James Richard Lucas
Lucas Without Prizes
Las Vegas, Nevada 89101
Norwegian Nobel Institute
Drammensvein 19, N-0255
+47 22 44 36 80: +47 22 43 01 68
Re: 2014 Nobel Prize for Literature
Please rush me as a fast as a non-chauvinist, non-sexist reindeer can fly, your Prize. I understand there is absolutely no obligation for me to do anything, pay anything, undertake anything, struggle against any hardship or bogeyman/woman, that you hand out this prestigious award for absolutely no reason but that I am a secular humanoid who believes in worldwide equality and platitudes of human decency. I am an optimist. Like Faust, I believe there is a solution for everything, and with the grace of Western Enlightenment, adulterated with Islam, the dhamma of San Abri, the Wisdom of the Ages, and a green katydid with a spliff of whipped cream on his crown from a robo-udderless cow, I can spread the blessings of world peace to every living being and creature on the planet through the blinding insight of my novel, Mezayen in Jerusalem (unpublished). Do not send my prize money through any bank transfer, since no unhackable network has ever been invented yet. Send the money in unmarked bills, hundred-dollar denomination, US currency, although short-term bearer Treasuries will be acceptable, via diplomatic pouch per the charge d'affaires, a retired U.S. Air Force colonel named Art Snickers, assigned to the U.S. Embassy in Stockholm. Although I cognize I don't have to do a thing, I, nevertheless, out of the goodness of my world-peace heart, promise that upon duly receipt of the six hundred thousand dollar prize money ($600,000) in my hands, to send you via XXXEx a xerox copy of my novel, which I have had tattooed on my body in No. 6 1/2 Disney font by one of the best tattoo artists in Las Vegas. I am copying the ms. now, but I am running out of quarters. I had to borrow three thousand in rolls from a payday lender to copy MIJ. I am on Chapter Three which is tattooed to my buttocks. Ouch! I twisted my leg! How did I do that, Kinko? Stupid machine! Furthermore, as an absolutely free bonus, when I get my mits on the mazuma, I promise to fly to London, where, searching out the Ecuadorian Embassy, I will prsuade Julian Assange to to give himself up! If, for any reason, I am dissatisfied with my prize (money is counterfeit, or someother mountebank trick), I understand I can return the money and the prize, no questions asked. In addition, as a condition of my acceptance, no handling, interest, penalties, mulcts, jizaya, or other charges will apply. The Nobel Committee expressly waives any right to levy a writ of seizure in the International Court of Justice in The Hague. In the event I am sued, the Committee undertakes to defend me in court, save me harmless, and pay all my attorneys' fees and court costs, including punitive damages. If I am sentenced to hang, Committee will pay for the rope; habi in Arabic. This gift to the Genius is made with full eyes wide-open, arms-length knowledge without recourse in any court of jurisdiction whatever and wherever in the world. Extralegal measures will not be resorted to, on Scouts' honor. Finally, if I keep the prize and the money, you promise to publish, promote, and distribute Mayazen with a handsome carve-out royalty for me, my heirs and assigns, until Doomsday cometh, which ain't far off. This letter is no longer available in Norwegian.
Letter to Geofrey Crow 1 February 2019
I don't really know you. All I know is what you write. I know you have a mind and wit. That means you think. Maybe that means you only think like me. I don't know if I think at all. I know I don't have any money. In America, you don't have any money, it means you are stupid. Sorry, Geof, I didn't mean to call you stupid. In America, capitalism means if you want to hang yourself, you have to buy your own rope. Tomorrow I will be on the boulevard with a sign: Aspiring writer needs your rope!
(c) Cyber Bard Ink of Nevada
To be great, you must be willing to sacrifice your life. Because in every venture worth undertaken, there is risk the undertaker will take you down. Dedicate your worthless self for the betterment of others, for in the grand scheme of things, worshipping your ego is the fool's vainglory.
Few worms become butterflies. 2/3/2019
Letter to Scott Martin Locke 1/21/2017
A writer, poet, steals whistling ways from the air,/ Borrows them, inhales the wind, spews them back/ Into the empty souls of malnourished men,/ Starving from the graveyard of gaunt and lovelorn craniums--/ A thousand thousand thousand soldiers have fought and died,/ Leaving wives and children tearing tears on cold, sad hearths,/ Their heavy heaving hearts throb, remember loss--/ We write our lines of rhyme and joy at such a cost./ Birds swoop and glide o'er the battlefield of life,/ Chirping tales of courage, bravery, and renewed breath./ The Savior comes again with every poem./ Sing, brave warrior! Do not despair!/ There's a whistling way in your poet's flair!/ You must sing today for all mankind./ Sing and prance and skirl like glee-winged clouds,/ For Destiny rewards the slog through creaky pains,/ With laurel priceless beyond the fools' arcade./ You are the Whistle-Laird whom God hath made:/ When you ink your songs on LinkedIn's page,/ You leave your footprints on the stun-Time stage.
To the poets belong the fame,
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