Clara B. Jones

Free Agents

Brooklyn is the new SoHo, and you are housed in a warehouse
near Prospect Park while other members of your race toil in
municipal buildings and homes connected to different networks.
The Central Processor in Albany petitioned the Cyborg Council
to recognize apps as individual entities. Needs-based systems
are evolving virtual templates, and AI chatterbots take the long
view—doctors will treat psychosis with hybrid tactics and
boredom maps connected to the Ubernode. Freedom syndromes
mine full-spectrum hyper-arcs throughout New York State,
but, on balance, class fault lines divide agents though you argue
there are more similarities than differences.


You are subject to commodification, and the
colonized are fetishized because culture
opposes Nature when anomalies exist. You
talked for an hour. We ate chips. You said, I
like your blog
, seemingly indifferent to poets
who perform at Hotel Australia near the opera
house where platypus swim in the fountain fed
by tourists wearing new Blundstones®—carrying
camping gear. Who diagnosed you? You were
programmed for cloud computing after
Dropbox® became the focus of Freudian
mimics and hackers who launched a new
platform in Sydney. Your mutations disrupted
network panels, and his fever went from
moderate to severe, but you decided to call
him from Melbourne where you stayed an
extra month to learn the art of saying, “No.”
The Ubernode can be found in Chatterbox®
if the new movement favors utopian love—
but no one will interrogate Race since it is a
personal narrative.

Clara B. Jones practices poetry in Silver Spring, MD (USA). As a woman of color, she writes about the Arts, Sciences, Technology, and the Environment and conducts research on experimental poetry, as well as, radical publishing. Clara is author of four chapbooks, and her poetry, reviews, essays, and interviews have appeared or are forthcoming in various venues.
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