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!
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
Here’s the poem I wrote about our jam in May. I wanted to surprise you with it on LUVER! 🙂
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.
cold dark homeless
clogged with ice fears,
my only friend
is the wind
chilling my bones
into a cynical loneliness.
Herding my sheep,
looking in windows
of unattainable desires,
looking at presents
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 before the manger.
And the sun
will not come back
This is the season
of dark depression
and fragile suicide.
I can always bum up
the plastic hope and faith
at 7 Eleven
it is my wonderful life
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.
of new hope
has always been hidden within
the long cold
clinging to our tribal warmth
as our only protection
into the scary
we always have been blind
to the evergreen
hope of life.
It has always been
the first time
and easy hope
have gone away.
So we always think
they will never
The evergreen hope
has been hidden
in the womb
of the humble
and in children’s dreams.
The forces of greys
have always overheard
of the hidden hope…
have always searched
to pervert it
into human isolation…
to kill it
for all time.
But the forces of power
the hidden human hope
in the baby’s cradle.
goes on a desperate killing,
the old world up……
we huddle together
in the silent night
upon the hill,
in our tribal body warmth.
the holy woman,
the medicine man
have always shifted
our attention away
from the dark
have always shifted
to the guiding light
of new birth…
in the stars,
then in the roaring
all human feelings
and still later
into that corny
with bright colors
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.
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.
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.
This is the poem that Frank wrote for a class of medical students at University of California, Berkeley:
NO CAN NOTS by Frank Moore Sunday, April 28, 2002
Talking to future healers & teachers & maybe future muckrakers & troublemakers Well, Not really future Because hopefully You are doing IT RIGHT NOW! Hopefully I’m not talking to the future guards Of the corporate normalcy Armed with can nots, Limiting futures from birth, Enforcing coloring only within the lines, Enforcing doing everything THE RIGHT WAY THE NORMAL WAY
This poem was published in the book Skin Passion, a book of poems and paintings by Frank Moore.
Connie completed the fading into death this afternoon. She has always lived in her young mind, always was a black sheep, raising black sheep, always wanted to know, always hungry for education, NO MATTER WHAT! WHATEVER IT TOOK! Deaf to CAN’T, to dumb rules!
No time for social frills, no time for BS, no time for limits. Just time for deadpan joy of just everyday, for no-nonsense love, for pushing and demanding for possibilities. She bit, or pretended not to hear, just going for what’s right like a tank… running you over.
You were a fool if you believed her mcgoo act! Hero? Yes! Always growing beyond working in a doctor’s office, after getting a college education, after the leaving of Jim, threatened by his black sleep wife, after pushing me onto THE REAL WORLD, after raising Jerry and me, after getting out of Utah as a free thinker!
Just taking Tums and aspirins, Connie at 79 lived a very rich life… always young in life… now always will be young!
Jerry and I are so lucky to be in the black sheep family of CONNIE!