The Human Condition

Our cozy little planet is presumed to have existed for over four and a half billion years. In the most recent three of those, it has been teeming with life. They come and go, and more than we will ever know of. The truth is there have been many species of fascinating creatures that crawled, squirmed, floated, swam, galloped, trotted, scurried, walked, ran and flown throughout our ever changing environment called Earth. Each had its mechanism for being. Each had the means with which to move about, perpetuate and thrive; the means with which to process some form of cognition, or maybe at the very least the means with which to perceive. Each had within it the mechanism responsible for ending the inadequate; the unnecessary; the obsolete. Some of these creatures persisted for millions of years before the mechanism within them led them down that narrowing path. To appear as if they never existed or at best to forever sequel into a display at the Smithsonian. To be something to learn from. We humans, the latest upgrade model of hominid, are no different. We have our own mechanism of survival, perpetuation, and ultimately, our own demise, “The Human Condition.”

The human condition, it mars the soul, and burdens the spirit. It is the initiating tool, cycle and grand culmination of all of societies mistakes and undoings. Whether you think of it as sin, failure, shortcomings, ethical or moral turpitude, or unhealthy normal reactions to abnormal stress. It divides us from harmony. It unites us in doleful conspiracy. It diminishes our value as a species. It threatens to resolve our issues with finality. To cure the infection we fester upon this planet by allowing us to render ourselves onto the path of extinction. We can learn to heal the wounds of the human condition. Treat the symptoms, and practice good preventative care, and we will prevail. Cure the human condition and we will evolve to something better; something truly amazing.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Life like sweet, sweet water...

     In my endeavor to carry on that feeling of nurturing brought upon me by that ever so generous muse ~ I created something unique this morning... I poured a glass of chilled water, that I balanced with a hint of pomegranate and some very fragrant rose water... You sip it slow; draw in the aroma as you do... You hold the small gulps in your mouth for a while and when you swallow it ~ you take your time... It all just taste so much better when you do this... Just like life...

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Perhaps the purest form of stoicism?

An acquaintance of mine once said to me in a nervous tone, "I am hopeful all will be fine"... Hmmm...

Hope; defined as desire accompanied with expectation of obtaining what is desired or belief that it is obtainable, without necessarily having the tangible means with which to full fill said expectation ~ I mean really!

Hope is not a blind faith; Not some fixed belief; Not some unwavering perceived mantra!  No! 

Hope is quite simply ~ A quite unspoken easy understanding…

As such, it is then not hope that helps us rest easy ~ Effortlessly. 
Hope is not why we continue to survive or for that matter prevail.

Hope is only the fuel; the catalyst; The activating compound...

The heart felt truth ~ It is the profound world of homeostasis created in which we then exist.  The equipoise that makes our lives clear and lucid.  Yes!
It is the by product of our hope ~ Peace of mind…

Quote Patrick B Oviedo Jr.  Sunday September 16th 2012

When she says...

     Should you ever find yourself sitting next to a truly inspiring woman, and she turns to you and says, "write me a poem."  Well then, there is only one thing you can do ~ Comply!
Patrick B Oviedo Jr.
August 29th 2012

Curiosity Abounds

What remarkable aspirations storm behind that regal affectation?

Sitting there in her presence, learning of a natural lucidity...

What wondrous inspirations abide with innocent, coy tenor to belie the easy heart?

Casually she graced me with the intrigue of a guileful, slightly raised brow...

Can she see there lurking, my golem in the shadow of insecurities?

On occasion I bear witness to a beam of dawn from the corner of her mouth...

When she draws in the aura, do the newly warmed, elated molecules long to stay forever?

Graced with once, maybe twice, a soft chortle; a hint to the secret pathways to her heart...

When she bathes, do the legions of life giving droplets find themselves in reverence of her flawless pale skin?

I submit, to those queries there is only one possible, happy retort...

Yes, unequivocally, without doubt, for most certain, beyond all denial, absolutely...


Saturday, September 15, 2012

What Better Way To Live?

Ah, to live for that very next moment; That sweet, dolorous, lamentable ever fleeting moment ~ Anticipated ~ Longed for... Whether it be the taste of sweet berry or sour citrus; A sip of wine; A pour of good ale; Her fingers in my hair; Her lips; Her skin in the cradle of my hands; The cold of the wind and rain; The sun on my face; The throws of uninhibited, sweat born sex... That very next moment, that up until then, becomes the most magnificent and bewildering of your life ~ Glorious... Until the next ~ That very next moment!

Quote Patrick B Oviedo Jr. Saturday September 15th 2012

Friday, September 14, 2012

How beautiful is perfect... Very!

A woman with a scar; A bloom with tiny petals; A child with congenital defects; An old car with rust, tattered seats and a busted head light; A three legged dog; A poem written on a parcel of torn card board, held up with a push pin.  To love these things with such perfect imperfections, is to realize that they are in fact, that ~ Perfect...

