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In by Chris on February 28, 2010 at 6:57 pm

The end of the remote had been chewed off for years, but only tonight did the magic signal-sending glass bubble cease to function. There was no way to turn the cable off. He jiggled it this way and that, pressed the power button in a hundred different ways. Nothing – the news stayed on, past saturated with broken concrete and people huddling in blankets. He found the other remote with his bleary eyes, turned down the volume, and found a channel showing a previously recorded match from the Brazilian League. Only then could he hope to painstakingly fall asleep.



In by Chris on February 28, 2010 at 8:45 am

I cannot write with my eyes so wide, accepting and reflecting the things all around. What have I seen tonight. I cannot write with my eyes so wide, accepting and reflecting the things all around. But were I dreaming tonight. I cannot write with my eyes so wide, accepting and reflecting the things all around. God, are you blind tonight? I cannot write with my eyes so wide, accepting and reflecting the things all around. But were I dreaming tonight. I cannot write with my eyes so wide, accepting and reflecting the things all around. What have I seen tonight.

No Parking

In by Chris on February 26, 2010 at 10:33 pm

“No, no,” he said, “I’ll just do it by hand.”
He dipped his wide brush in the bucket of red paint and very methodically traced a circle onto the wall. Then he bisected it with a diagonal line, as straight as he could make it, through the large black P.
“There,” he said, as all the other workers looked on.
“A bit crooked,” said one.
“Wonky, but pretty good,” said another.
To this day, drivers seldom approach this barren warehouse sign, as if it were a talisman warding off their nosing cars, as if its crookedness gave it human power.


In by Chris on February 25, 2010 at 8:05 pm

What’s weird though, man, is the girls in this city. No I’m serious man. They don’t get it; there’s something off about them.

You just aren’t getting any. They don’t fall for your game here do they.

Are you serious? Have you seen me? Do you talk to these girls in this city? They might as well be mirages man. Mirages that make you think there’s a sweet oasis and you get there and there’s just a desert. I know you know man.

Speak for yourself brother.

Oh don’t even try that! I saw you last night man! Totally off.

The Cure

In by Lara on February 25, 2010 at 3:58 pm

This I what it feels like. I had forgotten the rush of endorphins that floods your system when you get it. Your brain is on such a high that you almost find yourself gasping for air because the happiness, the validation is gobbling up your oxygen supply like a toddler on Halloween. It can be completely insignificant in the long run, but right now my skin feels tingly and some part of me—my soul, my heart, my core, whatever you want to call it, feels that this long-awaited reassurance, confidence, self-validation is finally, finally here. And it feels sublime.

Two poems about cats. One dark, one light.

In by Lara on February 25, 2010 at 3:48 pm

Foul oblivion strung out on static walls

Squeezing and draining every ounce

of moisture out of my tenuous existence

Exposing blank white folds

I grapple with the people that

Seek my attention, that seek my very brain

And all my cat can do is blink

Apologies, kind sir or madame,

You see,

I am of that certain

Villainous variety,


Those who lie.


I would not say pathological, but yes,

There is a degree of


And you cat, sir or madame,

Well, if I am to speak the truth,

(and you have been properly forewarned)

Curiousity killed it.

Some poems

In by Lara on February 25, 2010 at 3:44 pm

An old man sat on a street bench,

holding out a large bottle for the masses.

“Here, drink my water and your troubles will go away!”

People scoffed as they walked by

Some dropped a few coins in his lap.

Brisk, in the shadows of the day, seas of people walked past

Rolling plains of individuals and me at the mast

Mountains abound fast

Basking in the plain shadows of her grey sadness,

the moth flickered longingly, inviting in the light

to dance delicately upon her ugly winged madness

They spoke in twisted tongues,

The cold air pierced their lungs

The Pineapple Merchant

In by Wyatt on February 24, 2010 at 12:15 pm

Behind the broken taillight stretched hundreds of miles of potholes sprinkled with occasional chunks of bitumen. The thick air bathed my lungs, and the jungle thrived in tangled masses just off the broken road. An empty water bottle teased my feet and crinkled with dehydration, bouncing lightly with each rut the jeep dove into. We stopped with a squeal, after we saw him: the Pineapple Merchant. Juicer than a bass beat and sweet as your niece in a sundress, his wares awaited. Ten cents and a pineapple later we were back on the road, his smile disappearing in the distance.

