Flaming hair, flaming voice singing belting raging the blues, singing setting things right for the people, belting it, the spirit, out beyond her voice, flaming her voice hoarse beyond linear limits.
Listen very closely, carefully, focus on her breasts as she leads you by the arm through an ever changing nonlinear maze of stories, connections, names, human passions. You’ll need this focus point to surrender.
She, Jesse, can and will lead you skipping and dancing into the heart of all things, of all matters.
She has lived and danced upon this liquid lusty path, has lived deep hard soft in the not-so-clear/clean/pure waters of humanity long before, and will long after, us.
So surrender to the mad woman, to the senile bag lady, to the peter pan child… fall into her time warp hole… fall into Jesse, and you’ll be falling into wisdom deep and warm!
We enter the magic cave Of play and healing, Shedding our fiction characters We use outside, Ego masks, skin tight, Limiting….limiting the expanding. Those masks will change When we put them back on, Softening to fit our new bodies, new faces… Later.
Here we are More than ourselves More of ourself Expanding Expanding into one another Rubbing skin Friction of pleasure Falling into the in-between Surrender to the falling Out of time and space, Surrendering into discomfort Of strangeness which contains A strange comfort of remembering The body and soul
Falling into the in-between, Surrendering into the trance Pleasure friction of creation Rubbing dead skin into each other, Aroused and excited, Going into each other, Taking each other in, There is no THE OTHER, No IN-BETWEEN. Breathing each other deeply, Smelling and tasting, Licking and kissing, Prickly state of inter-penetration, Nerves connected In the skin, Melt bodies together, Removes the lies of separation, Hearts beat together strong relax, Rich red blood flows deep.
We rock calm deep contained within each other Within the combined body Deep pleasure flows over us Washing from deep within.
We have been here before, Being contained within everything, Enveloping everything within. Lying extended within our combined body, Combined self/soul, relaxed, enjoying being within, Sucking aroused pleasure up As a tide of change, Enjoying being with each other Without going anywhere, Being enough.
The tide, the laugh Giggle, sobbing Pleasure Leave our body reality Trance of inter-dependence, Inter-penetration, Holy healing play dance, And flows inward into the whole cosmos, Changing everything, Changing healing unseen, unknown
We leave the cave With each other inside… And our masks expand and soften.
Poetry Bash, Fort Mason, San Francisco 1988. Photo by Linda Mac.
I came to play! Came to the table to play I don’t care what I have to do to get a seat at the table
I play every hand dealt to me not really caring about winning or losing or about skill… just playing hands to stay in the game
Yes, I am a dangerous player, keep on playing
I came to play! Came to bed not to fuck you but to melt with you enjoying mutual surrender washing pleasure swept away into oneness exploring skin from the inside, beyond time, beyond self, into the fun of being into exploring the furry cozy sweating love that can’t be confined to the bed, but claims the whole life as its playpen I came to play to mix things up to see what unexpected will appear, to jam with playmates, to lose ourselves within one another, within the playing, the dancing, the touching, the music… into listening and melting
I came to play… playing life the best way I can… always playing against the house, against the odds… not a smart player… never in competition… just keep my eye on the ball, on each hand, on following the every move of Lady Luck
I came to play… often in the lonely fields beyond taboo, breaking thru THE WALL to new possibilities… but I am a team player… always looking for playmates to get muddy or sweaty with… because… truth be told… playing with myself for myself has never been fun, only lonely
I came to play with colors, noises, realities, bodies, words, characters, limits, dreams, images, life, death, symbols, magic… and with you
I came to play and I’m a dangerous player because I don’t play for money, fame, power, or from anger, bitterness, hatred, emptiness, or to win… so I can’t lose can’t be beaten!
I came to play to play just for fun ….just to change everything!
I came to play… after all… I want to play with you… we are mammals, after all!
Creativity is like shitting. Most people do it. Everyone needs to do it…. More or less regularly. Every shit is different. There is nothing like a good shit! Some people obsess on their shitting! Some obsess on their own shit; Others obsess on others’ shit, Even buying it! I just enjoy a good shit! Oh shit, I’ll let you in on a secret… I play with shit! Creativity is just playing.
Boundaries, borders Are lies of power They keep people in They keep people out They ain’t really there Only in the sight Of guard guns and dogs The lines just ain’t there You can just keep on walking Toward me, Into me
You could keep on walking Except for their bullets of fear Define and maintain your boundaries, They tell us!
