I won’t front about Jarmusch. He’s cooler than my ability to describe shit. He’s our genuinely cool filmmaker, anachronistic above ideal, an atavist with perfect hair. He’s the reason people should smoke. He went shark hunting with a block of cheese and a forty-five automatic. I am not capable of disliking anything Jarmusch does. Rare people like him don’t make themselves available to worship and earn it by quality. Young drug-slick rock star poetasters refuse to read in droves, favoring their preapproved vision. You don’t coast on industry soul, you don’t toy your shadow’s undercarriage because a dimebag places you beyond anyone who tries. You’re not Artaud in leather, you’re just his foamy rectal cancer. There’s no plethora of tricks you avoid by pursuing your own illiteracy. If you stay true to yourself, fuck yourself. Not sure the venue’s still prevalent, I’m certainly out of touch, but these types used to be the thankful future suicides of every coffee house, the collateral damage of an inspirational (beat) movement. I celebrate their forgettable deaths, their faux-tragic, photogenic addictions, especially since I had the misfortune to know a couple. (Tat up them lyrics, microphone that coffin.) Some complain any literary group is too friendly in order to sound cool, but shellac your over-demonstrated intelligence with a more precise hatred, because you can’t fucking borrow alienation to win an argument. Your life is not worth the effort of declaration, especially when this posture was invented to hide lack of talent. (Everyone’s a whore / sell out to the puritanically teenaged and talentless.) Unless you’re embryonically gifted with an imagination like Jarmusch’s, stave the too cool for the crowd bullshit, unless you’re tapping your wireless from the asylum. Jarmusch and maybe ten others are too cool for the crowd. Not to say he didn’t study under Wim Wenders. Shouldn’t we all? Dead Man grew the right mushrooms on the process of dying, the possible euphoria, the body refrigerated into peace. It’s the closest religion’s come. We are situated in the stroboscopic backwash of our eyelids. Enemies are the relic pouring brains. Funny, but not laugh out loud. Ever hear audience members tinkering with exhibition, thinking they’re special? We required to announce ourselves to the theater (never do in any way, I’ve been lucky this year not suffering anyone’s random fucking mouth so far) whenever a beat is held awkwardly? Only Lovers Left Alive’s deadpan longshots adrift through lack of streetlamps capture the Detroit I would like to escape but continue petting out my impatiently forgettable death in; ruin porn never let you go bareback on this much heroin. The scabies of this hapless and mediocre glove finally earned its gentrified chic: one genius has lensed it.