In A Disordered Chicken House

In by Chris on February 23, 2010 at 7:21 pm

I was a physicist. When the recipes of alchemy revived themselves and began to pollute my mind, I turned to farming. In a dark chicken house I realized that the disorder of each new day was enigma, that if I could decipher patterns I might be able to leave the disorder of this world for the order of another. After years of observation, a revelation finally came. The world resolved itself everywhere; I was of it but above it. Yet I cannot understand. My vision is a labyrinth; I can hardly relate this in words I may have once understood.

I Wrote A Novel, But Due To Word Constraints I Had To Edit Each Paragraph Down To A Single Word

In by Chris on February 23, 2010 at 7:19 pm

Night. Whisper. Surprise. Moonlit. Chase. Slam. Shout.
Morning. Window. Tiptoe. Vendor. Rendezvous. Boredom. Refreshment.
Hills. Pensive. Plans.
Plaza. Bump. Shouts. Women. Glares.
Officer. Tender. Iron. Deal. Wink.
Fingernails. Dreams. Parting.
Airplane. Humidity. Safari. Caves. Blindfold. Uranium. Militants. Suitcase. Grab. Relief.
Airport. Surprised. Watch.
Giggle. Window. Reassurance. Flourish.
Dream. Grin. Hidden. Charge. Surrounded. Castle.
Keys. Questions. Trunk. Fast-talking. Pleading. Discovery. Struggle.
Cellar. Telephone. Girl. Pounding. Silence.
Smoke. Decision. Officer.
Midnight. Kiss. Shoulders.
Parade. Shouts. Bills. Tripped. Suitcase. Toxic. Riot. Searching. Arms.
Knock. Guns. Slam. Splinters. Shots. Disappeared.
Collapse. Kneeling. Search. Spectacles. Alas. Badge. Bench.
Slime. Rocking. Tears. Moon.

The Growth Of Oranges

In by Chris on February 22, 2010 at 3:51 pm

The sky clears as if a play is about to begin. The setting is an orange tree; each golden fruit is a star waiting to become a supernova.
“Mommy are the oranges ready yet?”
“With a few more weeks of weather like this, Jonah, they will be ready.”
Later that afternoon, Jonah sneaks back into the yard and grabs the lowest-hanging fruit. He holds it to his cheek and whispers to it.
The orange, yet unformed like Jonah, reveals inside itself a fusing, growing pulp.
Jonah sets it amongst the artifact roots and watches as it transforms under the sun.

I Try To Converse With The Women Selling Vegetables

In by Chris on February 21, 2010 at 7:19 pm

I know I am young
The women selling vegetables call me joven
Their hands
Sculptures of the seasons
Remind me
I see sky and dusty rafters
In their eyes
Their talk of weather and prices
Sounds like long-lost wisdom
In three tomatoes
A papery onion
And sprigs of cilantro
Is contained the idea
My idea
Yet unordered
Familiar tastes and memory of the vegetable shop
I’ve altered ratios taught by my mother
Glimpsed secret stairways
Mourning women
Sunrises and tumbleweeds
I’ve placed myself on farms
In caves
On tormented boats
And yet I wonder if I’ll know
When I’ve arrived

Three Poems For The Night

In by Chris on February 19, 2010 at 6:29 pm

Streetlights show the forms of leaves
When tired nights
Moan like lost mountain caves

The apartments are stacked
Lacking the energy to break out
To spring and unfurl
To scatter in sensuous debris
The leaves, the yellow-lit leaves
The people
Who plant the trees and pave the streets
Are safe away
On tile floors
And TV screens

Even if
Insurmountable clouds
Were visible like rigid concrete
Shooting stars would fall
Crashing through the sleepy air
For above the yellow light
The night sings lullabies
To the leaves
Lulling them back to sleep


In by Chris on February 18, 2010 at 12:06 pm

The air was soft, so soft we could not feel it. The last sun burned the volcano. As we brought the goats into their pen, a burping rumble from somewhere above, as of a huge pot of water boiling. The night grew calm.

I awoke weak and drunk. My daughter was dead. The goat was dead. My wife would not open her eyes. I could not understand what was happening. I felt like I needed to escape, but I could not decide from what.

The village lay asphyxiated around me. The stillness of the night addled my slow, tired head.

