Lee Harvey Oswald: Whistleblower
by John Kendall Hawkins
This poem is an "extra" in celebration of National Whistleblower Appreciation Week Day. Ex-CIA whistleblower John Kiriakou has written somewhere about a luncheon where they all gather and appreciate each other, the phonies known from their squeaking like Willie Whistle. (Remember his story about snakes?) Would-be and Wanna-bes best beware that such an event could prove to be a honeypot. Imagine having all the whistleblowers in one spot at the same time! Wear a disguise.
What if Lee Harvey had stayed put in Mother Russia
reading Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground,
and dreaming of replacing Fyodor in the almost firing squad;
bringing up the bambinos with Marina in some Soviet burb,
all the trappings of a Soviet middle class lifestyle --
even drapes for the window! --
keened to kick-stomping musical numbers,
sousing with real men named Boris the Bear,
and streaming The Great on HBO?
They'd had to have found another patsy
(I know a few guys willing to Die Hard,
take a shot in the gut from a federal spy for the team)
an idiot, really, without the ecstasy of epileptic visions
that were probably responsible for the interior finish work of most cathedrals.
I'd have moved, have insisted that the Agency find a place near Time Square.
Or in some water-damaged mansion back home in the Big Easy.
They were cheap and comely after Katrina.
Imagine the 1812 Overture set to a jazz funeral, all hipped up on stereoids.
f*ck Texas and the multigallon hats, and donkey pumps
that made Jack Nicholson so miserable in Five Easy Pieces
that one featured in his next X-rated film Carnal Knowledge.
What do we need all that oil for anyway?
If Lee Harvey Oswald had only blown the whistle,
there would be World Peace today.
And Lee Harvey would have a podcast
that featured the science of precision
and a t-shirt that read:
I survived the Bay of Pigs
and you can, too!