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If on a winter’s night a crisp crackling hiss
Outside it was minus 41 farenheit, ambient, in the bright, white night. Inside it was 1910 Craftsman all original except the electric stove and water heater circuit, the rest cloth hung from glass posts. You could measure in hands how much horsehair was left in the frigid wall, between seven and ten. The windows were… Continue reading
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US Christianity is Cruelty
I have tried to keep politics off this page, but a recent post by one of my US Senators, Bill Cassidy, just blew a 50 amp fuse. He supports the Blood Red states that rejected federal aid for summer meals for poor kids who don’t get school lunches or. breakfasts for months. He argued “compassion… Continue reading
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Just a heathen, I guess
When The Troth, the Heathen/Asatru organization I joined 10 years ago, published the schedule for the Winter Moot and I saw a blog to Bragi and Odin, I immediately signed up. If you’ve been here before you know I’m a writer and primarily a poet of late, and Bragi is the first among poets, bard to… Continue reading
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Hail Atlantis
All the news in and about New Orleans and I find myself drawn back to words I wrote 17 years ago. https://wetbankguide.blogspot.com/search?q=Atlantis+ Continue reading
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Smells Like Late Capitalism
Duck and coverHave anotherIt’s your favoritecherry flavor Have anotherthere’s no work hereone more day spentdrinking cheap beer. It’s your favoriteCome and take itsoda waterthat’s been snake bit Cherry flavorfactory savorturn the world offduck and cover Hello. How low. Hell no. Let’s go!What’s that? Black cat. Boss fat. Take that!Wrench in. No spin. No sin. We’ll… Continue reading
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My Lost Years
This poem by Charles Olson so clearly captures my lost years, when poetry and I were strangers. The dose for bi-polar stole the lightning from my mind where poetry is born and I walked among the the dead of spirit. La Chute my drum, hollowed out thru the thin slit,carved from the cedar wood, the… Continue reading
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William Burroughs would like a word (or two)
I remember 22 and I don’t mind dying. I always had one last 1957 silver certificate folded in my wallet, coins for the phone, and the way to the next whiskey bar. Repeat after me: 504-522-9771. Manias magnificent opening night after night. The curtain of purple cannot mute the applause in my head. Repeat after… Continue reading
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This Solstice Night
Jera This Winter’s NightA modern Rune Poem of Jera Call up the sun with bonfire.Wheels turn poorly in the snowwithout encouragement. Let firebring stars down to snowy Earthand to eyes bright with wine.If the Moon is dark be solemn,silently watch the stars wheel.If the moon is bright, turn in dance.Drape the garlanded everlastingwith bright pearls… Continue reading
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Yuletide Miracles
Lifted from an old Wet Bank Guide post, during the Long Exile. But I believe in Christmas miracles. A decade ago, my three-year old daughter fell in love with a character called Rugby Tiger, from an obscure Muppet’s movie call the Christmas Toy. Having Rugby Tiger was her only Christmas wish, the secret she shared… Continue reading
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Cool Runnings
When the ladies at work* put up the question on the whiteboard, what movie makes you cry, I had to jump up and write my name and Cool Running, and explain:.at the last, after the crash, after the final “Sanka mon, you dead”, when what’s Derice says “we need to finish” and they carry the… 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 