Two Poems

In by Chris on February 18, 2010 at 11:37 am

My feet are not my feet
Cracked canyons of dust
My feet are the desert
Stains of iron and rust

I cut my legs on stone
With sharpness of heat
Rubbed my face with minerals
Scrambled towards a peak

Dust filtered through my veins
My fears evaporated
Sun snaking through my canyons
Left silence created

Atop the cliffs, forgotten rocks
Naked I gazed across
Valleys draining all my minds
Of myself a loss

I return again, I return
With feet that are not mine
Dust with silent stone beneath
Etched with desert lines

I’ve deserted myself
In a desert

A Lover, A Bear Hunter

In by Chris on February 17, 2010 at 8:03 pm

I was so close to you but you’ve slipped away again. The scent of your hair intoxicated me for those few seconds, but when the moment left you had gone too. All I think of is you. The planet is turning the seasons, the sky grows colder, and I feel that if I cannot find you soon, everything will be for naught. I’ve heard that the joy is in the hunt, that the journey is the destination. Am I losing faith? No, you are all that matters to me. If I am not close by you soon, I may die.

You Must Get On The Plane

In by Chris on February 11, 2010 at 7:54 pm

The landing gear began to swing back up towards the space he was wedged into. The air howling all around him and the sight of the distant ground below gave the whole scene a sort of inevitable, daring feel, and before he knew it he was swinging out under the fuselage of the plane, holding to something, he wasn’t sure what. His determination to get into the plane never once left him. As he swung forward like a child on monkey bars in a hurricane, he was shocked when he saw his hands were grasping straight through the sheet metal.

Some thoughts on people

In by Lara on February 10, 2010 at 5:06 pm

People don’t make eye contact with other people they don’t know and if they do it’s never mistaken for kindness.

People who work at blockbuster are caricatures of people who work at the DMV, but at least they don’t know how miserable they are.

People slap their hands together violently to make abrasive noises to show appreciation for something they think is good.

People stop at red lights when no one’s around late at night not because they’re afraid they’ll kill someone, but because they think someone is watching.

People think people are smart.

People think people are dumb.



In by Lara on February 10, 2010 at 5:03 pm

Stop making that face.

What face?

You look like you’re dying, except your eye is buggin’ out a little.

Well, it’s the same face you got on, too.

That’s ‘cuz I just smelled your cheese omelette and I really wanted to eat it and really wanted puke at the same time. Result: This face right here.

Ugh. Now I don’t want to eat it.

You’d regret it anyway.


So what do you want to do?

I don’t know.

Yeah, me either.

Wanna go see a movie?

Yeah, maybe.

Or we could just sit here.

Yeah, that’s sounds about right.

Dusk, An urban setting

In by Lara on February 10, 2010 at 4:58 pm

This poem is about nothing

It’s about dusk and urban settings

And dark figures in empty corridors

It’s about being shell-shocked to your core

It’s about seagulls on seashores

And equally dirty whores

This poem is about nothing

It’s about dusk and urban settings

I couldn’t possibly tell you more

Except that this has happened,

It has happened before

When the asphalt tore

It tore through my doors

With that awful, awful deafening roar

And I felt it in my pores

Until everything became worn

This poem is about nothing

It’s about dusk and urban settings

Nothing less, nothing more.

Over The Chair Upside Down

In by Chris on February 10, 2010 at 4:44 pm

As fast
As you can
From one side of the apartment
To the other
And jump

To the song
You can’t quite hear
Your hair flops
About your ears
Your arms

Make funny faces
As you
And leap

Stop for
A second
And start again
Until time
Has passed
Your breath
Is quick and happy

Looks new
And actually
Looks really

You hadn’t
Thought of
Are all around now
And maybe
You’ll think them
Maybe you’ll
Around some more

Over the chair
Upside down

Borges And Fforde

In by Chris on February 9, 2010 at 8:28 pm

I let Jorge Luis Borges free in my head and he carefully inspected each of the tiny cogs that operate the vast machine housed within. He prodded at some of the central conceptual motors, causing everything to grind to a halt or reverse for long moments.

Later that day, I released Jasper Fforde into my mind, and immediately I forgot that it was a machine. He shifted time and space in similar ways as Borges had, but he conjured such fantasies that I hardly cared to probe their incongruities.

When my mind was alone again, vestiges of timelessness hung about.

Number 50

In by Michael on February 9, 2010 at 7:21 pm

When it comes to top 50 lists, there are worse things than being 50th.

