drag queen difference.

The things that make you smile, this side of a waltz, it's said, are the hag of the dream that makes

the cool  side of our mornng blankets rustle. My friend from Mississippi told me a tale of the

 

haiku witch, who with her five, seven and five syllables visits your room before you rise and sits

on your chest as you, half sleep and half awake, travel to the gardens of Hail Mary's.

 

But when you wake, if you wake, you rise quickly and run from the firm spot in the bog to

the Maxwellhouse hailstones or the Sanka uniform outgrowth.

 

My drag queen friends are literary figures reincarnate. Similar slaves have existed, I suppose, in

those hackneyed dark travels to womaness.

 

Henceforth we shall define freedom, not as a dream, but as a wig; a sebaceous threadlike

outgrowth that sits on your head and exclaims expression. I told her that drag was funny.

 

Not ha-ha funny, but the last ditch attempt to run out of the room before the garments of

the witch arrives. Walking past porcelain her hand had to be held. The right hand, you know,

 

the one that settles the single edge blade that shapes the eyebrows; the hand that absorbes

so much ugly cream it resembles the zirconium crested skull.

 

Conforted, she always says to me to trust in mankind,

trust in the protocol of difference,

trust is sequened skirts,

never touch her made-up face,

trust in the formula for poetic material. To

trust her glandular love.

Reviews

[Emily B]

you are a bright and shining star come to earth to walk among us

[sienikeha]

Ah! god, you're good.