Stigmata 2021: Enough Purple

“No one really cared for it at all; not the gravity plan.” —Modest Mouse, Gravity Rides Everything

No one really cared for

the eventual and foregone:

gravity.

You can beat the devil’s fiddle,

you can cheat time itself,

we’re still working on gravity;

Koyaanisqatsi:

a rocket-booster, disgarded, falls eternal—sputtering to Earth,

through the Eternal Blue.

Enough blue; at dawn—Lucifer’s hour—

I find enough

purple.

Enough to begin to begin

to write the poem of myself:

I write—

I write my body electric:

Red is DESIRE; blue is COMPUTER;

but the body,

the body is purple.

Transubstantiation—

Lord! My Lord! Why hast thou—

—why hast thou

forsaken me?

And Jesus, in sorrow and dread for his old father’s folly

came to Earth, suffered and bled.

Each of my poems is MY stigmata,

made anew through me—

arisen at the third day, me—

John The Baptist’s Ex-Boyfriend;

Me, Judas’ favorite hook up, me

Generation X older brother to Jesus.

“Jesus, you’ll lose yourself playing

those salvation games,” I warned him;

he ignored me, and lived

to regret it, lived to see

that I was right about everything.

No.

I write no scripture.

I’m a poet, true.

I don’t owe you anything,

but I’ll stick around

for #yesallFrancisBeanCobains.

Brian David Thedell-Luke Skywalker

will stick around.

I’m still here—poet all these years—

here through my Eternal Siberian Nights,

napping with a new boyfriend and one Chihuahua.

I’ll be the Poet Kurt was too tragic to be.

I’ll stick around until I’m:

Obvious,

Infinite,

Eternal,

Sweet. Salt.

SYRUP. Syrup.

I am until I am become me—

Brian David Thedell-Luke Skywalker,

also known as Wildchild Midnight

(if you didn’t know, now you know),

also known as The Last Unicorn.

Brian Davids without end.

Forever, and

amen.