A Movie Review
A higher up with an unintentional pimp’s swag to his gait strides up to the cube. Unknown to Chalice Sinclearly is that this higher up has broken away for a tad from his crafting of a report in whose title he’ll need to, legally, hang the word “Quantifying.” Arriving at the underling, the higher up asks all hush-hush-like and with a darty eye: “Coffee?”
Sinclearly looks back over each of his shoulders all suspicious-like before whispering a “Thanks, kemosabe, but I gotta pass” up to the higher up—pass because he promised the wife he’d start saving a little moola here and there, and he wants to keep some word of his because, God knows, he ain’t doing so well with his word to stop sneaking cigarettes. “Besides, there’s coffee on in the kitchen. Company bought, bro.” But the higher up won’t have any of that, and responds with a “Fuck that, the coffee sucks here; it’s on me,” proving as he has on different occasions in the past to be a man of little conceit.
Watching a higher up with an unintentional pimp’s swag to his gait as he strides away from the cube, Chalice Sinclearly tries to remember if we ever even saw up on that Arty Farty silver screen a scratched-out, circled, or arrowed-to word within Jarmusch’s Basement Poet’s tidily handwritten poems of long-lined populace and double-sided commonplace. (Since Saturday’s matinee, Chalice has been stewing over how now because of Jarmusch’s composed, motif-filled love poem to poetry he probably won’t be recognized as the original 21st Century Basement Poet – as the genuine unreal Ron Padgett behind the scene.) And while watching a higher up with an unintentional pimp’s swag to his gait stride away from the cube, Sinclearly understands the Lone Wolf Poet in each of us understands how there ain’t cohesive enough words sometimes to throw a simple and quick “Thanks” at someone’s back.