ISSUE TEN | SPRING 2018
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
severance.
|
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-
head-cocked
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-
jutting-snorting
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.