fantasy gave me fire

Patti’s 25, she looks like Keith Richard, and she writes killer rock’n’roll songs. She is also an excellent poet and a damn good playwright and as forthright a woman as any you’ll meet. “I’m one of the best poets in rock and roll,” she says ingenuously; there have been few who’ve heard her works that would disagree.

Mostly, she came to what prominence she has via a poetry reading at St. Marks-In-The-Bowery, where she was second billed to Gerard Malanga. “It was Gerard Malanga’s night, and like at the Fillmore, I was supposed to be the dumb little group supporting the big star.”

She showed up with rock critic/burgeoning rock star Lenny Kaye and his dynamic electric guitar, read a fifteen minute program of her own songs and a couple of others, led off by a bizarre version of “Mack the Knife.” The applause at the end of Brigid Polk’s tape of the event is near-deafening.

Some of the tunes she read that night are contained here (“Oath,” “for Sam Shepard”) the rest are new. “Autobiography” is the real story of the real Patti Smith, “bom in Chicago, in a real slum, and I got tuberculosis and was sent to my grandfather a honky-tonk piano player in Chatanooga.”

Autobiography

great human wild animal amoral an outlaw keep watch over her

I was born in Illinois...mainline of America... beat to shit...Chicago tenement big red eyed rats in the night...dead rats to tease at night Morning...I waited for the organ grinder with my nickel for the monkeys tin cup gingerbread man...cotton candy man bad girl setting fire to the oil cans run like hell escape on the icemans truck I was a limping ugly duck but I had good luck

Mama filled me with fantasy...my bears danced at midnight even my toybox had a soul Mama called me her goat girl...little black sheep I loved my brother and sister: Todd and Linda we drank each others blood...we were double blood brothers we rolled in fields...three white wolves...we practised telepathy no one could separate us...our minds were one One. little one eye...I had an eyepatch...I walked like a duck In the yards the nursery children cried Quack Quack I didn’t care and I didn’t fight back. I floated off...fantasy gave me fire...I was made of water the moon caused tidal waves and I’d cry like a coyote.

I learned to drift...magik...taroc pack I paraded in thirty disguises and when people laughed at my carnival family We didn’t care...We had armor: Daddy was a tap dancer...acrobat...wild horse tracing pornography through the bible. Mama was the dream of every sailor...bootlegged whiskey

“The root of me has always been my heroes,” she said. “When I was a kid, my heroes were singers like Hank Williams and dead painters like Modigliani and Jackson Pollack. I wanted to be like them, and I wanted to be in their cities.” She has been now, New York and Paris, where she’s been everything from street-singer to playwright.

The only question which remains is who she’s going to record with; her voice is strong enough to insure that friend and guidance counselor Steve Paul (of Johnny Winter/Edgar Winter notoriety) is correct in saying that, “Singing is just going to be a vehicle for her.”

Patti herself seems fairly self-assured in the fulfillment of her rock’n’roll dream. Still, she hastens to add, “If 1 found kids at high schools couldn’t dig it, I’d give it up.”

called spirits from the evenings half moon...dream weaver We braved hurricanes...a new baby came...I named her Kim the neighbors were suspicious...they called us wiches we didn’t care...we were laughing and dancing and damned and there was always music Hank Williams crying off the lonesomes funny valentine...Patty Waters beat of the drum...bartok song of the swamp rat rock and roll music rock and roll music

Rythum On my own...my own rythums: rythum of the railroad steamheat of the factory Alabama blues on a migrant bus but as a blueberry picker I failed...I dreamed too much the berry crop died...my mother smiled. I ran off...I traveled...!! broke down * kept running...TB trapped in the lung...spitting on the railroad track I shook...I drank...rythum of one too many rhums Drunk and broke down I slinked home...grabbed my sisters hand and away we run...We took a freighter to Iceland railway to Paris...Pigalle and wine in a black dress I joined the fire eaters and sang in the streets...using all I learned from Lotte Lenya...Bob Dylan...and motorcycle rock n’ roll We lived near a wishing well...milked goats...captured snails and crawled back to New York. New York my greatest love: Rise of the building flash of 42nd street...the pool halls...the hustlers the trucks along tenth avenue the helicopter yards ghost of Jackson Pollock human shit and dead dog floating on the Hudson River moving...I kept moving dreaming: Panama...heart of adventure the hot life of Mexico the drunkard...the dock worker Rythum...flash of white hair...winter the Jesters...the Paragons rise of the blue heron breathe through the great rythum scream through the Shepard sing through that rock n’ roll music rock n' roll music rock n' roll music rock n1 roll

