Sunday, December 17, 2006

Christmas is not Christmas in China. It maybe a vulgar copy of the capitalistic version of the USA, but none the less, chinese people don't pay atention to it. Christmas for us is like Chinese New Year for the Asians. And am not bitching about it, it's just funny how these days have passed by and I was totally unaware of the fact that Christmas (and I refer to the christmas feeling and the getting togethers and that kind'a shit) was going on in some other parts of the world, for all I've seen or heard of Christmas are in the 7 eleven's, them blasting jingle bells and frosty the snowman (yes, only those two songs) over and over again 24/7, plus the cheap pictures of that old golly fucked up man called Santa placed more like an advertisement than a "seasons greeting". Advertising: AMERICA. Well I don't give a fuck about it now... I guess I have sacrificed santa for Chinese New Year. Let the poor bastard suffer, I dind't like his fat ass anyways.

For all the irregularities in my life, one of the strangest happened last week, when someone, who I wont mention his name, invited me to perform in somebody elses dubi dabi festival of people who don't understand english listening to spanish, english and italian poems... The first thing "strange" that happened was the elongated pratice of a poet with some musicians of a two chord song. Whatever man, I thought, I wan't to be done with this. Then, as I was wondering around I saw the poster for the event, my chinese name! (cool), but then next to it "Mexican Poet", yeah, in Chinese. Pues Orale mano, I don't come from that puto place, and for fuck sake, I dont look like one. Cool, I said to myself, stay cool, shit happens. Irregularities you know. Then the performance. First the guy reading his poem over the dull, sad tune of a two chord song. Second, me coming down to read my spanish poems, which in the past I've never performed because of the fact that almost nobody speaks spanish here (The best thing of all this is that when they invited me it was supposed to be a Spanish Poetry Festival), nobody understood it, so nobody knew when I finished the first part. Ok, fine. So I read the second one with the help of a beat boxer who has the bad habbit of losing the beat. Should take a lesson in music (Specially the part where they teach 4/4 rythms) and in math (1+1+1+1= 4): fast don't mean is cool, tripplets don't make you hip, and never, ever, try to be a pretencious prick when I'm arround, cause A. Pablo Neruda's real name is Neftalì Reyes Basoalto B. He is not fucking Argentinan C. It would have taken him 0.02 seconds to get this info in Google. So when I finished the poem with a pretencious beat, still no claps. Then a Poem in English, read it, actually read it pretty good; three claps from the only cats who new english. Then done and said bye bye.

Next, on the act, was the performance of the quasi-clown, who I know, pretty nice fellow, but I was wondering what he would do in a poetry reading. Well he did his juggling thing, and tricicle thing with his friend and the company of yours truly beating with the pretencious beat boxer. Hell if you ask me. The quasi-clown was feeling all out place and shit and was glad when he finished but suddenly the organizer comes and says in Chinese, where is your poem (he had the wrong impression the clown was a poet, or the pretencious beat boxer misinformed his ass), of course the poor quasi-clown didn't understand, and I said to him: just say a poem! And he goes, well I'm not a poet, and in my head: fuck! Somebody framed you too?! So the quasi-guy said ok, my poem is how two say the numbers in another language... which I won't tell the language because It my reveal the identity of my quasi-friend.

After that I had too much of it. I don't like being a fool. Had too much bad peformances because of others in the past. I wasn't going to take it, so I left, behind me the trail of bad spanish accent... god damn neruda debe estar revolcandose en su fucking tumba.

All in all I had fun though. And I bet they did too! Ha ha ha ha...

POEM No.8 How You Sound

So,
How you sound?
Is your beat a striking beat resembling the colors that we might see if I took a kaleidoscopic vision of your insights, will you be proud of black, proud of yellow, proud of white, and between all of this realize that colors are just variations of light and that no offense must be taken when ignorant people say words like spik, nigger or chink, I mean you have to be proud of who you are, proud of the good and the bad, and take the best of everything if you can, and when someone deliver you this: (flip the bird) its just fucking fingers that can't speak, so get your mouth on the mic and tell the true story behind every lie.

So,
How you sound Mr. President?
Are you the voice of the people, the clamor of righteousness, the cry of the million kids without food or education, the majority oppressed by the minority, the nine to fivers’ slaves that wakes up every day thinking same shit different day what can I say you are the master and I am the slave, the tears of parents who can't find a job coming back home to listen to their children bellies the grotesque symphony of hunger, malnutrition, despair, decease, the junkie on the street feeling the need to find someone that cares and gives him a helping hand to quit that shit because hustling the nights for pennies to cash in coke, crack, heroin makes a sin seem bigger than it seems, nobody hears, he just needs someone who cares, another chance, the metallic cell... men and women leaving in oblivion with no hope for true re socialization, or Mr. President, is your voice the voice of the corporations and their wild manifestation of cruelty, profit vs. human morality, let the cash flow flow, cause who provides the currency also provides the blow, the headless behemoth devouring our world, pesos, yens, euros, kuais, pounds or dollar signs.

So,
How you sound my true love?
No one answers. But I will tell you how I would like you to sound… like a sweet breeze in October, calm and soothing, like the silent sound of shooting stars, visible, mystical, grand, like a rose blooming, always at a perfect time, uncomplicated, scented, and thus am not a great musician I would compose symphonies to play on the moon, while we travel to Jupiter and live on Saturn, no sound will matter, cause all the sound that is worth would be enclosed in that little heart of yours, and I might not be good at telling the truth, but for you, baby, nothing else would come out of my lips, cause you see, even though am not good at relationships and letting a person into my heart, for you and only you I could stop the sins that has succumbed me in the pass, because you'll be the lips, and I'll be the sound of how you sound and how I sound and between all this beautiful sounds we can caress and kiss and I will go down to my knees and ask the one and only question true love can ask...

Jack Raif

3 Comments:

Blogger Bob said...

What's shakin', Jack?

6:40 AM  
Blogger Anguila Hutt said...

nice one.

Hate Sgt.

12:49 AM  
Anonymous Moncho said...

Llevaba buen rato sin leer tu blog, y veo que tu llevas buen rato sin escribir aquí... En fin, esta entrada me recuerda un poco a un programa de variedades chino que estuvimos viendo en fetv ayer en casa de Anguila, y en realidad mientras lo veíamos nos acordábamos de tí, compadeciéndote por cierto, porque era deplorable, especialmente los videos musicales y las mismas canciones, se veía calidad de producción, pero el contenido era antiestético y la mayoría de las veces propagandístico... ¿es la televisión un panfleto digital por allá? Y ahora leo esto... normal man, no te preocupes por Neruda, total, las vibras desde china irán en chino y el no hablaba esa vaina, y además, el man era comunista y verá el ridículo esfuerzo con simpatía... por otro lado, te me estás volviendo ñángara hermano, jajajajaja.

1:32 AM  

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