
I wasn’t going anywhere special
Oh
how relieved I was
to wake up in my bed
next to Johnny-not-so-rotten
and oh
how relieved I was
to learn I hadn’t really
gone to do the shopping
with safety pins
in both my ears
and oh
how relieved I was
to know it wasn’t me
who pulled down my pants
and peed on all those crackers
in the Acme.
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