<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN">
<html>
<head>
<meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=windows-1252">
</head>
<body bgcolor="#ffffff" text="#000000">
<font size="3"><b><a
href="http://www.leftcurve.org/LC23webPages/che.html">http://www.leftcurve.org/LC23webPages/che.html</a><br>
<br>
CHE'S BONES<br>
</b><i>(On the announcement of the discovery of the remains of Ernesto
Che Guevara)<br>
</i> <br>
<i>Oye Che!<br>
Despiértate!<br>
</i>Wake up, man!<br>
Greet the dawn!<br>
See the world! Finally,<br>
they have revealed where<br>
your smooth, potent bones are buried.<br>
<i>Ya no eres desaparecido no más, hombre!<br>
</i>The unmentionable, secret cemetery<br>
is now known, where you have<br>
shared the earth below the airstrip in Vallegrande<br>
with a quintet of <i>compañeros</i> all these long years,<br>
the chemicals of your cadavers enriching this spot of<br>
America, which could not forever keep mute the place<br>
where the bones of its children - sweet, beautiful bones,<br>
silently unsettled - bid their time, awaiting inevitable disclosure.<br>
Your speechless warrior remains, no longer address unknown,<br>
prove more resilient than the vows of military silence sworn to<br>
by the undertakers of the high command<br>
who watched their hired gravedigger, the elusive Ticona,<br>
excavate a mass tomb with his tractor, warily dump you in,<br>
& flatten the mound with his bulldozer. <i>Bien hecho!<br>
</i> <br>
Who will they discover with you, Che,<br>
among these nameless combatientes sharing this<br>
dormitory of worms & loam for decades while all<br>
sorts of helicopters, fighter jets, hovercrafts, cargo planes,<br>
reconnaissance vehicles, WW II training vessels landed<br>
above you, bouncing onto the runway, screeching to a<br>
halt, disgorging fumes, fuel, laughing pilots in their boots,<br>
their chiefs & the troops of the anti-drug terror squads,<br>
marching bands, porcine politicians, you name it, a constant din,<br>
so that even in your covert internment, you could not enjoy<br>
a moment's peace only a stone's throw from the Yuro Ravine,<br>
where you were surrounded, pinned down & picked off October 8<br>
28 years ago at Vado del Yeso by crack scouts on the hunt,<br>
equipped with state of the art tracking technology &<br>
directed on the spot by can-do special agents from<br>
the omnipotent northern necropolis, seeking your heat &<br>
determined to extinguish it, by any means necessary.<br>
<br>
The rangers first shot your mule, next you, in battle.<br>
Wounded, you returned the fire until a bullet wrecked the<br>
barrel of your M-2 & your pistol had no magazine. The circle<br>
tightened, discovered its quarry, then lined up your bleeding<br>
<i>tropas</i>, demanding the leader be identified & all you said
was,<br>
<i>Yo soy Che Guevara</i>. The puffed up victors, alarmed & excited
by their<br>
catch of the day, called La Paz for further instructions,<br>
a request conveyed to the very top, to <i>el presidente baboso <br>
</i>Barrientos himself, & from him to his bosses &<br>
from them to theirs & passing thru each way the Man<br>
with the Plan, <i>el gusano famoso</i>, Felix Rodriguez (a.k.a. Ramos).<br>
>From on high the order came all the way down the ladder, right to<br>
Sargento Mario Teran, who upon receiving the command got drunk<br>
on warm beer, entered the little schoolroom in La Higuera where<br>
you were held, sitting, your wrists tied, your feet bound,<br>
shod in sandals made of rags, your ears ringing from the shots<br>
that had just wasted Willy & Chino. You watched him try to steady<br>
his carbine without success, until you finally stood & addressed
him,<br>
<i>Shoot if you have balls! Shoot!<br>
</i> <br>
There you are, in the celebrated grainy photo, flat & thin,<br>
like the proverbial patient etherized on a table,<br>
your head propped up on a stool, your empty eyes half-open,<br>
as if you are in repose, or in contemplation, or getting<br>
ready to read one of the books that you lugged around<br>
in your little army's library through enervating rain,<br>
thirsty mosquitoes & indifferent jungle. But now,<br>
all sorts of people are pointing at you, at the holes<br>
in your body, the body of Che Guevara,<br>
which would be exhibited later in a hospital laundry, proof<br>
of the victory of the State, the Armed Forces & Law & Order<br>
over Communism & Anarchy epitomized by you, itinerant Argentine,<br>
symbol of continental revolt, protagonist of 2nd & 3rd Vietnams<br>
