Laura Yes Yes

Laura Yes Yes

BandSpoken Word

Laura Yes Yes is the smartest, sexiest feminist you'd ever want to cross words with. Her humor is cutting and irreverent, and laden with juicy tidbits of pure brain food. Laura will turn you on, make you laugh, and make you reconsider all of your assumptions.


Born and raised biracial in Washington, DC, Laura Yes Yes has always strived to build bridges between diverse groups of people. She continues to do so with her funny, insightful ruminations on our desires, fears, and social mores.

Laura is a performance poet with a rigorous academic background. She's not afraid to scalp you with a metaphor. On the softer side, however, Laura is a huge fan of young women and loves nothing better than inspiring them to bravery and boldness.

Laura has performed for audiences from Hawai'i to Columbus to Florida, and has generally wowed people with her irreverence, intelligence, and heart.


The Maneater Manifesto

Written By: Laura Yes Yes

Girls should be told tales of cougars and dragon ladies
to spin steel ‘round their spines.
Their parents should teach them to file
not just their nails, but their teeth.
Their tongues, too, should cut like razors.
Little girls should be bred to be man-eaters.
They should be taught as tomboys,
when they’re quick and strong,
or when they scribble lipstick and eyeshadow
all over their faces like warpaint,
and call that mad, savage genius beauty.

Before we ever believed we belonged
to anyone, we owned ourselves.
Before the first date where a dude
lifted an arm to encompass any of us,
before the first sting of another woman’s judgment,
our imaginations had us as sacred whores
with breastplates of gold chain mail.
Our hair was wild, our eyes dark,
and we could save or destroy on a whim.

I’ve forged myself into a woman who fights,
a femme who hides hatchets under her pillow,
who keys the cars and burns the belongings
of those who wrong without reason.
Fuck being docile as a method of survival;
I want to spin in my own blazing fireball.
Other girls may garner more dates
by playing demure and chaste,
but fuck that. My lovers love better.

Let the ordinary women spit shit-talk under their breath,
let the ordinary men hide from the fallout under their chairs:
I am a loose-curled bandida of hearts,
legs gleaming like polished wood,
lips stained red with wine and blood.
I am as Nature made me:
randy, with a body built for it.
So when folks say, “Fuck the man,”
I say, “I intend to.”
Give me one pound of willing flesh
for every time anyone has tried to make me feel like less,
and maybe then I’ll play fair,
sit and knit to infinity in my rocking chair.
‘Til then, I’ll braid cock rings and hyacinths into my hair.

So if you’ve never been eaten alive,
now’s your chance to try.
I promise: I will never fake joy.
I will not stay when it’s time to go.
And in the moments I love you, I will love you
with all of me, unfettered, pure,
down to the points of my very sharp teeth.

Questions of Sexual Intelligence

Written By: Laura Yes Yes

When a man calls you a whore in bed,
the proper response is, Yes, sir!
Unlatch your screen door
and beckon as octopi do:

help me out of lockstep.

Some of us keep time so well,
we’re cousin to metronomes and minute maids,
and we bolt our errant scorpions to the floor –

but the hedonist philosophers composed
SATs to measure sexual intelligence,
and all us nuns should be scoring 1580 or above.

Practice: when you choose the one
with whom you want to moan,
may your cum hit skin like (a) sulfuric acid,
your lips (d) sinister as tarantula legs.

My fright is as to troubadors sewing alien
into their repertoire. I chase them into bungalows
and onto open seas, and I know that I’ve caught one
when I cry. Reasonable me and you

a melange of cock and cunt, balls and tits
clacking in concert, yes, of course
I am a whore in bed because I am fucking
(gerund, active) planting my bicuspids
in the mortar. Troubador,

play the one that says I bury me alive in clay,
and hips are to copper. So this is the equation
for uproarious laughter; I should have listened
to my orders long ago.

The Body Beautiful

Written By: Laura Yes Yes

The Body Beautiful, every artist’s first love.

Take a look through your average art history book
and among the smug faces of Men of Importance
showing off their dogs and land, thumbs stuck in their lapels,

you’ll find harems of naked women.
Women bathing, undressing, reclining nude,
muses prancing around in their birthday suits,
courtesans yawning at the painter, the watcher, the owner.

You’ll find fat-breasted Madonnas nursing bizarre Baby Jesuses,
Lady Liberty with one boob hanging free,
women with little bulb breasts cinched up on their bodies
like apples high in a tree, big white women with undulating curves
emerging from the ocean wearing nothing but their hair and their hands.

When was the first time you saw a naked man?
How long before you learned to look?
How long before you learned that they, too, are the bearers of beauty,
their bodies made up of long lines and curves?

Women, the time has come for us to establish our own canon,
filled with portraits of naked men! There shall be six-packs, oh yes,
there shall be soft and tender bellies, asses firm and flabby,
chests smooth and furred alike.

I tell you, I’m tired of Venus. I want to see penis!
Cocks tiny, mid-sized and monstrous, angled and rod-straight,
circumcised and sheathed. Give me the excellence of testes
lolling loose against thighs or pulled tight against the perineum.

Women, we shall best our artistic forefathers.
We shall have our share of European men, oh yes,
but men of the whole wide world will lie at our feet.
Russian nudes reclining on furs,
Sudanese fellows surprised in the bath,
Chinese nudes playing lutes in the woods,
Iranian men mischievously tweaking each other’s nipples with fingertips.

