Lucifer's Valet


Posted in Made Things, My Back Pages by lucifersvalet on 17 August 2011

I am at a party at Steve Marriott’s, though he might also be some friend from high school. The Rolling Stones are there. I end up in a room alone w/Marianne Faithfull, & we kiss for a long time. Later I end up in a room w/Bianca Jagger, kissing, though she looks more like Jerry Hall. She might also be Mick. He, by the way, wins some party game & makes everyone sing a chorus from some song over & over. I comment to Marriott about how competitive he is. Marriott then explains how on a 45 the groove that leads into the song has to have its treble suppressed, whereas on  an LP the tracks between the songs have to have the bass suppressed. Or is it the other way around?



Posted in Made Things, My Back Pages by lucifersvalet on 1 April 2011

Today is my straw day. My sleeves are stuffed with it. I saw Cathy K for a moment at the B of A, talking to someone else. I said “hi” & answered the “how’re ya doin’?” question & walked on, with the “Theme from Exodus” going through my head, as if a piano roll put the measure to my machine mind.


UPDATE: The Problem of Allusion, or, too much cultural embededdness sinks the poem.  Viz. would any reader younger than I (& most of them are) know Ferrante & Teicher?

Posted in My Back Pages by lucifersvalet on 4 September 2010

In the dream we are trying to find Tina Nina Nu. We are in a television drama, or at an acting school. We have her picture, though the lipstick’s too heavy for it to be her.

Though life still has de-luxe moments, still has Wild Thing, if not hooter, it’s not compelling. My apartment is full of terrestrial ennui. My life is an ordinary failure.

That far deep, pain is mistaken for light. From the bathyscaphe we see a brand-new monster, the Bill Knott, poet of unmediated consicousness.


UPDATE: The poet himself appears in comments (speaking of rarities),  & directs us to his generosity, all his poems online.

Posted in My Back Pages by lucifersvalet on 2 December 2009

Stephen J. Greenblatt on Charlie Rose. At first I don’t recognize him. Another memento of the lost life? All memory is about what’s lost. Speaking of which, Charlie Rose is a crappy substitution for Dick Cavett. At least Cavett had sparkle. Rose goes instead for gravitas. Cavett’s shtick was a kid from Nebraska who could work his way up to being a cultural elitist. Yes, surely middlebrow, but at least it had a DIY quality. Rose is a professional. He speaks to professionals. There is no need for charm or charisma: what’s required is a license. It’s a job, not an art. Cavett was a pale copy of Oscar Wilde (pale as the cathode ray illumination on the wall, seen of course from someone on the sidewalk looking in windows). If you’re going to be fake, why not something fun like Wilde? Rose may be a real thing, but it’s a clerk. What did Marlon Brando say in that movie? The world is run by clerks.


Warren Zevon had a joke about that movie: Marlowe travels up river, through battle and jungle and nightmare, through the heart of darkness, only to find at the end of his quest Truman Capote.

A world that falls off from Dick Cavett wasn’t falling from a great height.