Dear Dean Kemp, I'm not sure if you remember me. I used to attend school, engaging in writing, hidden on the eighth floor at the Art Institute. As honey attracts flies better than salt in wounds, I hope I'm catching you not at a busy time. Of course, you have some time to relax by the pool, kill time, as if there were no problems tomorrow to solve like forest fires engaging fire fighters throughout California, where I learned to salute, my pledge of allegiance, as an immigrant's son. Forgive me if the shoe perhaps never made it to fit the other foot, my chance to rise fell short.
As you made crystal clear, money in one account cannot fund poor liars, relapsed poets of junk without talent or style, who beat the streets for cash. Nevermind the homeless hovering over steel grates in order to keep old aging bodies warm, the streets of Chicago so cold in winter. Splash lame writers like myself from your Miami pool, the skies so blue and deep. Despite my lack of grace, I ask again if funds may grant this jester court.
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