Quote Patrick B Oviedo Jr. Friday Sep. 14 2012

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Peace With The Father

     As an undersized child, bearing malnutrition and innocent of thought; I new little of fear.  I saw it in others, such as my father in his few moments of sobriety.  He suffered nightmares and at times crawled under the bed, sweating, wide eyed, and breathing as shallow as possible.  Quiet, hardly breathing at all.  Ready to kill.  Sometimes, I would lay on my stomach and watch him tear.  Quiet, hardly breathing at all.  Other times, I would crawl under the bed with him.  I prepared to defend the parameter.  Laying there in silence.  Ready to kill.  My father had power, and as such so did I...  I believed then that it made me invincible, A demigod.  Real power is always kept in silence.

     Living in the intercity of San Antonio, Texas was not ideal for his condition.  The vicinity was always filled with potential threats and the precision training he received as a young man compelled him to deal with such potential threats with unmitigated violence and butchery.  His capacity to stay in control and not kill everyone was true power indeed, but the treats were ever present and at times they seemed countless.  Everyday in the Victoria Projects we heard screams, and gun shots, and sirens.  Always first the police and then the ambulance.  It resulted in a profound effect in the foundation of my personality.  I suppose the clinical perspective would suggest that my fathers post traumatic stress disorder imprinted on to us, his family.  I never really quite realized the extent of harm my father endured in his time.  I only knew that he was my father and he could never be wrong.  His might was invisible and we had nothing to fear from the rest of the world.  It was the world that needed to be weary of us.  At our disposal was always the power to unleash the Juggernaut, my fathers vengeance and might.  The power.

      One day my father was watching my sister and I.  She was six and a half and I was five years old.  He took us into an old dim bar and sat us on tall bar stool, at the pinball machines by the entrance.  I remember the dingy lights filtering through all of the cigarette smoke.  The creaky old wooden floors covered in red sawdust.   The bar, the chairs, the ceiling fans, floor, doors and walls matched.  They all had that same dark, stressed finish.  The room smelled of stale.  A blend of cigarette, beer, hard liquor and tired working class, was repugnant and somehow comforting.  My father sat at the bar just a few paces away.  He gave my sister and I each a coke in a glass with ice and a stack of quarters for the machine.  The thick man behind the bar always wiping out glasses with a stained rag, frequently came over to brandish a crooked toothed grin and give us a fresh blast from the soda gun.  What a neat thing; I wounder just how far he could reach with it?  My father caught our attention with a slight raise of his hand, and despite the cacophony of jabbering patrons his voice was always clear and distinguishable.  He said, "Barracuda!  I'll be right back son.  I'm just going to the john out back.  See right there down that hall.  Keep an eye on your sister."  I waved back, as if to say okay.

      My command was easy to carry out.  Lulu was on the bar stool next to me and we were never beyond each others sight.  We drank our soda pop and dropped quarters into the pinball machines.  We gleamed at the marvel of bells and twinkling lights.  The wonder of the engineering; it’s activator motors, sensors and score keepers.  That beautiful chrome polished ball bearing racing through the maze of electronic mayhem and having the will to influence its seamless path of rebound and redirection.  There in two supple buttons, at the tips of our fingers, power.  Without a doubt my sister and I agreed, pinball machines are the purest, most beautiful art form of gadgetry.  In the mist of the machine’s musical odyssey, I realize that she'd stopped playing.  Her hands, no longer on the controls, were tightly held up close to her mouth.  Her clear dark orbs became as big as silver dollars.  I recognized it immediately.  There was fear in those eyes.  I turned to confront the danger she perceived and felt the sudden sting of fine glass grit spit into my face.  Then another low ball whiskey glass missile whistled passed my head and collided with the pinball machine.  It too shattered into sand like fragments.  A life blood spilling brawl erupted in a crescendo of splitting wood and broken bones.  The order of the day was bare knuckled fist, flick knives, and broken beer bottle shivs.  Others still yielded bar stools, chairs or pool cues.  I took Lulu’s hand and we sought shelter behind the pinball machines.  Peering out I could see a man yelling and then choking on his own blood.  Then as it began to escalate I saw a man take flight against his will across the bar.  Another was lifted over head, turned over and then limbs dangling, brought crashing down.  From the hallway to the bathroom emerged an undeniable will of might.  The sea of violence parted and as it did, I could see the reason why.  It was my father plowing through the combatants.  Dispatching some as he went along.  Throwing one aside and then smashing another down, not to rise again.  He moved as if everyone else existed in a different plane of time and the destruction in his wake was all they perceived of him.  As sudden as it had sparked, we were free of it.  By good fortune, Lulu only witnessed the commencement of aggressions before we sought shelter and she covered her eyes.  Our father reached us and hoisted us over his shoulders like some superman cape made of pale little kids.  I remember doing my best to shield Lulu with my picayune, lily white arm.  We hung on to each other and his massive neck as he smashed still another fool determined to impede our escape.  Father’s fist disfigured the man’s face as it mashed against the door frame upon our exit.  The door of the slovenly establishment exploded with bits of wood and splintered glass cascading across the San Antonio downtown side walk.  The dad set us down gracefully and dusted the bits of glittering debris from our hair, shoulders, and lapel.  He spoke, "You guys are okay."  The tenor of his voice and the fully magnified grin on his face offered the sensation of warmth, safety, and comfort...  Peace.  

