Oil On Canvas

 

I tried to see things your way,
           I did.

Your prescription was too weak
                        to observe clearly,
            everything seemed a little too hazy
           to be broken into pieces

not unlike your beloved French plein-air masterworks.
                                   When examined closely,
                        a distorted mess is still a mess.

I’d love to get inside your head
            but I don’t think that I would fit,
especially if your mind is as cluttered as your outlook
            and isn’t that usually the case?

The Tower of Babel seems like an appropriate allusion
            to the state of our relation
                        working as a team to reach some unfathomable height
                        while speaking dialects discernable to only ourselves.

Isn’t that what life’s about?

            Even the most cynical search for the same,
                        it seems so ridiculous on paper,
                       all of it.
But on paper it was conceived, though not originally,
            only the modern pulp and greeting card variety.
Every good businessman knows
            emotional exploitation is the most lucrative commodity;

verdant Hudson River School semantics
           for austere romantics.

At its core, biology,
            the survival of the species at any cost,
                        whatever works most effectively.
And in today’s throw-away society
            the very soul of sentimentality
                        has been blackened in the shadow of economic opportunity.

When everything is disposable
            do we even want to hold the hand
            of another,
                        let alone the same other
                        everyday for the rest of our lives.
After the lights go out,
            no matter who’s lying beside you
            you’re still alone.
                        There’s no one else behind your eyes.

Ah, the modern concept of monogamy
            based upon some mainstreamed liturgy,
                                    some standardized morality that we’ve all seemed to
                                    accept as absolute.
            One god for every man,
            One man for every woman.

            The sum seems strangely low considering
                        how many people roam this land.
You told me once, or rather lectured
            on the subject of contemporary art, the abstract and non-objective sort—

            How it lacked any true depth or meaning
                        and how it was created by the indolent, who were rather good at spin,
                        for the susceptible mass-consumers of anything presented to be                                         extraordinary.
                        How everything true of beauty has been spoken for wholly
                        by the muse that is nature—
                                    left to be interpreted accurately.

Maybe I can give you a few notes before you write
            your lesson plans for next semester,
                        maybe those who do not see the forest at face value
                                   see something else entirely.
                        Maybe the post modern perspective allows
                                    a cryptic glance into a world intangible,
                                    but just as real as your oil paint trees.

 

And have you ever seen a work of art
            more abstract than the human heart?
                        Have you ever allowed yourself to draw
                        from a force more non-objective than the human mind?

Can these things even begin to be portrayed without some sort of quixotic adulation,
                                   without a little rhetoric or displacement?

Though I wish I could sit in on a few more of your lessons,
                                    your dime store professions
                                    I don’t think I’ll ever be
                                    the apt pupil you expect of me.

If only you respected the
                        little nuances in routine.

White noise becomes a screeching distraction
            when you have nothing to react to
                        but the tiny specks of leaf in your tea.

I’ve hope to one day understand why you
            waste so much of your time
            searching for deeper meaning
                        among the aisles in a discount chain.
                        Fade shy of the plastics on the shelves of humanity
                        that you’ve allowed to take the reins
                                    of your personal philosophies
                                    and lead pipe dreams,
that could become pipe organ dreams if you’d only give them one more shot.

I tried to see things your way, I did
            but all I saw was the tragic comedy
            of someone so sure he knows the absolute of everything,
                                    everything outside himself.

Though I know you have the best of intentions,
            however crass and cavalierly presented,
                                    when night turns to day, you know nothing.

Because, when you turn out the light,
            no matter who
            lies beside you,
                                    only you are
                                    inside you.

And you barely even know the guy.
                       

Reviews

[Cold Coffee Magazine]

I read this after seeing someone who's taste in literature is exceptionally high, posted on their favorites. I was to was stunned the deapth you bare your soul here. That takes courage for one and talent for another. The form was alien to me and delightful all at the same time. The flow was smooth and flawless at least to my eyes it was. The content was attention grabbing and insightful.

I will be looking to read more of your work.

Dave

Here were some of my favorite lines from your work:

After the lights go out,
no matter who's lying beside you
you're still is alone.

maybe those who do not see the forest at face value
see something else entirely.
Maybe the post modern perspective allows
a cryptic glance into a world intangible,
but just as real as your oil paint trees.

Because, when you turn out the light,
no matter who
lies beside you,
only you are
inside you.
And you barely even know the guy.

[Lena M. P.]

The imagery and metaphors used here are like their very own form of art. The story ebbs and flows with passion and pure emotion. You pour your soul onto this canvas and came up with a Dali. Priceless.

[J]

This is the sort of poetry I like to read because it's so alien to how I usually write - and truth be told, am a little bit envious about since I like a challenge, and something like this whets my appetite to try my own spin on things.

Prosaic in nature, the thoughts here are very substantial and philosophically-defined; this is a piece which grabs and refuses to let go. I'm still digesting it now, because... it's a lot to take in.

Seriously impressive. Very Beat rhythms too... if you haven't you should read it out live at a poetry evening... jus' sayin'.

[Jason]

This is an intelligent piece with extreme overtones of sarcasm and wit and above all artistry. you are very smart, which could sometimes be a detriment to most artists, but definately not yourself. 'Pipe organ dreams...' 'quixotic adulation..' I love these words you so perfectly place on paper.
Thank you!
~j

[Barry Simiana]

your insights into the " human condition" are astounding! "have you ever seen a work of art, as abstract as the human heart". that line alone sells this as a major work of art. as a breakup story, a goodbye, a last longing look before leaving forever, it is beautiful and i now shelve this in my library.

[[untitled]]

I'm not sure I know why I'm even attempting to review this, as it has reduced me to a babbling, stammering, slack-jawed wreck. What could you possibly want to hear from someone who has no command whatsoever of poetic form, but nevertheless stands in awe of "Oil on Canvas"?

Among the many jewels you've placed on display here, one in particular has grabbed me and refuses to let go:

When everything is disposable
do we even want to hold the hand
of another,
let alone the same other
everyday for the rest of our lives.

Outstanding...

OK; I know it's not cool to stand here and slobber. I'm done.

[Cdnsurfer]

This was a pretty sharp piece and thanks to G. Cedillo for sending it to me. The imagery was sharp, crisp and flowed extremely well. Very intelligently written, sharp, witty, biting -- all those things I absolutely love to read in poetry. Compelling, strong voice. Finally, here we have a story being unfolded, not just a snapshot, but a story of real life, real people, real issues, real thoughts. That's what rocks about this work most.

Only issue, I think you meant "you're still alone."

Well done. Love to read more of your work. I'm a fan! Rob

[TL Boehm]

wow, an incredible poem....loved lines like a distorted mess is still a mess - and the last line is the real clincher. Smart poetry here indeed.

[Touché Armada]

Lost for any sort of review,,, sorrry.
Very deep indeed.

[Donald Meikle]

Two things Erin, (you're still AS alone) and I cannot seem to fit fade into the aisles of plastic.
The rest of it is a positively outstanding read.
The title drew me in,(I paint) Keep living life to the fullest, and I love your eyes.
I 'm sorry I don't review as well as this deserves
Oh is the sign backward in the picture?