I applaud the efforts to elevate hard core to high art ("Rockers Apply for Poetic License," by Jeff Spurrier, June 16). One need only read of X's maturation into a four-chord band or Black Flag's discovery of three-syllable words to realize that we're dealing here not with youthful exuberance run amok, but with genius. And now gutsy-as-heck poetry, too. If only Rimbaud had had a Strat.

Suggestion: Why not print the next punk poetry article in the Book Review where it belongs, OK? Then really bury the section (say, deep in the food coupons or an abandoned salt mine).

As an added bonus, the following week we'll have another flurry of frustrated letters from lit critters who can't see beyond their bifocals to enjoy a Sunday morning. It'll be lots of fun.



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