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
~















































