Back to the blogs after my little holiday tracing the gunrunning trails of Rimbaud’s post-poetry exile for a prose poem comissioned by Harper’s . . . more like excruciating editing on my novel of my wayward small-town youth, slowing picking away at it on sober nights, until I’m sick of being boiled alive in this cube i call home during this record hot summer of war until I can’t take it anymore and am forced out into the streets and into the bar where I brainstorm and bullshit which could be loosely called New World Disorder 2.0 (set for release in 2012). OK. Outta the way, bitch. I have a few posts to get off of my chest.