i hate tim kelly.
he didn’t dump, impregnate, or infect me.
he wrote shoddy take offs of good musicals.
i hate tim kelly.
mr. fuqua, my seventh grade glee teacher, adored.
despite his profession,
this confession is ha-ha not queer funny.
i hate tim kelly.
i hate the one role he reserved for the browns
like hurricane smith’s mysterious foreigner.
cursed and turbaned, the spot on an ivory stage
threatens all with a spatula and death rattles.
now, i reclaim cunt
cause my purple lips create
spoken word out of obscenity.
the elderly white auditioning vag holder
could not call to maya, toni, nikki
as i appear to shout.
still unsatisfied and unrepresented,
my fingerprints smooth away
as i feverishly type my own caste.
my plays are eloquent pornographies
depicting brown sappho terrorists
beating tim kelly with a broken spatula.
naked, exotic, violent, and aroused.
veehaunanifitzhugh 