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Promiscuously Autobiographical
“I’m promiscuously autobiographical, but it’s never gotten me into trouble.” Samuel R. Delaney, interviewed by The New Yorker Continue reading
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Carry Water
The sagging pink salvia at far left and the showy Peruvian lily on the other end with its brown limbs struggle as our new to us monsoon washes away remembering to water in the morning. I must be more mindful of their needs now the gastly heat has arrived. I must take care of them… Continue reading
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Entropy
Death is never too soon among us,said the forest.— Jessica Morey-Collins I.If the universe is continuous expansionhow will the entropy of old age play out?Will it be Slothrop’s temporal bandwidthapproaching zero, or a slow dissolution into an ever-expanding aurora of star stuff.A tiny nova perhaps, a final prayerof light out towards whatever is hoveringin the… Continue reading
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Not a Demon-Haunted World
Not a demon-haunted worldof the astronomer’s warningbut one spirit informed,knowing we are the conscious universelooking at ourselvesin the mystery of a treeunmediated by machines Continue reading
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His Toy, His Dream, His Rest
You’re upsetting Henry, said Mr. Bones, but in a good way. No it is not from the longer book from which I stole the title. The post title just fits the stolen stanzas. My lady partner (not my wife) is not “a complete nothing” although the image of another woman entering the scene, which I… Continue reading
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Stop Reading Berryman’s Sonnets, Dammit
(10) Writing poetry is an unnatural act — Elizabeth BishopNothing kinky. Think cuddles: the collapseof two into one, of that one into comfort:the innocent–the long hug, the movie couch–and the afterwards, coming back from blisswhere union is fully consummated by touchskin to skin, hands measuring from shoulder to hip the full depth of desire, while… Continue reading
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My Friendly Corner Conglomerate
I went online in the Walgreens app and asked to refill the prescription which, the bottle on my bedside said, had one refill remaining. The app promised it would be ready by 1:00 p.m. day after next. I call them one day after the day promised to find out that, according to their computer, it… Continue reading
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Once (Again) in a Lifetime
I’m days away from turning 69 and this song by the Talking Heads pops up on a feed and I listen and I realize that this song never ends; it goes on and on and on and on and it’s not 1983 you’re not 25 and here you are still asking and even when you… Continue reading
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Another Anecdote of a Jar
You were never meant to hold that much without breaking, the ad for some tincture promising happiness said. Don’t buy it.There are flowers and leaves and mushroomsenough in the forest. The only bottle you needis one for cool water so you can remain quietly with the unmolested medicine still rooted in the earth, both you… Continue reading
About Me
Mark Folse is a provincial diarist and aspiring minor poet from New Orleans. His past blogging adventures included the Katina/Federal Flood blog wetbankguide on blogspot.com which David Simon told NY Magazine was one of three blogs that helped inform Treme, and Toulouse Street–Odd Bits of Life in New Orleans, which once outranked the Doobie Brothers on Google Search. His work has appeared in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Trampoline, Unlikely Stories, Peauxdunque Review, LMNL Anthology, The New Delta Review, Metazen, New Laurel Review, Ellipsis, What We Know: New Orleans as Home, Please Forward, The Maple Leaf Rag IV, and A Howling in the Wires (which he co-edited).
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Well Bottom Blues 