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Amidst mushroom cloud of radioactive
national embarrassment,
amidst stark naked fact of president
utterly beyond shame,
a Mr. Emperor truly without
clothes,
amidst fetid, pornographic fog of
Kenneth Starr's mind,
I return to September 11, 1973,
very first week at L-S ever,
Rm. 412, when I watched the
sixties end in smoke over Moncada Palace,
Santiago, Chile,
final curtain dropped on
utopian dreams, as Salvador
Allende, the companero
President, socialist, freely-elected
leader,
defended democracy
against jets of Chilean
air force. On my lampshade at home,
a yellowing photo: "Allende's last moments,"
he, looking up, helmet on, gun in hand, moving forward
...moments later, dead in the rubble, with
3,000 Chileans to follow, tortured,
"disappeared," murdered.
In this weekend's Times,
whole section beyond "Full
Text of the Independent Prosecutor's Report,"
in distant galaxy beyond black hole
of President Clinton's zipper, and light years
before the Monica asteroid was born,
a lonely article reports: "The CIA Took Aim...,"
confirming finally what we always knew,
that we were behind it, that we paid for it,
$10 million bucks worth, and that we couldn't have
been happier.
Oh, Kenneth Starr,
el commandante
of our one-nation-under-God
sex police,
furiously dedicated chronicler
of bathroom fumblings and
and all petting and necking
felonies,
on this day,
spare a thought
for Salvador Allende,
from whom
no forgiveness has
been asked,
and no apologies
given,
still.
September 14, 1998