new old kid on the blog,
with an occasional
old or new poem written off
the old writer's block
There may be a kind of inexorable circuit at work in such matters. Back in the Sixties, coming home after half a decade away in the dread clutches of roaming camel bands and stationery public-house Commies, it was a small epiphany to walk into a smoky bar and learn from Junior Wells that hoodooing and voodooing go hand in hand: Somebody done unhoodoo'd the hoodoo man.
Man oh man, that's what I call black magic, brother!