S.A. Griffin's words shoot across the page, piercing readers directly through the heart and brain. His writing is the literary version of a Jackson Pollack painting, only instead of paint, S.A.'s work is made of blood, sweat and tears. Sardonic and sharp, forlorn and joyous, he writes like an angel-eyed demon with wings made of vintage onionskin typing paper. His work- hell, his life- is informed by the Beats and their aesthetic, but he veers off into dangerous, previously uncharted territory. This book is S.A.'s own post-modern literary reality show, full of phrases that are as open to...