Untitled Narratives by Clara B. Jones

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Everything depends upon urban decay and Jacob Lawrence paintings reminding me of Breugel’s when to art was a journey—like Ginsberg searching for phytoplankton on the streets of New York, where Elise typed Kaddish writing poems in her spare time, when di Prima and Amiri had two babies while living on Phyllis Wheatley Boulevard where everything was coded like transferable elements of DNA. Frankly, there are few jobs in America for women who don’t know the colors of South Sudan’s flag or the meaning of sublimation or who can’t find their disorder in DSM-IV. My therapist treats clowns and mimes so I carried a sign that said #DoIMatter?, and she asked me Are you having a bad day? I said, No, but babies are the price you pay for having sex. She told me not to take life so seriously because it is better to minimize error than to…

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