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Generally speaking, my poems have been Madrid approved and improved before they leave home; and I cast a cold but kind eye upon his own freakish concoctions. It must be said, however, that I am lazier and less generous than Anthony is. But so is everyone else I ever met. What follows is an edited transcript of a conversation that took place over email, on Facebook, via text message and in my living room.

This piece first ran in Printers Row Journal, delivered to Printers Row members with the Sunday Chicago Tribune and by digital edition via email.

HomeLocal lawyer goes from self published novel to book dealSee all related8 AM: I'm not comfortable with this.

MR: We're supposed to talk about our writing relationship. And this is actually a fairly representative start. You are a merciless reader of my work, refusing to finesse your points when you find my lines wanting.

AM: Finessing points is bad. If I finesse my points, it just gives you something to argue with.

MR: But I argue with you anyway. You nearly always convince me I've learned to trust your sense of what's not working in my poems. But sometimes I insist that you're mistaken that the problem lies in your reading and not in my lines. And when that happens, you eventually come around to my way of thinking, as Urge Overkill has it, "Anabola Steroider Norge Lagligt" about half the time. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. How would you characterize our writing relationship?

AM: Characterize. I would say we help to keep each other's vices in check. You are lazy; I think I'm more charming than I am. So you tell me to knock it off, and I tell you your poem's not finished.

MR: It's true. I shudder to think Oral Steroids Eye Pressure of how many times I would've settled for B's or B+'s if you hadn't pushed me to make A's. (By our lights, anyway. Grading is subjective.) This reminds me that until you graduated 4-chlorodehydromethyltestosterone from the University of Chicago and lost your associated email account, your responses to my poems employed a somewhat byzantine color coding system involving check marks.

AM: I think the pay schedule was BLUE for unbetterable; RED for bad. I went line by line. A check mark meant OK. I remember wanting to change the line breaks a lot and wanting to change the orders of the stanzas. You were always wide open to changing the stanza order. Our big difference about stanza order was, in the beginning, you were OK with these fizzle endings; whereas I want your poems to snap shut like metal boxes. And then the other thing that happens is you put in jokes that I don't understand. I think we had our own proofreader's mark for that. It meant "I don't like this because I don't understand it, and I'm not going to like it when you explain it either."

MR: Well, on my end, lately, our writing relationship entails receiving 10 to 20 limericks from you a day, often in multiple drafts you sent me like eight versions of "There was an old person of Naperville" along with notes about how they're giving you migraines. My task, unsuccessful thus far, has been to urge you to maybe take it easy on the limericks for a while. I believe you are probably now the most accomplished limericist in the world, which, as you pointed out, is like being the top seeded cup and ball player. Let me splice in a sample for our readers:

There was an old man with a springbok,

Who said, "I just can't feel a thing, Doc.

This "buy cheap jintropin online" gazelle on my neck has a numbing effect."

So the doctor examined the springbok.

Want to say a few words about this obsession?

AM: Short version is Methenolone Enanthate Para Que Sirve that Edward Lear pulled me out of my post graduation depression. I had never cared for his limericks, and his drawings always seemed ugly to me. But I had never really given them a chance. Then I suddenly did. So much pleasure. Plus I got intellectually fascinated. How do these things work, why are they funny when they are, how does vowel quantity play into this, and so on. At this point, they have taken over. It's just like when "Anadrol 50" I was writing the ghazals. My mind, undisturbed for a few minutes, reverts automatically to limerick contemplation. The problem is that the ghazals actually Masteron Subq said things, whereas limericks are brainless. Let me turn this around, though. You and I have been texting lately about the issue of "funny" versus "witty." When I told you you were 10 parts witty to one part funny, you were displeased. Say more about that.

MR: You had said that I hadn't written a funny poem in a while, which is the sort of remark I am inclined to chew on. Then when you said I "buy cheap jintropin online" was witty rather than funny, I thought, wait, I'm not funny? I've got some press here that says I'm funny, bub. I know I'm not funny the way, say, is funny. . You see how it spirals.

AM: Funny is rare. Even Lear is only actually funny maybe 10 percent of the time. Mostly he's delightful. Which is not the same thing. There's a passage where Samuel Johnson analyzes Falstaff's humor let me hunt it up I can't find it. It says that Falstaff's humor has this quality of being acceptable to everyone because it's it's this is the part I can't remember. But it's a really nice bit, and would be swell to quote

MR: Ah, that bit allow me to pretend that I quoted it here from memory instead of looking it up when I was editing this piece:

Yet the man thus corrupt, thus despicable, makes himself necessary to the prince that despises him, by the most pleasing of all qualities, perpetual gaiety, by an unfailing power of exciting laughter, which is the more freely indulged, as his wit is not of the splendid or ambitious kind, but consists in easy escapes and sallies of levity, which make sport but raise no envy. It must be observed that he is stained with no enormous or sanguinary crimes, so that his licentiousness is not so offensive but that it may be borne for his mirth.

Yes, that's true of Falstaff. But it's not true of lots of other funny people. You know what are some funny lines see, you're probably going to say these are witty the opening of Robert Creeley's "The Crisis":