on America's spine, not so heroic-looking there at five-feet seven,<br>
skinny & shot up, like Swiss cheese.<br>
<br>
Instead, the peasant women came & mistook you<br>
for <i>Jesús Cristo</i>, not only because of the gentle wave of<br>
bedraggled chestnut hair that swept your shoulders, the wanton<br>
beard on your face, the slender frame & pale skin, the aching ribs,<br>
pounded by asthmatic explosions, but for your insurrectional good works,<br>
legendary rectitude & deferential conduct to <i>la gente indígena</i>,<br>
& because you, too, knew the Judasses who betrayed you<br>
with the saccharine smiles of presumed comrades-in-arms &<br>
the abrazos of supposed fraternal <i>partidarios. <br>
</i> <br>
O, how the world has changed since those days,<br>
Che! <i>Que cambios!</i> What would you do, see, recognize, remember?<br>
Would you disbelieve, rub your eyes, snicker, guffaw, or simply<br>
puff on your stub of a cigar & express no surprise<br>
at all? Who remembers your <i>alerta?<br>
The temptation is great to follow<br>
the beaten track of material incentive.<br>
There is the danger that the forest<br>
will not be seen for the trees. <br>
The pipe-dream that socialism<br>
can be achieved with the help of<br>
dull instruments left to us by<br>
capitalism can lead to a blind alley<br>
& you wind up there after having<br>
traveled a long distance with many<br>
crossroads & it is hard to find out<br>
just where you took the wrong turn.<br>
Crooked roads have been followed &<br>
when it was decided to refrain from<br>
these roads, other roads were followed<br>
which did not prove to be less crooked<br>
& thus experiments reach a wall<br>
impossible to climb.<br>
</i> <br>
Now, like Lazarus, you rise. Your bones, recognizable by<br>
the missing hands<br>
(removed to identify your trophy corpse)<br>
& the astonishing brow of your skull<br>
(the physical embodiment of concentrated thought)<br>
can ascend from the sediment below the airstrip &<br>
come home, your omniscient, impatient bones,<br>
returned to a world which would not faze you at all<br>
- with its debris of decrepit<br>
monuments to nightmare Shangri-Las<br>
(workers' paradises, evaporated by popular demand),<br>
the spectacle of traditional marketplaces glutted by<br>
overproduction & those of their stillborn would-be disciples<br>
heaped with mountains of malnourished infants,<br>
the breathtaking paroxysms of l<i>a bolsa de valores<br>
</i>erupting from the fragile fault lines of big capital's tectonic
plates,<br>
the revival of obsolete maladies, plagues & infections,<br>
the Caligula smiles of the latest generation of snake-oil merchants,<br>
vendors of national patrimony & multilingual salesmen<br>
of old shit in new buckets, the pornographic feats of incredible<br>
weapons systems & their collateral damage,<br>
the wondrous, innovative acts of anti-social behavior-<br>
none of this would shock you, or make your wiser-than-<br>
39-year old bones shudder, or rattle your sleek skeleton<br>
sending you hurriedly back to the subterranean clay of Vallegrande<br>
wrapped in your Che Guevara tee-shirts, shorts, towels, earrings,<br>
ash trays, wall calendars, etc., draped in the creamy accolades<br>
of all those who despise you -<br>
the eight previous occupants & the current tenant of<br>
<i>la casa blanca</i> & his loyal oppositionists,<br>
renascent supposed Bolsheviks in Moscow with their<br>
unslaked thirst for hard currency,<br>
aimless post-Cold War European intellectuals musing<br>
over old, long-lost romances & bitter at failed loves,<br>
aging baby-boomer academics searching for<br>
meaning amidst chaos,<br>
biographers, hagiographers, cinematographers &<br>
other sundry shysters out for the big buck on the<br>
upcoming happy birthday of your death,<br>
grizzled & neophyte hack gringo<br>
journalists with exhausted rumors at discount rates,<br>
aspiring tourist industry moguls in your old stomping grounds,<br>
whose fleeting flirtation with the legal tender of the enemy has<br>
become the latest object of emulation & desire,<br>
& last but not least, anyone,<br>
anywhere with an ax to grind against your once &<br>
still <i>comandante-en-jefe<br>
</i>still garbed in verde olivo<br>
still bearded<br>
still standing &<br>
still itching for<br>
the good fight, preparing<br>
your prodigal's<br>
homecoming, hardly as final<br>
resting place, but as reveille &<br>
reinforcement.<br>
<br>
It is thus no surprise that many sweat to transform you into<br>
