Exclusive Offer Inside By Curtis Blazemore

 

Greetings, I am J. Jackson Rappaport, street poet, expressionless anti-conceptual glitter sculptor, President of the Board of Directors of the Greater or Lesser Metro Neighborhood Arts Council, and I am guessing right now you’re wondering: are they currently seeking a new name? One that affords a catchy, glossy acronym? Donations are not why I’m writing, but, as you ask, yes, I do make a habit of relieving patrons from the burden of too much cash on hand. The receipt can say whatever you like.

Note that our stable of local artists can paint you into the picture holding a cashier’s check against any fantasy piece of ass you’d like. Add an extra ten grand and I compose a poem in your likeness: TV game show, Hollywood noir, Internet meme, not to mention an enticing array of middle age secrets. No confessionals, of course. Poetry of place will always place you in the middle of things, humbly heroic, with an adoring blue-collar audience that insists on your receiving extreme financial and sexual reward.

Publication of your poem nominates you for the Pulitzer Prize, the Nobel Peace Prize, and the Popular Independent Party’s candidacy for President of the Recited Mistakes of Ammo-Sexualism. Needless to say, the “size” of your American generosity toward the Arts Council proportionally increases your odds of winning. Size isn’t everything, of course. It’s the only thing! Lucky for you, we’re always doing business. Galleries and galleys await your command, Captain. What good is your ship if it doesn’t cut water? Get out of dry dock. Set sail for the high seas of cultural capital today.

Curtis Blazemore has been on the planet far too long, publishing various works in between having bad luck and making people rethink their faith in humanity. No matter. He sees sentences in the exhaled smoke and scribbles furiously. He hopes someday to be able to afford a Greyhound bus ticket to Graceland.