There she was, the one and only, the punk rock poet laureate of past, present, and future – Patti Smith. She was dressed in her quintessential baggy clothes – big brown jacket, loose black jeans, booming stringy gray hair – dragging her doc marten’s in a slow-moving gait maintaining the
There she was, just within reach, the famous punk rocker poet, the shamaness beaming raw mystic power, the one, and only Patti Smith. There she was, right on Haight Street hovering in the San Francisco sunshine her presence breaking through the fog, still amongst the ragged street kids all refusing
Not that long ago, I wrote a post for this very website which chronicled my experience as a sun-kissed, burrito-fed Californian living for three years in NYC. Soft of heart and fake blonder of hair, I bemoaned New York’s frigid winters, sleazy one-upping “networkers,” and lack of publicly-placed recycling bins.