The Clintonians

Before you go on,
watch the films
JFK and
Thirteen Days,
which would serve
as an excellent
platform to
remember what
kind of man
the last great
president was,
beyond the scandals
a different era
might have ruined
him over.

The first one
revolves around
the day everything
changed, and that's
what history
is going to have
to remember. It
wasn't just a matter
of the Cold War
entering its
last phase, but
the political
future of the nation
forming, readying
for Nixon's final bow,
preparing for the old
lines to be redrawn.

It took a while.
Reagan got to sit
through the remainder
of the idealism, and
to some extent, H.W.
as well, but it wasn't
until Clinton emerged,
the heir apparent,
that the whole thrust
was put into motion,
a worthy challenge
everyone accepted.
He played every hand,
weathered every storm,
all to affirm what
should have already
been obvious, that
something had broken,
and that only his
successor could signal
the way back, a man
who stepped into
the coliseum ill-prepared
for the wolves. He
had already proclaimed
himself an outsider,
why were we surprised?
He was eaten alive,
sacrificed for his religion.

The Clintonians were
out for revenge. Revenge
for the events of the
second film, all the potential
lost and mired by an
untenable war. Me, I'd
rather be a Clay than a Calhoun,
a Nixon than an LBJ, but
it didn't end up being that easy,
just ask Lieberman. All we
have left are splinters,
waiting to be put back together,
to be taken out of our fingers.

I wish above all
that I could always remember:
my voice should not be heard.
It's better that way,
the way such voices go,
the way the public likes it.
Who am I to give them
what they need?
I am not a code,
I am not a knight;
they've already heard,
they just don't want to.
The truth is always
murdered, the truth
is always free.

Things were lost.
Things will be found.

I know that this is not goodbye.