Kissinger at 100 (A Prose Poem)

Dr K will be celebrated today for his heroism and wonderful taste in women that made Mao laugh for hours and share jokes about dumplings dipped in yo soy sauce.  There’ll be no talk at the celebration table of Cambodia or the darkside of the Peace Accords, or the Nobel Prize for that matter. [Place meme here.]

K could go fly a kite as far as most lefties were concerned.  Images of curvaceous femmes in wet Che t-shirts, the turkey all gobble gobble, come to mind in overflowing cascades of love borrowed from The Sun Also Rises. Someone had their balls blown off in war and somehow managed to remain a Hemingway Hero.  And the Semite got the girl. And the Spanish Civil War, and the bulls running at Pamplona and you wondering what it would look like if Wall Street had a whole herd of frozen charging bulls. Mensch. Dr K on the run.

I myself have never seen a deeper display of spleen than that quip he had about Allende. I mean, if Chile wants to go socialist who gives a shit — Dita Beard?  But Henry did. He gave a shit. And wondered why we should sit around on our Hemingway asses while the noisy mouths of democracy brought in airs of economic equity. Fuck that shit, he said. And he couped Chile. And Pinochet.

K was on his knees before Machiavelli before he was on his knees with the notorious anti-Semite Nixon. What with God dead in the closing opera Die Goddammitallen, what was the point?  Realpolitik?  Pragmatism. I’m gonna fuck you up the ass anyway, he’d say to a target nation, you might as well lay over the barrel nicely and enjoy it. And we’d give him a prize and praise and the self-loathing Jew would lampoon the lessons of the Holocaust with his English tinged with Black Forest accents, and you wondered, for a moment, what a tennis match between K and Scharzenegger would be like, Ja und Nein und augen burning like Dresden in the winters of our discontent.

But when they made him. Made him commissioner of the 9/11 Look-See, who didn’t shit their pants and feel the need to suppress the sudden ‘realization’ that it was an Inside Job after all, no matter what Popular Mechanics said, and K was brought in to service the needs of America? Personally, I believe. But Lefties got high-sterical and chased him away, K hopping like a fattened frog. Fuck that shit, they said.  Bad enough everyone would have to swallow their natural inclination to weigh the evidence in order to avoid being called a conspiracy theorist by murderers and thieves, as Marley put it so succinctly in his prescient historical document, Babylon System Is A Vampire. We need regime change, some said, now dead.

And now Minervo is weighing in on AI in his new book with Schmidt.  What the fuck detente has to do wit anything, I don’t know. And the brief book mentions “reality” 127 times. WTF?  We should worry, if Schmidt and K and The Company are shaping our achy breaky hearts and nostalgitations about the shell-lives we’ll soon leave behind like husks from Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Mind Snatchers) with Donald Sutherland pointing Salem Accusation-like at the movie viewer, and the barking dog with a human head trots in, as if Toto had said to the Wizard while he was handing out symbols to Dorothy’s Three Stooges, “What about my needs?” And the Wiz gave him the face of some ancient Greek dogmatist. Woof.

100 years is a long time. But not as much as, say, an aeon.

John Kendall Hawkins is an American ex-pat freelancer based in Australia.  He is a former reporter for The New Bedford Standard-Times.