People will take a good long look at number 1. And 2 and 3 and 4 and 5. Then they’ll look at who else rounds out the top 10.

But then something happens: they skip skip skip straight to 50. “The atrocity!” cry numbers 11 through 40-something.

Not so! We want to see who almost didn’t make it. How bad can you be and still make this list? Who’s the worst of the best?

Number 50- it’s sick and depraved and cynical, but we love you.

Things You Can Use

In by Michael on February 9, 2010 at 7:01 pm
  • The pizza coupons that came stapled to the box.
  • Your parole officer’s business card.
  • The subscription renewal card inside GQ.
  • The movie ticket that’s been in your back pocket.
  • The ace of spades (technically, the other 51 work just as well).
  • The eviction notice, if it’s stiff enough.
  • Christmas card from the aunt and uncle.
  • The cover of Pride and Prejudice, which you had to read in high school or something.
  • Box of Junior Mints, soon to be empty.
  • Back of the notebook of the kid you’re babysitting right now.
  • The folder you use to hold your less important documents.


In by Wyatt on February 9, 2010 at 6:58 pm

I once drew a picture of my house, my friend Katie, and the purple four-petal flower I wanted to give her. The house was red, the grass green, our skin yellow, and the heavens blue. But behind us was just white.

Once inside the picture, I stood on the ground and almost bumped my head on the cerulean strip gracing the top of the world. I looked appreciatively at my house’s windows that provided unfettered vistas out of the page. I looked at Kate, so skinny like a model, and held out my flower.

Clouds walked languidly across the sky.

Washed Ashore

In by Chris on February 8, 2010 at 8:47 pm

The crystal waves pushed
my limp body ashore gently.
I reawoke in a panic,
expecting to find myself trapped
on the wind-scoured deck of a sinking ship.
Every piece of the island,
from the sand underfoot
to the ripe kiwis lying all around,
was a supple embodiment
of my dreams of perfection.
Yes, there was even a virgin.
My legs felt strong
and my mind was clear.
I knew that every person
I remembered in the world
had been lost in the storm,
and I set off into the center of the island.
Yet somehow
its perfection made me depressed.


In by Chris on February 7, 2010 at 11:27 am

High above the dusty and deserted plain, a black speck whistled towards earth. It was a man holding a tire, plummeting without parachute. Tears streamed upwards from his eyes, but his sun-etched face was calm. Every one of his thick gray eyebrow hairs stood on end, and his sandstone hands gripped the tire. Taking a look below him, he suddenly sent a yodel rippling across the valley. Several ravens flapped up curiously. He nodded at them; they seemed to frown back.
He hit the ground while blinking, and only the tire was left to bounce back, high into the air.

Everywhere I Go

In by Chris on February 6, 2010 at 7:52 pm

I woke up. “Outta bed!” he yelled at me from my alarm clock.
I brushed my teeth. “Thirty-seven more seconds!” he bellowed when I spit.
I dozed off on the bus. “Let the lady sit!” he screamed as it picked up more commuters.
I went to the gym. You can only imagine the earfuls I sustained as I huffed and puffed.
I tried to abandon him in the park. He hijacked a St. Bernard and re-boarded my shoulder with a grappling hook.
I went on a date. He catcalled throughout.
It’s so annoying having a miniature drill sergeant pet.

Thanks, Diary

In by Chris on February 6, 2010 at 7:38 pm

Dear Diary, Today I read back through you for the first time in a while (well, you know that! we spent some quality time together, thanks) and I realized that I’ve spent a lot of time writing about bad friendships that I have. Well, I want to say that I have a good one too. It’s you! I mean technically you don’t have feelings, but it’s feeling good to write this so there it is. Thanks for being you! I found dog poop on the lawn. Now I’m tired, so good night. So see you tomorrow night then I guess!


In by Chris on February 6, 2010 at 7:21 pm

The light changed and Hiram stepped out into the crosswalk. He had been juggling for maybe five seconds when one of the drivers honked and beckoned him over.
“Enough!” the man yelled. “I’ve seen enough! One hundred dollars!”
Angry at being made fun of, Hiram did not stop. The bowling pins whirled faster around his lanky head.
“No really! Come on over!”
The clock in his head was ran out and he started down the line of cars. When he got to the shouter, he held his hand out.
To his infinite surprise, the man handed him a single Franklin.