These childhood experiences spared us ever having the doubt.  We were fortified.  We lived in the inner city and despite the routine occurrence of gun shots, screams and emergency sirens; concern for our safety never crossed our minds because, we knew we had peace... Peace with our Father.

Written by Patrick B Oviedo Jr. Circa The late Summer or Early Fall of 2012

My Ode To The Dad...

Walking to the Blues
Of this Beat Poet’s Shadow

By Patrick Ben Oviedo Jr.
© July 9th, 2007

I just had to walk 'cross town to find that old news stand 'cause I heard that it was cool
I just had to read about you; how you broke our hearts with all that shit you use do
I just had to read on how you often spoke of the truth and how everybody lies
The news was sad, the worlds been had, but just the same, it’s these opium dipped cloves and tequila that brings tears to my eyes

You were wasting precious moments, thumbing thru some girlie magazine
That’s when she moved right past me like a chilled breeze in the earliest of spring
Aloof in her gaze, it was clear she was totally hip to your melancholy tune
Walking away soft as a whisper; Ah, the scent of jasmine and hope mating in full bloom

I noticed you had seen her, and were thinking just like me; hoping; wishing; wanting
Would she take that sweet funk, hair and sweat; that silk essence oozing from her skin
Spread it all over this sorry broken hide, aching from the unforgiving sins;
Mmm, with shameful pride; I’d have to gloat; Mmm, I’d have to boast;
To have such perfect cream cheese wasted on such crispy burnt toast

I saw you staggering akimbo, tipping back a pocket rocket; sneered eyed and a skewed
Cigarette in one hand, peering out that rat fink eye, ranting out something almost new
I remember when I first caught your wisdom how I wished I was you
Just a memory now; a black and white portrait of someone we loved through and true

So I shook my head in dissent and then played it off rubbing my neck; "'Tis my crick"
My heart ached in empathy when you yelled mournfully “Christ! Buddy! You don’t know the meaning of heartache!”
You welled a tear up in your eye; pseudo sincerity; indignation and not another word
Just a gnarly sneer down that two pound beak some fool once said was your nose

You sat back on your throne; a rain soaked stack of news papers dated back by a day, a week, month or a year; fuck! Who cares?
You chose to communicate now only thru a sign that read “Today’s racing digest sold here,” so step right up and get it, and set your ease at fear

Another night in some dive with old wooden bar stools that creak like my neck
A few free beers or a shot or two eases a grin from a grungy mug and it’s easy to forgive
You gave me your wisdom like some street guru, thru a microphone soaked in spit bourbon and blues
Or maybe it was cheap scotch and a ditty ‘bout some damsel with auburn hair, milky white skin and large supple breasts in shiny high heeled patented leather shoes

The “clink” of a low ball glass on a tin can; a pat on the head; brings bad breath and some endearment in your heartfelt drunken sincerity, “You’re all right, kid.”
I breathe right back, “I love you too, Daddy”

I know I’m still a fool cause’ sometimes I wish I was you and I’ll just keep on walking
Walking to the blues of this beat poet’s shadow

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

When The Daily Grind Gets You Down...

     I stayed way passed my shift one night... To unwind, I rode my beast north on the 101.  My mission, to get a better look at the night sky without city lights to drown them out... 
     Deep above, Orion stood with prominence... If I am not mistaken; Those stars may be the brightest elements of what is actually the Andromeda Galaxy, but I'm no expert... Underfoot, Venus, Sirius, Aldebaran and Jupiter played "ring around the rosy," circling a recumbent crescent moon... High above, Pleiades seven sisters cling together, anxiously waiting the early dawn, when the fore mentioned companions will so completely out shine and cause them to go into hiding... All the while that easy moon just kicked back and smiled... 
    I can not help this sensation... Far beyond all of these known or perceived astounding heavenly bodies, there is something... There is an unrelenting beckoning... Something that craves to feel, like the longing one has, when you miss the touch of a lost impassioned lover... I know the communion still is... I am, have always, will ever be... Connected... Connected... Connected...

Monday, September 10, 2012

Do You Tell Her?

 Even Though
 Patrick B Oviedo Jr.
August 22nd 2012

 Even though
 She is so close, so removed, so far away

 I wait patiently

 Even though
 Our social incongruities alarm her timid curiosity 

 I tender my life naked

Even though
This crude "modus operandi" offends  her unique sensibilities

I temper my desire

Even though
 My torn shoes speaks umbrage to her sense of inequality

I bare my humble pride

Even though
My simple thoughts deride in her innocent humor

I cling to my honesty

Even though, even though, even though
That last floating breath escapes in a supple, clear, azure bubble
The bracing deepens, the murk darkens

I remain hopeful, faithful, quiet, content... Hopeful

Even Though