Lucifer's Valet


Posted in Poeticks by lucifersvalet on 14 August 2011

Reginald called himself a “Romantic Modernist.” What did that mean? It may seem an oxymoron, but  there’s something to it.

What I’m weaker on is the Romantic part. So I’m going to work on that part. From a particular angle: what part of Romanticism carries over into Modernism?

Of course I’m only concerned with poetry.



Posted in Hermeneutic Friendship, Narcissistic Self-Loathing, Poeticks by lucifersvalet on 13 August 2011

(1) I will do something. I promised Reginald I would do something, & I want to start doing that.

(2) I will do nothing interesting. Ray and Peli are interesting. But if I keep worrying that nothing I can say is interesting, I won’t be able to do something.

(3) Some of the things I will do will be very basic. The kind of things a clever undergraduate should know. However, I want to put down some foundation, stuff to build up from. This stuff could be kept in journals & off the internet, but in the interests of (1), that is, to help me establish the habit of doing something, I will put it here. & it’s not as if more people will read this than might read my journals, esp. if I keep leaving them lying about.

Not that I’m entirely embarrassed by simplicity. Once I wanted to write literary criticism the way Wittgenstein wrote philosophy. Of course, this was just a notion. I lacked all of the requirements for such a project, most importantly, the drive to do it. Still, Wittgenstein seems to show that basic considerations can be important. These days I’d call it a means for the re-enchantment of the world.


Posted in Made Things by lucifersvalet on 20 April 2011

Professor does smoke-bubble business.

Professor does leg business.

Hives exits with table. Professor sits at table.

Ravelli indicates whether or not he wishes the card.

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 Loci communes, Narcissistic Self-Loathing by lucifersvalet on 24 February 2011

At first I was like,

Look at me! Look how smart I am! I’m a master of minutiae! I’m the smartest jackass of all of you!

But then I was like,

But your joke erases an exquisite distinction! a precious detail, the kind of negligible, ephemeral, tiny thing that life as it was lived was made of! If no one remembers that detail, then that life is gone forever.


Posted in Uncategorized by lucifersvalet on 31 December 2010

I think the words to this song:

could be sung to this melody:


Jack Spicer gave one public reading of Heads of the Town up to the Aether, at Borregaard’s Museum. While he read the poem, they had the Horton single playing over & over.

He was also wearing a Giants baseball cap.


Posted in Uncategorized by lucifersvalet on 30 November 2010

He’s a comic. I’d have never considered that possibility.


Posted in Narcissistic Self-Loathing by lucifersvalet on 11 October 2010


Thoreau: “As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.”

Ray Davis: “Injure her? I hardly knew her!”


Thoreau: “As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.”

Me: “Injure it? As if I could. It’ll crush me like a bug. The question is whether or not I put in the minimal effort, before I’m smudged, of flipping it off.”

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 Made Things by lucifersvalet on 2 September 2010

enrolled me in the album of your academy

He is the Magus as doctor, operating not only on his patient’s bodies but on their imaginations.

Alma Venus, with whom we walk in the green and flowery meadows, drinking the sacred air laden with spiritus

lean down through the armature of the spheres, tear open their envelopes

a way of dying called the Death of the Kiss

A compass was not a compass but a heiroglyph.