“In Honor of Drag Queens”

Dry ice floats past enigmatic women

Statuesque giants in six inch Manolos,

gyrating a rainbow of shimmering dresses.

Glitter and coiffed hair spilling onto the stage,

as male alter egos

linger behind the curtains,

watching their sissified selves perform

to Madonna and Cher.

Queens sashay in twelve inch Manolo Blanics

down a narrow stage,

as though Fashion Week in Paris

has invaded the dive bar nightclub

us queers know or Jacque’s,

while they mirror the words

their Janet Jackson, Britney or Madonna

“sang” and danced to.

Cover Girl and Mac make up products

Smear down a queen’s

rugged face,

the only sin

for using a cheap

lash adhesive and being fabulously inept

at drawing the curtain

to her own masculinity,

and dividing herself

so that she splits perfectly in two

so she can fit into the binary.

Chi Chi La Rue, RuPaul, Lady Bunny,

marvel the crowd,

dancing and floating

above heads like goddesses,

making us forget what it means

to not be “normal”

as they collect dollar bills

for charities made for themselves.

These same goddesses sprint from the issues

Seen painted on picket signs

Outside the club,

Heading into their limousines and Lamborghini’s

For a detour,

as though queer activists

have a gun pointed to their heads

and have tied them to chairs,

forcing them to listen.

Fashion queens like Miss Fame stomp down the runways

and stages in hooker-heel stilettos,

pushing out the gender norms

which have oppressed everyone’s

freedom of expression.

Men can’t wear dresses or makeup,

they say.

That’s for women, ya pussy faggots,

They say,

nothing but drunken old Irish men,

giggling between Otis and Summer Street

say to drag queens leaving for work,

their words sharp icicles

digging their way into the queer’s spine,

the pain only audible

to blood that shimmies down ruffled skirts

and Anna Nicole blonde wigs.