Riot Dust

We strut down catwalks paved

by riot dust

particles, kween. It settled and—

when mixed with our poz

blood and untethered tears

cleaned up by our butch

sisters–became a red brick

wall which then turned into

a red wig snatched by armed

forces and only regained by

marches down the people’s

throats. The stellar stilettos

chipped the steps

with a capital C when the masc

-ed men cheered from the

back. Your limp wrist

is a symptom of overly exuded

rage. And rage on. Raise

your flag over the heads of

the money mongers dressed

in shimmer and the archaic

Draconian governance slipping

you sleeping pills. Raise it

over the gasped mouths

at St. Patrick’s and the

guns in Florida. We fly high

because our women blew

down doors with feverish

breathe-dragons setting

fire to the mall, reaching the

cowardly silent throne.

Riot dust in

your bleached hair, riot

dust on the mink you

wear. Riot dusk on your

nail polish and dangling

bracelets. Riot dust on

each nude pic, riot rust

on DL, riot dust on

each parched soul

who sacrificed brunch

so that we can relish

on hard seltzers.

There’s riot dust everywhere.

Add a dollop to your

outfit and report for duty.