Tomorrow, I have surgery to remove the tumor...

Lately, because of poor health, I have not written. My friends, Tammy and Karen, recently posted blogs about their many personalities. While waiting for MRI's (I had two Saturday, one on my spine and then one on my foot, two hours apart) I decided to write about my many personalities, as well. In between writing I became dizzy and passed out. When I came to, I chuckled...the technicians failed to see the absurdity and humor, in me passing out, in a hospital...

Varda Chaya- she is the Jewish apostate who mocks all religions, all belief systems, indeed all tribal affiliations. Descended from Swedish berserkers, African slaves, native American savages, and the conquisadores, she is fatigued by all of the global tribal violence that has been part and parcel, of human history. She wishes that people would just "get over it". She wants the Palestinians to "get over it". The Israelis to "get over it". The Africans to "get over it". Native Americans to "get over it". Whatever people are claiming "it" is that prevents them from moving pass their tribal loyalties, Varda Chaya wants them to "get over it". She would like the world to focus instead on preserving the species before humans end up extinct, like the dinosaurs. She would like to prevent the rats, roaches and paramecium from inheriting the world. Varda Chaya wants the world to focus on global warming, health care, education and violence. She wants the world to get their shit together. Varda Chaya wants a better world for all.

Vic - he is the eternal rocker. The one who invested mucho dinero on sound equipment, speakers, microphones and Fender Strats. The one who found peace and a slice of heaven in power chords and ganja. He was the one who was so laid back that his heart beat was barely measurable. Vic had a "live and let live" kinda attitude. He felt that if everyone lit up a doobie, they would stop wasting their time, trying to kill folks that were different. His main goal in life was seeking that elusive combination of chords that would lift a song from mediocre to the sublime. Too bad that a 9 - 5er was required in order to provide his kids with such mundane things as food, clothing and shelter. Vic now sits in the back of Vee's head, a cheapo Bic lighter eternally lit, nodding off to Pearl Jam, Metallica and Heart, whille smoking a little mary-jane. Incidentally, Vic discovered that mary-jane is good for Vee's multiple sclerosis pain. Too bad the drug companies managed to strong-arm the feds into keeping it away from folks suffering chronic pain. Imagine not having to spend hundreds of dollars on vicodin, fentanyl and other opiates and growing what you need, on your window sill...

Venice - is Vic's twin. Like Vic, she found her peace in music, dressing the part in Stevie Nicks like blouses and skirts, with long flowing tresses. She strummed her acoustic and rhythm guitars, while relocating from one to city to another, with Vic. Unlike Vic, who loved Fenders, she had a fondness for Gibson guitars. She composed songs similiar to "We are the World" and "Blowin in the Wind', painted beautiful sunsets and bowls of fruit, while dreaming dreamy thoughts on Quaaludes and other mood enhancing drugs. Venice never gave up her artistic endeavors as she aged and when multiple sclerosis crippled Vee's fingers, voice and eyes, she switched to writing poetry and blogging. Venice is always optimistic. There is always a silver lining in the clouds. Of course, to Venice, tornado and hurricanes are beautiful also.

Victoria - she is the good child, the obedient child; at times quiet and withdrawn. Victoria is the face of bourgeoisie. She ostensibly, livies the charming facade of the good life. She is the recipient of private schools, and epicurean cuisine. She has the "right" kind of friends, the "right" stylish clothes, and parrots the "right" vanilla politics. Victoria is amused that her friends envy her life. She had been abandoned by society, to reside in a world, where daddy snuck in her room at night and step-Mommy pounded her body and psyche (for being the other woman when she caught her husband molesting Victoria). She has learned to hate her body and her beauty. She has learned how to temporarily disassociate herself from pain. She has learned how people can murder, without spilling a drop of blood. And finally, she has learned that love is just another word and an excuse to justify the things, one inflicts on a child. Vee built a room around Victoria and threw away the key but Victoria's silent screaming always unlocks the enclosure. This silence is LOUD. It is explosive. Frequently, Victoria and Venice collaborate and write poetry but Victoria in her quiet, unassuming manner is powerful. Her silent screaming grasps control of all their endeavors. The resultant poetry ends up being bleak and black, and Venice is left in a corner, wringing her ineffectual hands, while whining that she wanted to write about beauty and flowers, not pain and suffering. Victoria always ends up telling Venice to be quiet and "get real". Politely, of course.

