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Yola Gomez


Half-Breed through sieve & sheath & you have been shorn


& I was born like the rat in the thicket        given

hand outs and praise toward which I         begged

Thanatos      I emerged in estrus feral infested

with urban disease|   I gave    I gave until

I was the steam from the cooling bleached sheet on

a makeshift laundry line|       My               fingers

were Over there        I watched as they moved and

cleaned and cleaned and                 cleaned       my

voice would sing imperceptibly|    From the crevice

meant to           represent me: He was born     thus I

was born     This is my age| His age| The whiter

than     white man that took, took me in, the white

man, the white man that took me,


took me in and I         owed it to him—So says

the court:


I owe him|


& he was born   My white baby   My blue eyes

I watch my hand Over there doing this

doing that which is expected of me|     &     he grows

strong       his eyes grow bigger, bluer        Mine

turn             green-grey       piss yellow       My baby

My white baby & from my father & his father

the blackness turned to coffee colored tones and

drank milk| and drank milk| and envied the moon|

Thus my skin is yellow|       sometimes shimmers pink

or desert rust|       So this line                 turns to

many lines   -pulls me taught in opposing

directions    my  purity is lost along         with family

last names| Three drops and then none?      You owe

him, the white man, the    white man owns you, he

does   He does


He does.

Bodies Without Organs; Reason or Being 

Wracked into  discussing the night 

before silence. velvet brushing against 

pale concrete.  Not yet doom. The 

future is close-impossible. My body,

breaking up chalk paint. Pig fat 

dripping on eggplant. Intending fingers 

duplicated tongue. I am moving, 

singularly, with an awareness of the 

cast I am engulfed in. Each moment an 

attitude. Garlic on breath. 

Hyper-realization, future passé. I

am frightened,​ ​of​ myself and​ of​ my​

constraints.​ Velour lifted, pant. Lips 

dry, lick-wet pursed tight. this 

moment. threshold. 

Confines- construction/erection 

overlap, imprinted into philtrum, 

whispering to hip interstice, a boat 

creaking under the weight hurried rain. 

Her hands/Our hands. Self, selfless, 

pristine. I move towards mediocrity 

upon this 





I want a touch tone. I want the

feel led girth of thrift store

telephone pressed to dripping

cheek. the synchronization of

beeps to fingertip pressings. 

I want the waiting that is yellow

wall paper attached to shoulder-


combination-tethered      without

breathe for howling alarm to

signify my presence. I want to

intrude upon unknown space in

This way. 


I want you. Electra's strap on,

come on my face, use my ways

with your feminine protrusion, I

with lack and you in excess, I

understand-We-She-You are not

Him;  I know this.


Stains on bedsheets fail me, trace hidden crumbs to

stickiness-fruit. A curled hair. My body breaking up

chalk paint. Eggplant sleeping in pig fat.  A boar

paces beneath my window. chirping  rakishly-


sharp; red light tints television screen.

Now the boar is still.


Hyper Sexual Response to External Stimuli: Power Through Anal Phase 

I want to fuck you, or no wait, I wanna get fucked by you and beside you. This and that, this and that. I see your shoes. Grey or tan or black, and perfect with clicks and whistles and each step there is your wide never cracked smile. Your hips laugh, I agonize over your creases. Your

jackets and this and that. Don’t forget that I see your shoes and that walk. And I smelled you. I am lost. So lost. And hey, this one time I said some stupid shit. Ok? But I was attacked or being attacked or waiting to get fucked. Can you tell I’m sober? Or do I mean somber? I am usually alone-but maybe I’ve been alone since birth. Once, I stole a library book, and danced ballet, with teased up high bangs and sharpie lip line on the side. Baby doll with a snipe, lit, hanging out my mouth, ok? I had this bar fight, had lots of ‘em, you know? And I walked in, long strides, my legs were so fucking long and fuckable that night, I had her hold my coat, the creases-see? I had her hold my coat, me and my used-to-be legs, and I punched him in his face. And back to you, about how I know you can’t think of me-or won’t and I don’t care, and back to your hands and how I swell when I see them-me -yeah, whatever. I know you think I’m that vulture thing-taxidermy head but I want to play you out-and trick it and flick it, sure I know. I can’t. So this other time, I sang on a street corner and then danced all night, I had a hat then and I got fucked sometime, I don’t know? I used to pose for dirty old men-nostril flared-you know-just guttural men-and I miss my girlfriend's dick so bad, did I mention that? So yeah back to your twisted up, winding up, flying, jest that just stabs my heart out- oh yea? Eat me out-so bad. And this is sex and violence. And this is sexual violence. sexual violence. You know something I don’t. Can you see my tits-my nipples are hard. Fucking beat me. And I’m saying something important. Take a stroll with me and I’ll tell you more, ok. Head bone connected to anal phase and you, knowing position of power and my cunty response.

Yola Gomez is a first-generation queer Xicanx neurodivergent Femme. They are a grad student, poet/writer, sex worker rights activist, and performance artist. 

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