something more palatable, a product easier to move, with short<br>
shelf life. A crooner of love songs, philosopher king, chess maven,<br>
aficionado of fine-leaf tobacco, antiquated adventurer,<br>
heroic model for evocative photo-montages, fanatic conspirator,<br>
last of the red-hot revolutionaries, armed existentialist,<br>
relic of lost utopia, mirror image of themselves in their youth, &<br>
their most recently failed project, above all, a blast from the past.<br>
Everything but what you were, are, will always be.<br>
<i>Si, siempre: el Che</i>, communist.<br>
<br>
This world would not cause your jaw to drop an inch,<br>
you would welcome it, dive into it, roll up the sleeves<br>
on your firm, unyielding bones & say,<br>
Let's get to work, comrades! There's no time to waste!<br>
This is the fear of those who maintain the reins on<br>
your calcified restos, of those to whom they answer,<br>
salute, grovel, who pull their strings & push their buttons,<br>
now fretting again, having thought the whole matter<br>
had been, like your ragged, mortal ass, disposed of,<br>
despite the quaint graffiti carved into the walls of the<br>
now famous laundry<br>
<i>Che you are our light<br>
The road of your struggle is our life<br>
Thanks Che<br>
</i>They worry that these rambunctious bones<br>
resist mummification, becoming a skeletal mannequin<br>
for the latest ideological fashion, bleached, buffed & polished<br>
for public view in <i>el gran show</i>, professorial confab concealing<br>
demolition derby, global flea market of <i>Chemanía.<br>
</i>No, not these bones, not Che's stainless steel bones,<br>
that all these years later could never be vanished<br>
by those who ordered your death in the first place &<br>
who wish now they had dumped your <i>flaco</i>, red Cuban carcass<br>
into a vat of lye & acid, a cask of radioactive waste,<br>
a pit of mercury, a toilet full of Drano & flushed!<br>
Leaving not a trace of the likes of<br>
Ernesto Che Guevara,<br>
not a follicle of hair,<br>
a thread of uniform,<br>
a splinter of bone,<br>
a cell of DNA. They grate their molars,<br>
curse how they should have vaporized you more<br>
thoroughly than at Hiroshima,<br>
where they left those tell-tale snap-shot<br>
silhouettes on the mushroomed walls of<br>
former buildings, but no,<br>
<i>al contrario!</i>. You & your stoic, demanding, spectral<br>
bones get the last laugh after all - bones reborn<br>
in trenches too many to name, resurrected in Nicaraguan<br>
hills, in Venezuelan jungles, Somali deserts, narrow trails in<br>
the Vietnamese central highlands, massive positional maneuvers on<br>
the plains of Cuito Cuanavale - bones in the bodies of your first
pupils,<br>
now generals, who discovered pieces of you in themselves & whose<br>
own apprentices do likewise & thus linked, become the accumulated,<br>
conclusive forensic evidence that they could not kill you,<br>
your bones were never disappeared at all.<br>
Now, they are ready to meet the air, anonymous no longer,<br>
to resume where you left off, Che, unbowed before the last emperors<br>
in their latest duds. IT'S YOU! &<br>
your triumphant, unrepentant bones<br>
that then<br>
as now<br>
always stuck<br>
in their throats.<br>
<br>
<br>
(On October 17, 1997, after ceremonies marking their death in combat, <br>
the remains of Che Guevara and six comrades - from Bolivia, Simeon Cuba<br>
and Aniceto Reinaga; from Peru, Juan Pablo Chang-Navarro; from Cuba, <br>
Alberto Fernandez Montes de Oca, Rene Martinez Tamayo, and Orlando <br>
Pantoja - were buried in Sanata Clara, Cuba. Initial reports indicated <br>
the discovery of five of Guevara's co-fighters.)<br>
<br>
- Jon Hillson<br>
<hr>
<i>JON HILLSON is a member of the International Association of
Machinists at Los Angeles International Airport, a political activist,
journalist and widely published poet.</i> <br>
<a href="http://www.leftcurve.org/LC23webPages/lc23toc.html">Return to
Left Curve no. 23 Table of Contents</a> <br>
<a href="http://www.leftcurve.org/index.html">Home</a><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
</font><x-sigsep>
<p><font color="#ff0000" size="3">Freedom Archives<br>
522 Valencia Street<br>
San Francisco, CA 94110<br>
<br>
</font><font color="#008000" size="3">415 863-9977<br>
<br>
</font><font color="#0000ff" size="3"><a
href="http://www.freedomarchives.org/" eudora="autourl">www.Freedomarchives.org</a></font><font
size="3"> </font></p>
</x-sigsep>
</body>
</html>