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Killing Me Softly with K-9s
I go to the forest to manage the stress of living in this dysfunctional city and this cracker-ass backwards state and this disintegrating country. I go to hear song birds and the cries of the water birds, to the chorus frogs celebrating the puddly places after it rains, for the quiet when it comes. I… Continue reading
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Fifth of July
Yesterday I posted here a poem titled Moloch which was basically me riffing on part two of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl out of my own and more contemporary experiences. Shortly after I took it down and replaced it with Quiet Fireworks. I then posted a video on the socials of a small upside down American flag… Continue reading
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Venice’s Relentless Tides
Fuck whoever is behind the crossbar.This is not about who was crucified and why. This is introduction to Western Civilization. Read the syllabus, do the work or you’ll nevermake it out of the auditoriums.This is not a safe space. This is the world you aspire to inherit in all its glorious horrorsa British Museum of… Continue reading
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My Friendly Corner Conglomerate
I went online in the Walgreens app and asked to refill the prescription which, the bottle on my bedside said, had one refill remaining. The app promised it would be ready by 1:00 p.m. day after next. I call them one day after the day promised to find out that, according to their computer, it… Continue reading
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The New Inhumanism
They are building the future, as their fathers did, mechanistically; not of iron with its Vulcan furnaces and miraculous Iroquois beam walkers, but out of sand. They are emptying the beaches to build the last, nth slice of silicone which will awaken and become their pet god. The ocean can’t keep up. Continue reading
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No “Just War.” Just War.
I went up to a panelist at New Orleans Poetry Festival to ask her for a book Plan/K about the golden age of piracy was still in print and explain my worldview is equal parts Pynchons Gravity’s Rainbow and David Graeber. That cascaded from Pynchon into wondering how much of the world of 1984 was… Continue reading
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East of the End of the World
An hour east of the End of the World sign somewhere just inside Delacroix a city is vanishing into America, dissolving wholesale in a Starbucks blender, as if buried in the contaminated sediment of The River; a Las Vegas scale, prime-time vanishing act in which a city is transformed into a waterfront Disney attraction, minus… 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 