From the dawn of time, in terms of art history, artists have been commissioned to create things. Murals, sculptures, poems and the like. All of these have been made for money.

I have been commissioned, but I will get no money. I would love to say that this is why I am having trouble with the project, but to say that would be a lie. My real problem is that I may not be a true poet. Also, I may have problems writing words as they should be and not as they were. Or as they happened.

I, like others, mine my inspiration from life. Often my own. And the truth of things is not my concern, but my feelings about those things are like a cage I cannot escape.

So this commission is to write a collection of 5-6 short text pieces which may be set to music. The umbrella theme of the event is “Of Love and War” and these pieces may or may not fit within the theme. They can be long or short, poems or prose, and about anything I damn well want them to be. Oh, except explicit sex. And I’m not allowed to curse.

This is a fun project, and one that was given to me based upon my work on this blog. My friend Robert and his friend George have both read my tales of triumph and desire and thought I may have something worthwhile to contribute. I think I do, but it is very hard to figure out exactly what it will look like.

If one is in the habit, as I am, of exploiting his personal past for the sake of “art,” he has to walk a fine line between confession and expression. He has to examine closely the intricacies of experience, and then only explore those things that may be universalized.

And so, I have identified a situation that seems suitable to sing. However, I cannot figure out how to deconstruct the moment into its tuneful elements. In order to get to this point, I’ve decided to first explore the situation here in greater details so that I may figure out the puzzle in the process.

When I think about “love and war” there is nothing more obvious to me than my relationship with Luke. The tensions we created and the complications we contrived were the stuff great battles are built upon. (And hopefully great art, too.)

We enjoyed the symbolism of things, often obvious but always meaningful. In this particular instance up for investigation, I was shopping for a present for his graduation. I had decided upon a ring, something financially feasible yet full of possibility. The ring itself was simple and silver, and large enough to fit upon his thick fingers. What made it special was the inscription.

I picked a quote from a Whitman poem, “We two boys together clinging.” The quote spoke volumes to me personally because of my own relationship with Whitman’s work, and also the fact that during one of the traumatic episodes from my past with Luke I had used this poem to woo another man. Luke and I had come together and then split because I couldn’t handle his obsessions. I was in the process of seeing another man, Mark, and had stopped by a friend’s house to prepare for a picnic date. Luke stopped by this friend’s house, too.

When Luke walked in, I was spread out on the floor writing Whitman’s poem in a card. Luke read the poem over my shoulder and erupted. Luckily, he also left. I had my date, but, never forgot how guilty I felt about it.

So in order to make reparations, I decided to reclaim this poem for Luke and put it on the inside band of his ring. The ring then developed a life of its own as we continued to have problems in the relationship and the tables began to turn and Luke prepared to break my heart as I had once broke his. We were living together and he was thinking of leaving, and one night I hid the ring so he wouldn’t take it with him. I wore it myself in the months of sadness, and then sent it to him in an attempt to reconcile. In light of all of this desire and desperation, the idea of “clinging” takes on new weight.

I must now figure out a way to reduce these memories into song. I know that I must build it upon the inscribed phrase. I also know that I must include another line of my own: “Smoldering cigarettes burn down to the filter.” To me this captures desire and reminds me of my chain-smoking ex.

However, what I do not know yet is what to include and what to forget. And what to remember, and what to make up. It is a vicious cycle.