Venom - is the bitch. She wishes everyone would just shut the fuck up. Or get the fuck outa her face. What she really want is or everyone to leave her the fuck alone. She loves the "F" word. She finds that it is the best all-around word to describe every situation. Unlike Varda Chaya (who she regards as being a confused mongrel) and Vic and Venice (who she regards as being totally useless) Venom considers human beings to be a blight on Mother Terra. She knows that the world is fucked up and would be better place sans man. Victoria, at times, agrees with her. Vic, Venice and Varda Chaya are appalled so they keep her sedated. In fact, Venom is suicidal and has almost succeeded in killing herself but for some fucked up reason, doctors have managed to save her life, each time. Vic, Victoria and Venice secretly wish that she had succeeded.

Vincenzo Miquel de la Cruz - for the sake of brevity, let's call him Vinnie. He is the ultimate Western patriot. The epitome of cultured conservatism. He was raised to believe in god, country and flag. He was raised to believe in freedom, democracy and bringing these values to the little brown, yellow and red peoples of the world as they labor on plantations, factories and warehouses manufacturing  televisions, computers, radios and other assorted goodies. Vinnie also believes in preserving and protecting the borders of his country, by building walls. Building very big walls. Patrolled by men, with big guns. Vinnie however, does not understand why the little brown yellow and red men do not love and embrace him and his values. Varda Chaya, Venice and Vic despise him but are also frightened by him. Victoria understands him, since she understands hate, very well. Venom hates him, but then again, she hates everyone. Vee has succeeded him subduing him (most of the time). But like a badly tarnished penny, he returns when one least expects him, if issues like illegal immigration and slave reparations are discussed. Vincenzo really does not give a shit what Vee, Vic, Victoria, Venice and Varda Chaya thinks of him. In fact, he would like to stick them on one of his coco plantations. Venom amuses him.

Vee - then we have Vee. Abuelita, mother, human, poet, musician, artist and atheist. Sick and in constant pain. Life has been kicking her in the ass, for a long damn time. She feels tired and old. Tired of pain. Tired of medicines. Tired of tests and needles. Tired of doctors. Just plain ole tired.
            
             when dreams die a sordid death
             darkness banishes all light
             Orpheus can be heard snickering
             softly stage left
             as Thanatos crooks his fingers and
             beckons

             she lays defeated in Elysium fields
             fields salted by white coated
             stalwart soldiers and their caduceus
             weaponry
             it is an ignoble death by millimeters
             of thinly, sharpened swords
             and measured drops of blood

ai ya yi
growing up
I dreamt of Mayan death chants
instead of flowers
how could I not
surrounded by all that sacrificial red ichor
and the sheep
who chanted for more

for the few
repelled by this religious fevour
twinned with murder
eventually we too, became meat
to feed those hungry masses
and as the knife plunged...hearts were torn
asunder
from our bodies
and tossed in burial cenotes

ai ya yi
they did not care that
parents had spun the genetic roulette wheel
and begotten us
unique
daughters and sons of Quetzalcōhuātl
in the end
we were nothing -
fodder for conquistadores feasts
and male Mayan priests

I tell you true
no difference existed between those two
predators
ai ya yi
es verdad
this is the truth
los muertos son muertos
dead is dead
even for unique flowers
of the gods

art lifted from -
www.maya-archaeology.org

that defines life
while others pray for peace, love and charity
the pills allow her to view
god
in
vivid technicolor
as
her
life
slips
away
and
she
obtains
her
oblivion

