black wednesday

the only black people are here

day working on the radio

pushing past retirement motown

scouring the souls of

unknowing, over caffinated





after they shot her repeatedly and fatally in her own home,

their new chief, wondered aloud,

“what monster must they have seen?”

he saw his grandma.



is the pain different when you can say,

he looks like my cousin

my brother

my son.

is the pain different when you must say,

he is my cousin

my brother

my son.


is my saddened bystander pain anything?

will it ever be?

mysterious foreigner

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.