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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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Quiet Fireworks
I thought Yates’ bee loud gladewas all fanciful talk until I heardthe elderberries’ high mass sung Continue reading
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The Misappropriated Mermaid
The misappropriated mermaid lords itover poorly paid women told to smile while taking orders. We all are thoroughlytrickled on again. I no longer own a house to leave to my children to bicker overor perhaps to share because who can afford one on their own anymore? It’s toast, hold the avocadoes, from now onin this… Continue reading
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I have got to go fast
Three times must the wheel of blindness turn, before I look without fear at the powersleeping in my own hand…— Czeslaw Milosz, “Slow River”I am not only writing and revising furiously as I look at the hour glass and see the bottom half mostly filled, I just finished all of Glück, a hefty and intoxicating… Continue reading
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Open Toes at the Wrong Party
“I went out to the hazel wood,Because a fire was in my head”— “Song of Wandering Aengus,” W.B.Yeats So I went out to the forest and forgot to change my shoes and decided just to walk in my slides wearing these open-toed bamboo brace things for my Achilles, trying not to catch anything between my… Continue reading
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Automatic Walking
I have an incorporeal compass insidewhich, when the trail splitsor crosses, knows which way to goas if the life inside chooses fromamong the countless greenshow to visit the feathered cousins & I visited green heron andsaw the egret atop the piling anhinga just a flash of wingshis sharp call across the lagoon & Soon City… Continue reading
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Howling at the Moon
I think the poem I wrote to bring and read last night’s Howl Loud, the monthly meet up on the blue bridge at Bayou St John to howl at the full moon was too political, a buzz kill, even though current events were the inspiration for this event. I’ve already written the poem for next… Continue reading
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Going Quiet in the Forest
For a forest friend Going quiet in the forest is exhilarant living.Leave your sugar frosted lattespeaker phone in airplane mode.Choose wild cherries and passion flowers.There are thrills in trills in the trees,the slow dance of coasting birds,frog song conga lines at dusk.Go quietly and with someonewho stoops to toad stools; stops, looksand listens with hawk-sharp… 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 