Within a quality poem, essay or short story you encounter the mind of a writer who is grappling with the very real and daunting task of being alive—an antidote, we hope, to depression and psychosis. The rare act of reading good literature online, then, is like apocryphal Hasidic sex: the writer is the maiden, bare, inviting, pulsing with life; the reader is the ravager, probing and inflamed; the Internet is the vast thin sheet that separates the two; and we are the ragged hole in that sheet.

What we’re saying is what art has always said: insert yourself (fingers, tongue, then pulsing heart) through us to discover what warm depths lie beyond. We just want to get your brain wet. Call us crazy for trying.

­–The Editors

Wag’s Revue