Well Bottom Blues

Thinking of updating my bio.

Mark Folse is a UHF poetry ghost drifting in from the 20th century, transparent as the thin banker paper of old Norton Anthologies and just as relevant to today’s million-transistors-to-the inch Poetry Industrial Complex. He echoes 60+ years of reading like a theremin humming Tennyson. He idolizes Wallace Stevens and John Berryman and Mr. Bones is a hill he is prepared to die on. Still reads Brautigan and Bukowski for gods’ sake, and is stuck on modern sonnet forms like a broken mechanical-button car radio. Finds Aurthur Sze tedious. Studies Best New Poets like an alien with the Voyager golden record who says: whatever. Wrote a Jericho Brown Duplex just to prove he could (because forms!) but usually doesn’t want to try to fit in. Writes seductive love poems to women he shouldn’t because all men. Owns a well-annotated Cantos on the shelf beside an equally well-thumbed Companion and reads Icelandic Sagas for fun; probably a crypto-NAZI in spite of an extensive FBI file dating back to the 1970s Socialist Workers Party. He has a bad alliterative and accentual stutter and drools vowels. Tercets and quatrains and sonnets, oh my! MFA dropout and not a team player. Published but rather erratically for 20 years and has no collection. (Loser.)