I’m not struck by lightning when I write. Rather I am a neural magnetic container of a creative plasma which occasionally escapes into recombination, condensing into words. This is the creative disease which fluctuates between melancholic contemplation and maniacal creative discharge. Like an instrument it must be tuned to a certain contained waveform so that it does not become destructive of self or others. This is the secret of the blue guitar. It is an incantatory magic that shapes the fire in the mind into song.
What emerges from this are André Breton’s “transfiguring rays of a grace I persist in comparing in all respects to divine grace.” As I have said before, I am not a conventional surrealist. I leave the melancholic cantaloupes at breakfast, the 50-amp fusillade in its metal cabinet. I am rather a practitioner of that oldest incantatory magic shaped by the drum. It emulates the alchemists, to reduce and refine the common world into bright or dark objects of particular interest, an essence of the world as I experience it mortared into recombinant stanzas, illumination of that particular in the crepuscular rays of the solar plasma.
I Sing The Body Plasmatic
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, 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 
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