Purple made the Richter dance,
drummed through gates of every
ear’s resistance, triggered
high heel boot tsunamis,
heck-a-slammed the body
of all guitars, crumble-cracked
the walls of MTV's segregated
fortress, swallowed-up record
label masters over masters —
crushed them whole in jaws
of Paisley Park fault lines.
And God said it was good,
as doves cried happy tears
at the news, and Sheila played
timbales into glee, and Mayte
danced smiles upon their graves.
And God said it was good —
the epicenter of this tint: all its
multi-instrumental stages,
all its sequined tectonic plates.
And God said it was funky —
this Purple, our Purple, Freddie
Gray’s Purple — the sound
of a train approaching on tracks
of a Minneapolis kiss.
Truth Thomas
~