Prayer

stocking feet or barefoot immencely proud or bent like love twig, scaffold grave digger or dancer in wind the same wind yet stinking of pigs rose or the pollen which makes one cough cruel, fantastic, unlike anything else

To have no need for the apparatus of the operating room To be safe from all bodily harm To know love without exception To be a saint in any form

Dog Dream

have you seen Dylans' dog it got wings it can fly if you speak of it to him it's the only time Dylan can't look you in the eye

have you held Dylans’ snake it rattles like a toy it sleeps in the grass it coils in his hand it hums and it strikes out when Dylan cries out when Dylan cries out

have you pressed to your face Dylans' bird Dylans’ bird it lies on Dylans’ hip trembles inside of him it drops upon the ground it’s the only one who comes when Dylan comes

have you seen Dylans’ dog jt got wings it can fly when it lands like a clown he's the only thing allowed to look Dylan in the eye

Oath

Christ died for somebodies sins but not mine melting in a pot of thieves wild card up the sleeve thick heart of stone my sins my own I marked my own palm swift black X Adam placed no hex on me I embrace Eve and take full responsibility for every pocket I have picked every Johnny Ace song I’ve balled to long before a church made it neat and right Christ I’m giving you the good-bye firing you tonight I can make my own light shine and darkness too is equally fine you can get strung up for my brother but with me I draw the line you died for somebodies sins baby but not for mine

for Sam Shepard

the murdered boy the murdered boy the murdered boy

Oh I was bad didn’t do what I should mama catch me with a lickin’ and tell me to be good when I was bad twice times she pushed me in a hole and cut off all my fingers and laid them in a finger bowl

My mother killed me my father grieved for me my little sister Alma Lee wept under the almond tree

Oh I loved a car and when I was feeling sad I’d lay down on my daddies ford and I’d start to feel good but I got real bad Tobbed hubcaps from the men and sold them to the women then stole them back again and you know when I was grown had hubcaps of my own and a Hudson Hornet car and rolled the pretty ladies and often went too far

I went to Chicago I went to Kalamazu I slid down to Nashville raced in Tolkume I rode to Selenas rode by the sea but the people all scolded and pointed to me they said there’s a bad boy I was so bed boy that they gathered their daughters I heard what they said stay away from him honey cause that boy is bad and though he’s hung good and flashes that loot steer away from his highway he rides a wrong route cause he’s a bad boy Yeah I was so bad boy my mama killed me my father grieved for me my little sister Alma Lee wept under the almond tree

She Wept For Me

And I wept on the stock car I crashed through the trees fenders hot as angels blazed inside me I captured the junkyards I jack knifed the cars and sped to the canyon

but never hid far from the auto mechanics car wreckers den of thieves murderers greasers I worshiped these men but they hated me mom They called me mamas boy they screamed me to leave t they threatened to me then mom mom mom Mom Mom Mom

Oh Monday at midnight til Tuesday at two drunk on tequila I was thinking of you mom 1 drove my car on mom My stock car was blazing wrecking cars was my art I held a picture of you ma close to my heart I rode closed window it was 90 degrees the croud was screaming screaming at me they hated they said I was nonsence true diver chicken driver

no sence

But I couldn’t hear them I couldn’t see those fenders hot as angels blazed inside me I sped on lined with speed and heat and mama I cracked up with the croud at my feet I rolled in flames rolled in a pit where you laid me out with a tire iron and shot me with your shit

And I could’ve got up but the croud it screamed no That boy is evil too bad for parole so bad his mama rolled him in a hole and cut off all his fingers and laid them in a finger bowl

His mother killed him His father grieved for him His little sister Alma Lee wept under the almond tree

for Bob Neuwirth

obviously not a freeze out

your voice is very loud do you think there’s no one who will speak to you

she speaks to you honey speaks low and says things worthy of note:

I carry in my arms bear on my back and bring home the sacrifice that will bring us through the coming year a deers head ribbons from the dancers shoes white tights tutu dancers things and random bits of jungle white snake pigeons wings Donga bat two cats eye marbles

and she’s ready for you she’s rolling round for you her legs are open her dress is up her ears are pierced and hung with string listening to anything you got to say

you can say it quietly and then sweet girl will answer you listen to everything you got to speak telling you everything you want to hear