I tire of the euphemisms
people use to blunt and soften
the edges of Death.
We pass on,
go on the final journey
cross to the other side
instead of dying.
There is nothing indeterminate
about Death
It is in your FACE,
cold and brutal,
it can steal in
like a silent kiss
or explode
with the force of a thunderstorm.
It massacres the senses
rams into your heart
and takes no prisoners;
it tells no lies
offers no compassion
it simply does not care.
Your son's upcoming football game
will not delay it,
you will not see it on caller ID
it will not wait
until you can send a loved one
an email
creed, color nor conviction
can delay Death.
Death is an absolute unto itself
and it comes
neither proudly
or with honor
no flags waving in the wind,
no sound effects or fanfare,
all the lavish memorials
can not beautify this process
Death be not lofty or noble
Death is
the final arbitrator,
the last word
the final note.
Death simply is.

I sit here
weeping and raging
at my friend
as you,
forgetting and not regretting
the lives and the loves
to be left behind
I scream at you to fight
plead with you to resist
unable to understand
how you dare board Charon's ferry
defeatedly
berth Elijah's chariot
willingly
not one piece of silver
will I lend you
to seal your bargain
with Acheron
the flesh you clasp and cling to
with such urgent fervency
is diseased and unworthy
of this sickly devotion
it does not define
it need not convict
you are more than nipple and gland
will your son's tears
not sway you from this course
how can his life
with all its future joys and glories
not entice you?
do not go gentle into the night
I beg you, again and again
bellow your defiance
do not turn the other cheek
or fail to remember
that we are born to live
eventually to die
it is the grand gesture
to choose life
do not go passively
irrevocably
into this abyss

I wish I could have 5 more minutes with him,
telling him much he was loved,
adored, treasured and needed;
I wanted 4 more minutes to retrieve,
all my harsh words, sarcastic rejoinders,
acidic utterances, ego deflating ridicule;
G-d wouldn't give me 3 more minutes,
to hold him, laugh at silly nothings,
for one more long drive at midnight;
I would have sold my soul for,
just 2 more minutes to hope and beg,
scream, plead and rage,
for a chance to re-live it again;
and then there was 1 more minute,
left to waste time,
regretting all I never said,
apologizing for missed moments...
and then he died, and I was,
completely,
out of time.

She cries desperately,
as he erupts in rage again,
tears are streaming down her face,
but in his ugliness,
he does not care.
She spends all her time,
placating and pacifying him,
but at the end of the day,
is so tired of it all,
wonders if it is all in her head.
It feels like several lifetimes,
have passed her by,
wearied of him ripping at her,
and crying a river tears,
it is enough to drown her love,
and his hate,
but does not empty her reservoir of tears.
A lifetime of hiding the bruises,
an eternity of dwelling in silence,
she walks towards the waters edge,
where her story ends.

 

Without warning,
the banshee sang;
mistaking it for a screech,
I ignored the atonal admonition,
to treasure life,
and prepare,
for the inevitably of death.

She sang with thunder;
an outpouring of impending woe,
subsequently, dismissed,
as the rantings of an angered,
spirit.

The banshee articulated sadness;
a scream buried within,
grief, the rending elegy,
stripped of polite, subdued,
lacy hankerchiefed tears.

It was a wail,
the personification, and the premonition,
of my loss.

 

 

what if i never was
what if i stepped sideways into another reality
where you do not exist
love and pain, just dreams and nightmares
that go poof
disappearing with the light of day
what if all the promises to love and honor
are never made
and the white dress flowers families friends and holy men
never were
that day just another day
yeah baby
what if i never had to face another punch
make ridiculous excuses for your actions
and my inactions
what if, baby
what if, i never was?

 

shocking pink tipped accentuated petals
riveted me sending me hurtling back to the past.
Memories of late night dancing, all night loving, we knew we had eternity and time to watch our love grow.

Days when I loved you so deeplypast the superficial it ventured deeper than the subcutaneous dredging into the subterranean.

You became necessary with every breathe and exhalation, but forever is a child's dream,
and I discovered that our love was as ephemeral as the scent of a dying rose.