In by Chris on February 6, 2010 at 7:06 pm

“Are you sure? You had better be sure you’re sure.”
“I’m surely a surly girl, sir.”
“Enough sass! Answer the question already.”
I squirmed in my seat for the first time. “Fine. Take the goldfish.”
The robber laughed like a seven-year old playing tag and carefully lifted Arnold’s bowl from the nightstand.
As he left, he said cheerfully, “Maybe your nest egg’ll hatch into a replacement pet!”
I sighed and wondered what kind of person thought that robbing was only fun if the victim was forced to choose between their favorite pet and the money they had in the house.

Incredible Action Adventures

In by Chris on February 6, 2010 at 6:55 pm

Kyle grabbed his toaster oven and ran out his house.
“Stop right there!” the henchman yelled from the front door.
He glanced back to see the ugly man appearing with a rocket launcher. “Unexpected!” he yelled, starting to bob and weave.
“I’ll do it!” came the inevitable high pitched voice.
Kyle laughed to himself, vaulted over a parked car, and made it around the corner of a building. He didn’t stop running for a few blocks, where he had to resist the urge to pop into the corner market for a Snickers.
Then a taxi passing by exploded.
He ran.

A Guy Approaches A Girl Talking

In by Chris on February 5, 2010 at 7:24 pm

“Hey, do you know how when you’re by yourself in cities, you see all the people walking by and start to wonder about what it would be like if you knew them really well, until you’ve convinced yourself that if something just happened to spark a conversation, that old man would quickly turn into a grandfather figure for you? Well, that’s what’s just happened to me, and I’ve decided to take fate out of chance’s hands and create that interaction. What do you say, want to find out if we’ve just avoided missing out on a new and unexpected relationship?”

Jaunt Into Facebook

In by Chris on February 4, 2010 at 8:49 pm

Eric sat down at his computer, pulled up Facebook, and held still as the robot arms warmed up. The last few days the site had been slow, and all he wanted to do was check up on his ex-girl’s activity. Today everything was smooth, and before he knew it the his brain had been gently removed from his left ear and transferred into the two-dimensional world of statuses, pictures, and hyperlink gateways. Like always, it was a wonderful feeling, a kind of Disneyland for the social parts of the mind, and he lost himself far longer than he had planned.

I like to wonder about the lives of people on the Metro

In by Lara on February 4, 2010 at 1:35 pm

The guy dressed in all black complete with a black hat, black scarf, and black duffle bag? He just left his wife, but she had done a color load of laundry the day before, so this is all he had to wear.

And that old woman holding four baguettes and a large bottle of milk? She’s on her way home to make pain perdue and feed her neurotic cat that only takes low fat milk.

And the guy with trendy green headphones and three-day-old scruff? A lawyer but a part-time hipster on the weekends, just to mess with people.

A Conversation That Took Place in A Diner

In by Lara on February 4, 2010 at 1:34 pm

“How long have you known?” he asked.

She twiddled her espresso cup, swirling the remaining grounds as if they’d divine something better than the true answer to his question.

“How long have you known, Janie?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a day. Maybe a year.”

He rubbed his eyes, bloodshot and still lined with purple eyeliner.

“I’m sorry.”

He tried to take her hand, but she slid hers off the table and onto her la.

“I still love you, Dad, but tell Mom already.”

She stood up and gathered her things.

“Oh and Dad? Ditch the purple. It’s kind of tacky.”


In by Lara on February 4, 2010 at 1:34 pm

If she stared at him long enough, maybe he’d come back into fishy existence. He might have been asleep for all anyone knew. Please, please wake up, she pleaded in her mind. They had been through too much together. So much movement and chaos and adventure. She tapped the glass lightly. The fish was belly up, not a good sign. The next day, she took the bowl to the lake and emptied it out. A proper funeral. But was it? The fish awoke and swam away into the depths of the lake. She could’ve sworn there that her fish winked.

An Ode to Proust

In by Lara on February 4, 2010 at 1:34 pm

Sitting in a gaudy Marilyn Monroe themed café, all decked out in leopard print and mardi gras beads, she received an espresso. It came in an equally gaudy tasse. But with it came, a nice surprise – a Madeleine. It was moist and delicious, just as Proust himself had promised, and it transported her, but in a very different way. Her senses were heightened to the delicate crumbs that complimented the sharp bitterness of the espresso. Much like how a girl in her third grade class softened the blow of her parents divorce. She sipped the espresso and took another bite.


