grabbing ankles  [from "Patti Smith," by Thurston Moore, Bomb,
Winter 1996]  Patti Smith was, and is, pure experience... Her
reign in the '70s as a street-hot rock & roll messiah seemed to
exist from a void. No past, no future -- "the future is here,"
she'd sing. I'd hear tales of romance, the girl with the
blackest hair hanging out at recording session writing poetry.
But I didn't know her. I could only embrace the identity I
perceived. I was impressionable and she came on like an alien.
The first time I met her was in 1975 in a magazine. It was two
poems about three wishes: rock & roll, sex, and New York City.
Her photo was stark -- no disco color flash. It was anti-glam,
nocturnal starring eyes, black leather trousers. She was skinny
and smart. She posed as if she were the coolest boy in the city.
And she was. I could only imagine her world through her poems:
telling, truthful, dirty, hopeful. I wanted to meet her and take
her to a movie, but she was so unobtainable and fantastic. I
could only entrust my f