operation colombo (chilean red)

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Pinochet, limping, could put his face on trial: a life behind bars, wrinkles, propped
by the shadow of legal immunity. Innocent and sick, some say, evading taxes;
yet critics have their own health against them. The hospitals are full, too many
hearts, too many crimson slurs on the feet of absent authority. How long ago
did the chicken-bells toll, leave? (Dying like infected worms?) How old the bribes
of mammals, of scientists leaping between species? Between bamboo drums and
disinfectant that squirms within our long lost thirstings.
This Pinochet is a population, red wine drinking, seated comfortably
amid tables brimmed with salads and rice, the short fancy of annihilation,
saying goodbye with a spoon or barrel. Anything here, (whereever the here may be),
carries the smudges of a handwashed goblet, a dark chalice, a bank balance in synch
with its own confidence. Some say the end is almost inevitable, is blind to calculations,
and doesn't deviate from the master plan. Pinochet dies of course,
in jail, his carcass a swollen lozenge for the wine's incessant dread...
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work in progress