This photo is reported to be Chinese soldiers in Tibet being handed faux Tibetan Buddhist monk's outfits in preparation for a staged riot for broadcast. The sheer hyperreality of such a report, this image and my alienation from any verifiable truth prompted me to post the postmodern poem below called China. It's reported that Bob Perelman wrote this poem after picking up a photojournalism book in San Fransisco's Chinatown and schizophrenically writing his own disjointed captions to the pictures in front of him, all within a subtext that points to China's evolving position as the third superpower.
We live on the third world from the sun. Number three. Nobody tells us what to do.
The people who taught us to count were being very kind.
It's always time to leave.
If it rains, you either have your umbrella or you don't.
The wind blows your hat off.
The sun rises also.
I'd rather the stars didn't describe us to each other; I'd rather we do it for ourselves.
Run in front of your shadow.
A sister who points to the sky at least once a decade is a good sister.
The landscape is motorized.
The train takes you where it goes.
Bridges among water.
Folks straggling along vast stretches of concrete, heading into the plane.
Don't forget what your hat and shoes will look like when you are nowhere to be found.
Even the words floating in air make blue shadows.
If it tastes good we eat it.
The leaves are falling. Point things out.
Pick up the right things.
Hey guess what? What? I've learned how to talk. Great.
The person whose head was incomplete burst into tears.
As it fell, what could the doll do? Nothing.
Go to sleep.
You look great in shorts. And the flag looks great too.
Everyone enjoyed the explosions.
Time to wake up.
But better get used to dreams.
