cryptical envelopment
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The Last Days of May
I was born in 1957 and so I am reckoned by some one of the last of the baby boomers, that generation borne by the parents who went through World War II. I grew up in a neighborhood full of fathers who had served in World War II, some later in Korea, and frankly I… Continue reading
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Epic Dreaming
Enough of this Odysseus in space shit: the intricate plots, my almost lucid character, rational and irrational fitted closely like the parts of a wooden puzzle ball I am desperately trying to disassemble to solve for some hidden x at the center before the virulent alien thing consumes the intricate space station. When I awoke… Continue reading
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Reading Pablo Neruda
and all the other reprobates, I think: broken people make art—and do other reprehensible, sometimes horrific malfunctional things. Artists step outside the bounds of propriety to describe it. Some are cast out because of social deformity. They are inherently transgressive. They sit away from the communal fire. They wander long in the woods. Some transgress into the… Continue reading
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Poète Maudit, Again
I have known all the facets of what the ancient Greeks meant by mania: inspired frenzy, mad passion, a word related to seer. Poetry is, for me, not just an avocation or a talent or a study; it is possesion by a force older than humanity or how else to explain the creation of the… Continue reading
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Easy Come, Easy…Wait WTF?
This is so weird. I’ve never had poems accepted, published electronically and then taken down because I somehow after the fact was determined not to fit their editorial vision. Yes I read the themes statement in the call. On the Theme Blue Spring – Recollection & the Interior Life Recollection Cultural memory and ancestral reverence.… Continue reading
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THAT BRIGHT MOMENT
YOU ARE TRAPPED IN THAT BRIGHT MOMENTWHERE YOU LEARNED YOUR DOOM— Samuel R. Delaney in City of a Thousand Suns Whether it is Doom in the archaic sense from the Anglo-Saxon and Norse of the totality of your deeds and reputation and the consquences thereof, the story of the Hero; or, the Doom imposed from… Continue reading
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Poète Maudit Part Deux
Being a conduit for lightning is difficult for those around me when it spills over into incesssnt chatter or abrupt irritability so I try to keep it locked in this office like Frankenstein’s monster, venting mostly on the page. Continue reading
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The Only Worthy Lotus
Walking is meditation if it is morning chorus and kaleidoscopic green. Not stillness. Not silence. Not transcendence. Follow instead the breath of everything. I don’t want to escape this world but instead to live deeply within it. I don’t want to approach the lotus unless I can wade in to admire it. Walk widdershins around… Continue reading
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Dead Zone
My butterfly plants draw only waspsThe mosquito truck passes (again)incidentally erasing the dragonfliesLawns around are perfectharlequin green rectanglesChildren search in vain for a dandelion to make a wishfor butterflies & dragonflies Continue reading
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The Green Fellow
Walking is meditation if it enters into sudden birdsong and kaleidoscopic green. Not stillness. Not transcendence. I don’t want to escape this world. I don’t want the lotus unless I can wade in to admire it. I want to enter into this world as a duck enters water, as a towering tree enters the earth,… 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 