poetry
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The Murdered Poet
After Lorcaand Neruda and some poemthat scrolled away on InstagramFor Renee Nicole GoodThe sun was orange, a burning tambourinewhen they gunned the poet Lorca downfar from Sacramonte. They could not killduende, that tremor in the earth beneath their feetsongs older than the Sultans or the Reconquista.His soul took flight like torn paper leaves, acrossall borders, Continue reading
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Hurray for the Red, White and True
On the occasion of Hitler’s attack on PolandTrump’s attack on Caracas and kidnappingof another country’s president and first ladyThe blue pills kill the back pain spasms from yogabut I’m awake. The ache moves from musclesinto the morning news like cancer run amok.We’re not sorry it’s spread to the mind andwhat we sometimes call the heart Continue reading
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It’s not enough to fall in love
It’s not enough to fall in love. You must learnto swim in it: in smooth and in rough, withor against the world’s current, in warm andin cold, in wind and in rain, in the Sun andunder the Moon, swim together untilyou reach the far side. Continue reading
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The Android Cried Me A River
I wrote this while rereading the Valis before I went to an art show opening of works dedicated to celebrate the anniversary of the 79th occasion of the birth of Philip K Dick The Android Cried Me a RiverOn the occasion of the 97thanniversary of the birth of Phillip K. DickTake heart, the AI chatbot Continue reading
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Stop Reading Berryman’s Sonnets, Dammit
(23) If you don’t have laugh lines and crows feetthe forehead crinkles of surprise and delighthave you even lived enough? A roundsoft tummy to lay my head in bed?Hell yes. What would we even talkabout otherwise? You’re onlyas old as I feel you are. If that’smale gazy you have my entire attention. I’m balding gray, Continue reading
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Not A Children’s Book
I wonder how a book of adult themed poems in the style of children’s books would sell? if it needs some appropriate illustrations. Definitely NOT a children’s poem there is a thing inside my head it wakes me up when I’m in bed imagine squirrels on a wheel frantically spinning with a squeal and I’ll Continue reading
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Clown Face
Brain maniacally pedaling the veledromeof cyclothymia and I can’t stop writingabout the women keeping me up at nightbut only in my dreams and calculationsof the tells I think I see across the tableas my second adolescence wobblesonto the track obsessed with his Big Wheelroaring to run away with the circus with-out ending up in Blue 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, 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 