In by Lara on February 4, 2010 at 1:33 pm

It was the end of a late night, a fun night. But it was the end. And on top of the fact that it was already unbearable cold, it was almost 3:00 in the morning. And it was beginning to show. Sputters of words and song resounded in the night air.

A gaggle of people stood waiting for the bus, their feet scuffling on the wet pavement.

They stood waiting for the bus, huddling together for warmth.

It was one of those special circumstances when strangers could infringe upon and even willingly share their personal space for a common good.

Wake Up To The Radio

In by Chris on February 4, 2010 at 7:40 am

Good morning Santiago, I’d like to be the first to welcome you to a fresh new day. The sun has risen from behind the Andes and is sending its warmth into every corner of the city. Yes indeed, the same sun for you and me. It reminds me this morning, listeners, of how every time we shut our eyes to sleep, we’re putting ourselves back in our mother’s womb, to be born again when we awaken. Today promises to be a hot one, and how will you take advantage of its new life pouring down all around you?

First, news…

Keystroke God

In by Chris on February 4, 2010 at 12:28 am

Under the keys lies a secret hidden in the machinations of mathematical permutations. Randomness is not the only rule here; there is a subtle god controlling the finger impulses that arrange words from up and down movements. What he commands is often overruled, but more often unfelt and unseen, so that his dictations go into effect without consciousness. If we could separate our writing from his will, where would we be? Would we be uninspired, or simply normal? Yes, the act of absolutely independent keystrokes is certainly the most revolutionary writing we can accomplish, but how can we be sure?

Where To Find Meaning In This Brief Piece

In by Chris on February 2, 2010 at 8:08 pm

Pause after the first sentence.

Don’t be afraid to turn left after the second.

Compare the words of the narrator to what you know about the writer.

When you’ve passed the tinge of irony, be on the lookout for a twist that reverberates back towards the beginning.

Continue on.

Don’t forget to let it get past your analyzer to touch on your emotions when necessary.

Duck under any low-hanging, convolutionary words or ideas.

Ignore the tangent on your left.

Compile it all together in your mind before reading the last sentence, and you should find the meaning quite accessible.



In by Chris on February 1, 2010 at 7:06 pm

Cheesy melted sandwiches. It was his job at Grilled Cheese 2 Go. Per company policy, he scrupulously wore his tin foil grill and sagged as far as health standards allowed. He daydreamed as squares of bread fizzled down, of wearing suspenders at a cluttered desk, of serving his sandwiches to the high school girls out at the front counter. Cheesy ate one or two of the sandwiches each day for self-quality-control. One day he came up with what he thought was the most philosophical thing he’d ever thought: that it was really himself he was eating. Good for you, Cheesy.

Most Days I Dream Of You

In by Chris on February 1, 2010 at 6:57 pm

Either I fell from the heavens or you left this earth. Some nights, I’m far from the city, the clouds have somehow left, and I lay trying to reconstruct you from your constellation points. Most days I dream of you.
But it may as well be an infinity of space, or an ungraspable dimension, or the vicissitudes of memory that separate me from you.
Someday I know, I too will leave this world, or you will return unexpected as I walk, and I wonder what will happen then. Will I recognize you there on the other side of these times?

Man Talking On Bus

In by Chris on February 1, 2010 at 6:50 pm

That doo came down here agin today, he was try’na tell me bout how his mama was sick or sumshit. I tol’ him t’ jus’ leave, but he wudden havin’ it. Nah, he says t’ me, man ya gotta buy this dope I got, an’ I said I tol’ you man, I ain’t havin’ it. I stays wit mine, ain’t buyin’ no dope from some kid, I been aroun’ here too long. Kids ev’rywhere out here man, tryin’ t’ tell you anything jus’ t’ move they shit along. Sad. Us old homeys know, we don’ mess wit’ dat no more.


In by Michael on February 1, 2010 at 3:34 am

Sometimes a photographer snaps photos that are not meant for the world at large. He takes a photo with such subtlety and nuance that it could only be appreciated by a fellow photographer. The result is a photographer’s photo.

Comedians are the same. There are jokes that play on the pain and art that go into writing a joke. There is such thing as a comedian’s joke.

Some of the best writing is only appreciated by other writers. A novelist’s novel or a poet’s poem.

The only way to appreciate true genius it to take a stab at it ourselves.