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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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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
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Mind Candy
Attraction flits past the eye but lands at and enters by the ear. It begins in the mind and is heard and felt by the ethereal sense, not seen. Are they intelligent and well-read and thoughtful and, most importantly, are they creative? It starts with the incorporeal exquisite heart. Is it gilded in that golden… Continue reading
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Hiraeth
I’m almost 69 and so still listening to ‘70 synthesizer glam folk. I love the new primitivist, drum pounding, guttural throat singing stuff but Clannad echoes with Welsh Hiraeth, German Fernweh, words American English lacks for want of imagination, that nostalgia for a place that never existed and I would drift there for an afternoon… Continue reading
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There is a light somewhere
“There is a light somewhere.”Charles Bukowski, “The Laughing Heart* How to write or paint the dark from the bottom of the tar pit of anthropocene extinction without resorting to the calling bottle of Poe-etics? When you remember spirits as disparate as Bukowski and Lenoard Cohen can see that glint of light like a star seen… 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 