cryptic envelopment
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Death Will Tremble to Take Us
Charles Bukowski from a Life Magazine, December 1988, asking famous people for the meaning of life: Continue reading
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It’s All Yoo Much
The original long take: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1nYJ8ouIAsjb8ZXRsOw62J5QaOwLr9ecO/view?usp=drivesdk Continue reading
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You have the blood of a poet
“You have the blood of a poet. You have that and always will. You show, in middle of savage things (that I like), the gentleness of your heart, that is so full of pain and light.” Federico García Lorca, from a letter to Miguel Hernández wr. c. April 1933 Continue reading
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We’re really beyond that
One woman wrote, “I am afraid that what I want to say will not be important enough.”on reading this statement, another student remarked: “You should drop that part. we’re really beyond that.” “Notes re: Echo,” Sept. 8, strophe 3Kathleen Fraser The books I brought to the beach: Epic Postmodernism an Anthology of Contemporary Innovative Poetries.… Continue reading
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The Ragged Hem of Ocean
February 26. Covered 172 miles. Cloudy sky, grey sea. Nothingness. February 27, Covered 94 miles. Blue sky, blue sea. Nothingness. — Two log entries from Bernard Moitessier’s The Long Way. This is not the ocean, these mild ripples washing the crowded shore. It is merely the edge of the thing, a ragged hem. The loud,… Continue reading
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This Machine Kills Fascists
I—just—can’t anymore. I’m falling apart. The world is falling apart. I just want to fall into your arms and sleep. But this is not some stupid, self-induced hangover. This is a house fire in a hurricane in a pandemic. With zombies. Fast zombies. Why is double-tap funny in a zombie moviebut you have a lot… Continue reading
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Divine Aphasia
title from a line in Lucky’s speech in Waiting for Godot—Samuel Beckett They took my hat. Yes I was rampaging mad drunken unsteady ever ready like an electric cat on a hot tin roof and glorious glorious the invasive Blakean angels and writing my God writing writing all the time writing. Some said it was… Continue reading
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deadfall
deadfall isn’t death: a native feast for mushroom and ground cover, for all that crawls beneath the leaves and all that climb or call from trees. Continue reading
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Hello?
Me, lying in bed eyes closed but awake (I think) and hear Patrice clearly say something. I respond . P: What? Me: I was just replying. P: I didn’t say anything. Me: I heard you. I’m not asleep so it couldn’t be a dream. [beat] P: Sometimes I think aliens are trying to communicate with… 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 