Women, pick up your paintbrushes.
We have a thousand years of catching up to do.
It is on us to liberate our brothers from the confines of their boots,
their collared shirts, their boxers.
Let’s show them how it feels to be the Body Beautiful,
and show ourselves how it feels to step outside the frame.
Because when culture tells us that only women can be beautiful,
and only men can make great art, then we’re only seeing half the picture,
and beauty itself is incomplete.

So women, pick up your paintbrushes.
We can paint our way out of this corner,
one canvas at a time.

The Miscegenator

Written By: Laura Yes Yes

The Miscegenator

After millenia of war, God looked down from Heaven in great sadness.
Man, his favorite creation, was making a real asshole of himself.
Whole factions of humans bent on killing one another off,
wave crashing into wave, tribe against tribe,
as though difference was all that mattered.
God called in the heavenly consulate and took suggestions.
The counsel brainstormed, scribbling notes onto scrims of cloud in dewy ink
until it rained a host of peaceful ideas onto the city of Washington.
Finally, after a million angel thoughts had fallen onto the heads of the people below,
they found the answer,
the way to quell the mortals' bloodlust once and for all,
a force of such unbridled love,
it would cure the hatred that had plagued the people all existence.
The answer
was me.

I am The Miscegenator,
the race-mixer,
the destroyer of all things pure,
the effortless annihilation of the Aryan Brotherhood.
When I sneeze, neo-nazis whimper in their steel-toed boots,
poor little KKK quiver in their hoods,
forlorn eugenicists weep in their rooms at night,

for I was sent to seduce every purebreed I can lay my thighs on,
every peach-skinned, blonde-haired, blue-eyed sucker I can find.

I am the womb in which all become as one,
the womb that will spill out a million mixed-race babies,
and when they are born, I will name all the girls Grand Wizard,
and all the boys Louis, after Farrakhan.

I am the blesséd blender, She Who Mixeth,
and all races tumble before my might.
You think you are safe in your hacienda, in your kibbutz?
No. Dojo and longhouse alike will fall.
You think your suburbs are safe?
From me?
The Miscegenator??

It is written: I am the undoing of every sect,
the unraveller of every genetic knot,
the one your teenage children will take home and screw,
and I will taint your bloodline, oh yes.

I am Sally Hemmings.
Jack Johnson.
Desi Arnaz.
I am Yoko Ono, and it's time to break up the fucking band!

So to everyone who's with me,
everyone who's cursed with a limited gene pool -
islanders, rednecks, royalty, I'm talkin' to you -
to everyone who believes the world can change,
there is only one way out of this mess,
and it's right here.
God has ordained me with the Womb to Save Worlds,
Heaven's Gateway, the Vaginal Passage of Peace.
I am blessed with the potential to bring everyone together,
but I need your help.

So come on.
Come in.
Change begins with an act of love.
Change begins in my bedroom!
So let's stop talking about change,
and start fucking for it.

Biological Clock

Written By: Laura Yes Yes

His biological clock is ticking.
I can tell. My boyfriend has begun admiring
Asian babies in an untoward way.
He sees them as the epitome of baby,
what he wishes he could fertilize in me.
So he hides my birth control pills,
and every morning I go scavenger-hunting.

Even if I’m flush with vanity
and I like a lot of nicotine,
I can admit that little things are nice.
I like big-eyed pink and brown things,
but small people are terrorists,
they are bandits hoarding
toys and sweets, ruining sleep,
and will I ever get to fuck again?!

His biological clock is ticking like a time bomb,
clicking as he clucks his tongue
and doles out doses of multivitamins.

It’s like living with a sniper
or a mad scientist who’s trying to inject me
in my sleep with the seeds for a tiny We,
an awful nubbin with nascent mommy issues
and tiny fists and feet beating at my womb walls
with premature passive aggression.

Look, I care a lot about what I want,
which is what I have: a man who fucks
like he wants to repopulate the world.
I want to wake up at 2 AM to write poems,
not to change diapers. The only bottles
I want anything to do with come in six-packs.
But he wants to change my body shape.
He wants me soft and irritable.
He knows I’m not a Chia Pet,
but he believes in my potential.

His biological clock is ticking
like a time bomb like times
his eyes get crazy watching Asian babies
in the market like a time bomb.
Oh, nowhere’s safe now.
He looks through the crack in the bathroom door
to see if my period’s started,

and this ain’t fair I know it.
My sister’s eyes are oil fires
the Christmas after her miscarriage.
A baby’s all she wants and all her men
are thieves and stalkers, oh the blood
her eyes squeeze out when they meet mine.
She’s almost forty, and time is

ticking like the boyfriend in this poem,
a walking talking time bomb
figment of my imagination
who waits in bed with suggestion in ‘im,
having already poked pinholes in the condom –

but my real boyfriend is a man
deep and true,
whose eyes glow when he sees children
experimenting on the world around them,
wobbling on their little legs.
He’s going to be such a beautiful father,
the kind of man my sister wishes she could find,
and I might not be the woman
who goes there with him,

but for the first time I’m happy
in this misshapen skin,
in this imperfect body with him.
I am so lucky to have him all to myself,
cradling his long body in my arms,
his head against my breast,
and praying it’s enough
to buy me a little more time—
so I croon baby baby my only baby.


Individual World Poetry Slam - 2009
Women of the World Poetry Slam - 2009
Individual World Poetry Slam - 2008
National Poetry Slam - 2008
National Poetry Slam - 2007

Set List

My feature sets typically run from 15-45 minutes, although I can do a shorter set if booked as an opening act. Each of my poems is anywhere from 1-5 minutes long.

The Maneater Manifesto
Biological Clock
The Miscegenator
Dick Cheney Has Heart Trouble
Questions of Sexual Intelligence
Open Letter to My Gynecologist