A poet’s guide to New Orleans, by Cleo Wade

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One of my earliest memories is standing in front of a row of Porta Potties at the New Orleans Jazz Fest. I was seven or eight, and I remember having 20 can coolers around my neck because all the grown-ups were peeing. I’ve been going to Jazz Fest since I was in the womb; it’s almost a spiritual pilgrimage. The festival is not for everyone: it’s hot as fuck…