That keeps us weak and isolated That keeps me from you, Boxed up, bottled up That keeps the wrong people out Us protected in abstractions That keeps our human spirit divided Keeps Life separate from us Keeps us warring, scared, hating Keeps you from me Keeps us hungry, thirsty, cold Just owning Instead of living deep and free.
Skin is not a border Skin is a sea flowing everywhere Touching, feeling, unlimited, Breathing deeply Giving, taking as one Experiencing, feeding as one A thick rich soup Which can’t be canned or bottled
Healthy skin is thick and flexible Healthy breath is deep and lusty Our healthy body does not need Limiting power, Doesn’t need to hold in, To hold back, To die from not dancing, Not risking, Not feeling pain, joy, pleasure Deeply Just dying slowly Within the tight shallow Owning MY SPACE
i get worried if my words and images fit through veins clogged with fatty taboos of polite appropriate of comfortability.
i get worried…is the art that small that it fits through that pinhole of a hole…so small that nudes on the walls, words on telephone poles, any shift in the social power structure threatens the very reality fabric.
i’m too proud to admit the art poetry is that small. so my art becomes a roto-rooting balloon covered in razors tipped in draino acid, pushing pressuring uncomfortable unsocial grinding against the grain until the killer fatty clots of taboos burst out the other end and go down the drain like trouble.
i don’t really go after the hitlers, the mccarthys, the helms, or their brown shirts.
they are just limp-dicked power-junkies with swiss-cheese egos, each hole filled with inferiority. they are just moons with no power light of themselves, just reflecting fear.
no, i go after the nice people who never asked where the trains were going, boxcars filled with people. didn’t have to. only suspected, only heard rumors…after all, the general is a friend. never said, excuse me, i am a jew too, arab too, a jap too, a gay too, i’ve negro blood running in my body, aids too. i’m a commie who took home movies of our nude kids. so better put me on that train too. better put us all on that train. there ain’t no train big enough!
i go after the nice people who keep going to work after seeing their friends missing, after hearing rumors of blacklist and blackball. must write something about that subject to THE TIMES. he used to be such a pleasant fellow…but now he is a whining paranoid…not a sort to have to tea. he is like a wet messy fart. not in my backyard!
yes, i go after nice people. but my time in the belljar is about over. so i’ll leave you with this. what is happening in your backyard is what really matters. so be sure to weed!
“Seated Nude”, oil on canvas, 36” x 36”, 1981 by Frank Moore
A poem by Teresa Cochran about “The Jam” on Frank Moore’s Shaman’s Den, May 28, 2000, with Teresa Cochran, Giovanni Moro, Walter Funk, John The Baker, Corey Nicholl and Frank Moore
Hi Frank,
Here’s the poem I wrote about our jam in May. I wanted to surprise you with it on LUVER! 🙂
Music Jam
Here we are In the Shaman’s Den The Shaman on piano, Bringing music out of infinite spaces, Inviting us to follow. We find our own parallel musical paths, Each one different, But present, Like a harmony. Joyous play With shamanic toys; We are all here. The silent one, Booya, Is no less present. Here he is With headphones; An omniscient being, While we trust him To stay with us And participate in our adventure. And o the magical recording later! It contains things we could not, did not hear In our shamanic journey. I feel as if I have lived At least one lifetime During that one-hour jam. Condensed, yet timeless.
Walking along
cold dark homeless
roads
clogged with ice fears,
my only friend
is the wind
chilling my bones
into longing
and lost
and beyond…
into a cynical loneliness.
Herding my sheep,
looking in windows
of unattainable desires,
looking at presents
useless
because
I don’t have anyone to give them to,
looking into the past
soft colored warm homes
that are no longer mine.
Everyone has left,
everyone is gone.
Even the sun has left
long ago,
long before the manger.
And the sun
will not come back
ever
again.
This is the season
of dark depression
and fragile suicide.
Yes,
I know
I can always bum up
the $29.95
to buy
the plastic hope and faith
at 7 Eleven
and pretend
it is my wonderful life
playing
in the video store’s window.
But instead I wrap myself in a jaded pretense of dry ice isolation of not caring, and drinking the stale but warm wine of regrets.
2
The birth
of new hope
has always been hidden within
the long cold
winter darkness.
Huddled together,
clinging to our tribal warmth
as our only protection
against dying
into the scary
black
unknown,
we always have been blind
to the evergreen
hope of life.
It has always been
the first time
the sun
and easy hope
have gone away.
So we always think
they will never
come again.
The evergreen hope
has been hidden
away
in the womb
of the humble
and in children’s dreams.
