Cool, grains here.
Beatnik bongos get entrance.
Waiting for the man to grow up.
Black leather jacket on streetcorner.
And sunglasses. Smoking a cigarette.
John Cassavetes was a true auteur.
Maybe he was no Dreyer. No Renoir.
But at least the level of Truffaut.
That’s the outerspace transmission I’m getting.
You can buy Le Tigre. Or Fugazi.
Or make the mistake of thinking his turn in Rosemary’s Baby was important.
Cassavetes the director.
That’s the guy we click our fingers applauding the film in homage to.
It’s a bit drug film.
The $20 bucks. For what?
I was groovin’ on Ben Carruthers.
In the lonely crowd.