The Resurrection and Death of Mr Wao (wow!)

by: Maggie Garey, SuperRed

     It was 8 o’clock Friday evening. Twilight was beginning to deepen into night. A crowd had gathered in front of the Sylvia White gallery on East Main Street in Ventura. John White, our host for the evening, had just taken off his pseudo coffee-stained shirt and taped it to a window as an example of how life can work to create poetry. He said of his half-monty form, “Not bad for 75.” This was the lead-in piece to the "5x5x5", 5 performers, 5 pieces, for 5 minutes each, in theory at least. What actually occurred on the premises was something I, and many others I’m sure, have never seen before.

     Just as John opened the door to the gallery to invite us all inside, a dirty moon blue Crown Victoria squealed to the curbside, the trunk clicked open as it stopped. Two young men of the sort you’d expect to see in a Crown Vic stepped out of each side. The crowd stepped back as one and some faces were alarmed. The driver, dirty-blonde haired and thick necked, opened the trunk. I saw duct-taped feet kicking out in to the air! The other roughneck, sandy-brown haired with legs like redwoods, grasped the trunk-man’s feet, while dirty-blonde grasped his upper arms and they carried the hooded man into the gallery. While being carried, the man (poet) was pivoting and yelling, “I’m a virgin! I need to support my wife and kids! John, if you’d just called my agent I would have shown up!”

     After being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor of the gallery--curiously in front of an open coffin-- sandy-brown whipped out a long pocket knife and sliced off the red, black and white duct tape holding the poet prisoner. Having free hands, the man removed the black hood and gazed with irritation at the crowd. “I only have one poem for you John,” he said.

     The audience, aghast, amused and highly entertained watched on as the poet, Mr. Wao, wowed us with his poem regarding love and the erotic poet. Mr. Wao’s beautiful wife, dressed in a lovely black maxi dress, was also part of the performance, lending her hand during the rendition. When the poem was complete, Mr. Wao bent down his black-haired head and lowered his gaunt frame into the open coffin. As he lay in the coffin with a beatific smile on his face and hands folded on his chest, dirty-blonde and sandy-brown came out with two other men and, positioned around the coffin, lifted and carried Mr. Wao out to the back of the gallery, followed by thunderous applause, a Catholic deacon sprinkling holy water and several celebrators holding black umbrellas and colorful parasols. WOW!

    Mr. Wao, aka F. Albert Salinas, is not afraid to stretch, and even break a little, the bounds of poetry and performance, taking us to new and unusual places. I’m honored to be associated with him and look forward to more open mics, more writing and more performing! I am anticipating seeing more of what I haven’t seen before!



   Before I check out, many thanks to Harry Barnack and DJ Garey, our "roughnecks", Dave Garey and Carlos Velazquez, coffin handlers and pall bearers, and to the Razor Babes for their participation as celebrators and carrying the parasols.