The forces of greys
have always overheard
the possibility
of the hidden hope…
have always searched
for it
to pervert it
into human isolation…
or,
failing that,
to kill it
for all time.
But the forces of power
always overlook
the hidden human hope
rocking
in the baby’s cradle.
As power
goes on a desperate killing,
chopping
hacking
gorging,
eating
the old world up……
we huddle together
in the silent night
upon the hill,
rocking together
in our tribal body warmth.
The shaman,
the holy woman,
the medicine man
have always shifted
our attention away
from the dark
cold
outward
fear,
have always shifted
our gaze
to the guiding light
of new birth…
at first
in the stars,
then in the roaring
tribal fire
which pulled
all human feelings
within it,
and still later
into that corny
home hearth
crackling
with bright colors
popping.
Into this fire we have always gone, hearing the drumming of our innocent heart beating in a slow excitement, meeting again our love of life. We curl up with our love and wait for warm spring to arrive… as hope grows into knowing.
Christmas Card, digital painting, 2008 by Frank MooreChristmas Card, digital painting, 2011 by Frank Moore
There are all kinds of art. There is art that calms, art that pacifies, art that sells, art that decorates, art that entertains.
But what I am committed to is art as a battle, an underground war against fragmentation. The battle is on all realities.
The controllers have always tried to fragment us. Fragment us from each other. Imprison us in islands of sex, color, religion, politics, classes, labels, etc., etc., etc., etc., etc. they fragment our inner worlds, they blow our individual realities apart, and play the pieces against one another. They are us, or a part of us. They are the controllers, the politicians, the sexists, the women’s libbers, the pornographers, the censors, the moralists, the church, the media, the businessmen, educators, the victims and the powerful.
They are us. They have divided us from our power, from our beauty, from our lust for life and pleasure. They have divided us from most of reality – divided dying from living – sex from living, sex from pleasure. We are kept in boxes of fear, of mistrust. We are kept waiting – kept waiting to do what we want – waiting for enough money, enough schooling, for everything to be right. We are kept waiting and protecting and hiding and suffering.
This is the time to do battle with the boxes.
As artists, our tools are magic, our bodies, taboos, and dreams.
This kind of art can be bubbles of childhood – hidden places where you can play and explore – it is the kids’ under-the-covers world, the playhouse, the treehouse, the cave, behind the barn, playing doctor, cars at drive-ins before going all the way, Huck Finn’s raft, tepees. People are afraid of this area of lusty exploring that they think they have out-grown — but they are sucked into it.
But this kind of art can have a more heavy-duty magical side to it that shocks, offends, and breaks new ground. This side is what is locked in, the subconscious, the womb, the underground, hell/heaven, pleasure/torture, the coffin, the grave, birth/death/rebirth, dream/nightmare, the hidden world of taboos.
Artists of this breed need to be warriors who are willing to go into the areas of taboo, willing to push beyond where it is comfortable and safe to explore and build a larger zone of safeness. They need to be idealists, willing to live ideals.
“Falling in Love”, digital painting by Frank Moore, 2010
THE DANCE WITHOUT DANCERS Frank Moore 2011
What we have here is only the first smell of fresh magic. Matter is hollow tubes containing fibers of packets of possibilities. Matter is symbol, is metaphor containing possibilities. These packets shape matter. These packets, in turn, are reshaped by each body /object they pass through. We are affected by the stars, and the stars are affected by us. We affect the Tarot cards and the I Ching coins we cast. The physicists affect the subatomic particles they observe.
By reshaping these inner packets, the material reality is reshaped.
The inner rivers of possibilities are two way on the linear level. The magical effects are always two way. The light of the sun warms us; but we affect the sun through the same channel.
We have entered the level of the dynamic web of relationships in which the individual does not exist. In place of the individual, there appear points of personal responsibility in a dance.
It is not the sun that warms, nor is it us who are warmed. It is the dance of no dancers, the dance of relationships that warms, and that is warmed.
Reality creation is a dance. We are the dancers. But in truth, it is a dance without dancers. If we really take on personal responsibility for the dance, we surrender to the dance, give up individual “control,” give up individual linking with the results. By taking on the personal responsibility for the dance, we are the dance. We melt with the dance. We are only the dance. We admit these facts. It is not a question of becoming, but of remembering and admitting. It is a question of being, living, dancing lustfully, without controls or limits in responsibility.
The life dance is beyond morals or limits. It joyfully digs into the dance to the juicy black core.
