Hi there, Daniel (the Hawk) Lanois,
Well it’s never that easy my friend, threats and bluff and fancy boasting. I have spoken about your productions with Emmylou Harris and she, being polite, didn’t want to say much against you, however the gaps in her sentences echoed like broken guitar strings. I have seen better men than you bent in fearful pain, the dorsal spike of a waggafish in the palm of a hand makes a tough-guy weep. I have listened to pain utter its own melody and really all music itself can’t imitate this kind of pain. Pain? No, I am a woman who is more interested in the delicate tracery in the sound of a line of Frank O’Hara’s poem My Heart : “I’m not going to cry all the time/ nor shall I laugh all the time,/ I don’t prefer one ‘strain’ to another.’ We are weary of you and the others with their old-fashioned rhetoric of whisky, dope and fear. We have eaten Rimbaud’s prose by the pageful and all we are left with is a weird sadism, a bad hunger for more pain. It’s over, we are free from the threats and the poetry of despair. We laugh with Ashbery and float across the city in a Ted Berrigan sonnet. There’s a lyrical Church on my street and I filled it with red hearts on Valentines day, not red flesh-eating fish, the red ink of love.
Your Angel,
Truck
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