“Please: show me a Real Artist. An Artist who paints in cold blood and hot shit and black fire…  an Artist who makes poems with home-made  hammers and stolen daggers… on new cars and i-pods and department-store crèches… an Artist who won’t kneel to kiss The Dollar’s ring or queue up to glue on a shit-eating grin at The Border or stand at attention to take one up the ass for ‘our troops’ or  ‘the children’ or any other  Trojan horse of Stalinist sentimentality designed to promote the Devil’s favorite charities. Show me a Real Artist and I’ll return the favor and show you the Dead, the Ignored, the Severely Fucked-With… I’ll show you the Mocked, Reviled,  Banished, Quashed, Bowdlerized, Prosecuted, Fiddled, Abandoned, Betrayed, Indigent and Utterly Taboo, too.  Show me a Real Artist so we can get both our names on a List, okay?  Show me a Real Artist and we’ll pack our bags in a hurry and get the fuck out of Dodge, dragging the exquisitely desecrated, mutilated and desiccated corpse of the Real Artist with us. We won’t get far but Far was never the point. Trying will be our Masterpiece. An homage to the Real Artist. Will you show me one now? Will you? For real?”

—Monologue Excerpt from Anaïs Isherwood’s  “The Xmas Condition”*







*as sock-puppeted by Cooper Hoffa**

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR [letters are vetted for cogency and style]

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