 of all the materials that I explored at Hormel Center, these were the ones that stuck out to me, and it's not just because there's a Wizard of Oz picture on it, although that definitely helped. These are the scrapbooks for somebody named David Sabato. So, David Sabato came to San Francisco in the 90s. We have a lot of stuff in common. We have some familial roots in Honolulu, or both strippers, just kidding. And he's a drag queen, okay? Yay! So, it wasn't just any drag queen, but the preeminent drag queen of the late 90s in San Francisco. So, hosted events at institutions that still exist today, like The End Up, Benchen Barn Oakland, which is ironically where my mom partied in college. Yeah. And at the end touch on Polk, which was an Asian club that my drag mom got her start at. So it's like so many connections. Not only that, but she was very politically active. She contributed to the Americans with Disabilities Act, the AIDS Bill of Rights, fundraised for a lot of prominent organizations and causes. So this rich, robust legacy. And somehow, suddenly, inexplicably, she disappeared. Some speculated it was HIV-AIDS. Some said she went to Oklahoma, but I'm like, I don't know about that. Which is unfortunate because I was born. And I really could have used a role model like that, you know? So my piece is called Where's Desiree? And it's a speculative poem on where she is. Okay. Desiree is not on Tinder. She doesn't have a cross bit bod and a beard trimmed like a white flight suburban front lawn. She is not a 9 p.m. noise complaint filed over someone's daughter's quinceanera. And she would never wear Google Glass on Bart. Desiree is your best friend, pleading you to not text that dude back because one, he's a Gemini. Two, I'm like, I'm waiting. Julie, sorry. Two, like, everything is in retrograde right now. And three, if he doesn't like Cardi B, how cute is he really? Desiree is at SF Pride 2008. She is a loop of beads thrown from a sunbaked rooftop that, even from stories above, miraculously rings the neck of a queen walking below. Oh, that worked out a lot better in my head. She does this consensually. And as the queen looks up to see who bestowed upon her this holy-ass gift, realizes that, oh, M.G., it's Alex's ex Chad, the go-go dancer who broke Joshua's heart, who left him to have a three-way with Joshua's play party DJ and Honey Mahogany, and they're a threple now. Yeah, that, Chad. But you both just smile because you're drunk. Robin's old and better album is playing, and besides, it's Pride. Get over it. Desiree is in Georgia. She is the purple rhinestone butt plug that blasts from the crusty butthole of Republican Brian Kemp as his filibusting tantrum reaches its climax in the protest of the swearing of true governor, Stacey Abrams. The butt plug hits the tiled floor with a clang and stunned, the courtroom looks to Brian for explanation. And at that moment, the spirit of Desiree corrupts Brian's mouth to shout, painful, bleeding hemorrhoids. But before the judge can plunge his gavel into the wooden pad of justice, the butt plug, which is actually a high-tech Bluetooth butt plug, resumes playing the Charlie Lane House remix of God as a Woman by Ariana Grande at a nearly deafening volume. Brian kneels and hastily mashes the pause button in. He looks up, eyes are shined with fresh terror. In the back row, George, Brian's gardener, whom the butt plug is named after, surreptitiously mouths, I love you, to Brian. Brian's lip quivers. But instead of saying it back as his body wants, he stuffs it back down and cries. Desiree is in the mission. She is every prom dress at Thriftown, beckoning five-year-old Persia the drag queen who might not yet grasp the word faggot, but knows it lives deep within her, bambying her long as fuck eyelashes, limping her wrists, and adding a dainty hiccup to the back end of her every statement. Persia's mother is nearing the cashier, but her son is nowhere to be found. Socrates, she calls out, mildly irritated. Socrates, or Persia the drag queen, is at once in the store and not. Persia is staring down the aisle entranced by one cardinal red prom dress, all marvelousness and light, as bright and blinding as her future. A gust picks up from inside the store, emanating from this very dress, it seems, as the world around her darkens, and from all around her a voice calls out. Persia. Persia's soul whispers, yes. But from beyond the clouds of her trance rings the voice of her mother, not again Socrates. Persia looks from her mother to her desire, then back again. A single tear collects and tumbles down her cheek. It splits into two, one her true calling, and the other, the empty coffin of her mother's expectations. Persia beelines to the dress, as her mother calls out, so this is it. You're saying, you're a drag queen now. Without hesitation, Persia embraces the dress. In a burst of brilliant color, Persia peels like an exquisite banana, her inner meat pluming out into a sparkling, iridescent tropical bird. Persia turns her beak, so her one good tropical bird eye is facing her now astonished mother. I'm saying, Persia says, in her new authentic, gay-ass tropical bird voice, that the desire to suck dick or get fucked or whatever, that in itself reflects an understanding of one's place in the world. Persia's mother nods bitterly, so be it, she says. And with that, Persia swoops out of the thrift store and off into space. Finally, Desiree is in the White House. She is watching Donald Trump shake a bag of Cheetos into a blender of Viagra pills, well-done steak, Heinz ketchup, and Kikoman soy sauce. I love writing. Donald slaps on the blender lid, a skew, and studies the dashboard. Crush, liquefie, so much text and no pictures. He raises his right hand, and just before coming down on all the buttons at once, his assistant rushes and screaming up, up, up, up, up, up. Donald steps away from the blender muttering. Don't use my Nutra bullet, she says. Why, it's the absolute greatest blender alive. I know, it's just, but his rant is sadly cut off by the roar of the blender. Donald collapses into his chair and flips on Fox News to a banner that reads, Clansmen have feelings too. To the assistant, he tilts his chin up and points to his gaping mouth expectantly. The assistant sighs deeply, concentrating as hard as he can on the smiling faces of his wife, his family, and his children. He steps toward Donald, flips the blender jar, and pats the pallid gray swamp-like muck into Donald's mouth. Donald gulps audibly. A shudder courses through the assistant. Go, says Melania Trump, who is now in the doorway. Thinking the high heavens, the assistant rushes from the room. You used my Nutra bullet. Melania says, you used my Nutra bullet for the last time. What? He croaks. Those pills, not Viagra, says Melania. It's fentanyl. Donald hacks once more. He oh, he jokes, patting his thigh. His face turns from tomato red to purple. Melania saunters closer to Donald. And those steaks, not beef. As she leans into whisper, it's Stormy Daniels. Donald shrieks, eyes crossed and twitching. What kind of woman are you? And in a puff of Cheeto-colored smoke, he is reduced to a cockroach, which Melania smashes with her high heel with a delightful crunch. Silly Donald, Melania tits. I am not man. Melania digs her fingernails into her forehead and peels her skin back. A grip of hair falls to the floor, revealing the evil Republican identical twin of Sarah Hurwitz, Michelle Obama's speech writer. I am free. She squeals in that cement-walled hallway of an accent. Her head spins around, her eyes flashing and worrying, like a long-fated memory of the Vegas Strip. As passers-by from outside the White House walk their dogs and tilt their heads at the lights, speculating, totally unaware of what has become of her president. Desiree is camp and unadulterated queer joy. She will never be the man who mugged her in the Marina Twilight, nor the steel toes of their boots and their tooth-cracking thuds. She is not the chorus of white men's voices who wash her back, telling her again and again that she ain't worthy, she ain't desirable, that she ain't shit because of her race. She is sheer determination, ever pushing the needle of her story towards her light. She transforms that bruise into a smoky eye. She downs that drink, she kisses that man, and she trots onward because the pictures do not know any of this. The people do not come to the show for hearts that hold you like empty parking lots and curse the sun for the shadows it casts. We are here to laugh, we are here to forget. So fix your fucking wig and get on stage because the boys are all here, drunk, and ready to see you.