This is how I love Patti Smith:
I sit on my stoop at 11pm on a Saturday night, watching not much of the world go by (most in my hood are tucked in houses, in crooks of arms) and I smoke a clove and a half, feeling high from the heady mix of herb, fiberglass, and eugenol and read this:
An artist wears his work in place of wounds.
I'm giving you the good-bye
firing you tonight
I can make my own light shine
and darkness too is equally fine...
you died for somebody's sins
but not mine
Freedom is...the right to write the wrong words.
Leaving you tonight with thoughts of living and dreaming with abandon.