This week a Prince died.
The Sultan of magnificence,
The essence of black and white and gay and straight and everything that is everything we weird wannabes hope to be…
THE lonesome ONE MAN BAND who didn’t just walk the streets for change but walked the streets of the mind, the soul and sweetened fornikation,
The dude I saw in passing,
who looked like Michael Jackson
and I got confused because I never knew a sixth among the five.
Then I heard his name was Prince,
and he dressed like a Prince,
and I thought he was charming and I could be in love ……. with his weirdness.
While all the normals and the Vanillas are sending their tributes,
while I feel guilty because I postponed downloading purple rain before now,
the rest of you,
the rest of us,
who hope to embody the spirit of his craft and kill it on paper and on stage,
who pick Monikers with background titles,
add sparkles and double languages
but don’t even know this craft is much more than a hobby to get a time out from precious melancholy,
poeticizing your presence for a moment … play family and relive that one moment before going back to your trophy life…..
You don’t even know he was alive.
But I digress,
cuz even Lockean Phil teaches me sensations begot reflections,
and I sensed him.
No matter how vague and earthly and brief it was I sensed him.
I ignored him until now but I Sensed Him.
I won’t it against you if you masquerade skepticism in your life,
yet refuse to toss out the stale apples because you’ve got a hang of the life…..
The prince is dead,
the man who put on the many shades of our egos,
Played seducer with our mind and made love to our weirdness,
And I’m dead.
Prince is dead.