I Didn't Know Patti Smith

 

I didn't move to London

I didn't live in the East Village

I didn't know Patti Smith

Things didn't work out

I lived bohemian decline

The freedom was partial

Mine was a typical story

Survival was victory

Day jobs without glamour

I acquired cooking skills

I learned languages

I outlived friends in more rapid

Bohemian decline

I didn't realize my dreams

Or they laid down by the river

And emerged on the other side

Transformed

Into water beasts walking

Weed-draped moon–driven

The least American story

And the most American story

Verses written furtively

Spiral notebooks of neurosis

Medical mishaps

Love affairs like spiritual possession

Writing songs about UFOs

Theatrical productions in sheds

My footprints in Baltimore graveyards

The indentations deeper

As I hummed a song

And carried a ghost on my shoulders

Sensing this vaguely

My weight and the ghost's

Imprinting into the fossil record

Encountered as enigma

In 20 million years

After the Chesapeake rose

And receded again and birthed

Species now unknown

Will they know

I struggled

I spoke

I sang

I made

things

(photo: author in the play "De camino a la ahorita" by Colectivo El Pozo 2018)