From the archives – Purple Rain by Alex Stolis

Purple Rain

It’s pouring. It’s the dark bone chilling lonely
un-regal kind of rain. I want to believe in this

imaginary life. Where the bluest expectations
of the sky meet a honeyed sadness balanced

over the horizon. I remember knee scrapes on
Hennepin Ave, faint whiff of weed in her smile

when she kissed me. Oh man, the rain was neon
full color. It was salvation, sex, revolution falling

from on high. The thump thump thump of bass,
the staccato siren-whoop of reluctant cop cars

crawling through the crowd. They had no clue
we were drenched reborn; sanctified, immortal.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, April 29, 2016 — by Alex Stolis

 

Purple Rain by Alex Stolis

Purple Rain

It’s pouring. It’s the dark bone chilling lonely
un-regal kind of rain. I want to believe in this

imaginary life. Where the bluest expectations
of the sky meet a honeyed sadness balanced

over the horizon. I remember knee scrapes on
Hennepin Ave, faint whiff of weed in her smile

when she kissed me. Oh man, the rain was neon
full color. It was salvation, sex, revolution falling

from on high. The thump thump thump of bass,
the staccato siren-whoop of reluctant cop cars

crawling through the crowd. They had no clue
we were drenched reborn; sanctified, immortal.

by Alex Stolis

Editor’s Note: It has been just over a week since Prince’s death and artists are struggling to process the news. Memory is tricky, but this poem’s imagery paints it with such vivid detail a reader can’t help but taste it.

Postcard from the Knife Thrower by Alex Stolis

Postcard from the Knife Thrower
March 31 San Diego

I breathe in the scents of the room; sawdust, incense, faint lilt
of some kind of flower; a wine smell, bitter-light like aftertaste.
Fragrance alone and I know she is gone. I know she was here.

This was the place she took apart her body; restless, rumbling.
All of this is known. Not because of the white slip on the bed,
not the porcelain hairbrush, or the opened then forgotten make

-up tins. It’s the slow languid clack-clack of a broken fan beating
out a song of departure. I’ve been here before. I used to live here.
There, in the corner, where my coat used to hang. In the crack on

the ceiling I stared at while lying in bed. Wide awake insomnia-ed
out of my mind in the afterglow of lovemaking. We are legendary.
We become mythologized soon after death. All it takes is leaving.

by Alex Stolis

Editor’s Note: The first line of the second stanza sold this poem. The imagery is spot on: strange and perfectly spare. There are many poems about absence, but there are few which crack a reader’s emotional box so well.