You were the funky rocking lamb of our dreams …
Prince, you were our afterparty Gatsby, who was your Daisy, P.R.N.? Was there a green light across the Mississippi?
In a metaphor I compared you to the great entertainer, the attainer to entertain, putter-onner of shows, inventor of self, tosser of your own guitars, licks you own
American Mozart, you danced! Expressive Edison of the Eighties, inventing sound and time, Ellington of Minneapolis, your revolution was musically televised, love in the right direction
God damn you, hip pain! God damn you, Percocet, and Oxycodone and drugs that steal your soul faster than Goethe, faster than time, than a Sheila E. conga solo, and god damn you too, fame, just for the hell of it
Brave Mercury of the Stratocaster, imaginer of shapes, colors of sounds, o’ today, always in April when the windy winds come
You were the funky rocking lamb of our dreams, the dreams of decades and high heels, kicks and splits, a seemingly endless jam session of a life, weary, no more
Purple nights, there had to be some
R.L. Buss has written five books, including Life Between Cigarettes and Suspicion of Indifference, and his fiction, poetry, essays, photos and commentary have appeared in publications such as San Diego City Beat, Happy, Impact Press, San Diego Free Press and the museum of americana.