The Frank Moore Archives

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Tag: Chapped Lap

Connie

Frank’s mom, Connie.

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!

 © Frank Moore 5/19/2000

a rant on an open mike

the open mike
is the most democratic channel…
well maybe except for hyde park sproul soapbox freedom.
anyone can sign up
to step up to bat,
step up to the mike
and into the sacred belljar
where art poetry is free to expose truth,
free to use whatever it takes,
whatever style it takes to expose truth…
that is, until your given time runs out
and hooks you around the neck and yanks you
from the belljar stage.
but in the belljar channel
you are in danger testing, crying, being so sucking bad that both
you and they curse your birth, sharing found ideas, listening to
the silence and the polite clapping greeting your bombs or to your
ravings of rage that hit too close to home, messing up the nice
polite parlor.

entering the open mike belljar is a leap into uncontrolled
possibilities, uncomfortable quest through good bad boring
embarrassing and sometimes magical.

nobody owns the belljar,
except when you are in the channel,
in the pipe behind the mike,
holding the modern talking stick
until it is time to pass it on to the next.
but the talking stick is everyone’s,
for anyone with something to express.
if one is banned, censored, from holding the talking stick
just to punish, just to protect a neat fragile nice order,
we all are banished from the sacred talking stick which becomes
just a cock that we rub.

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, 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!

© 1995 Frank Moore

Art is a Bitch

Nude Stacy by Frank Moore

Someone asked:

1. What were the THREE MOST IMPORTANT things you did to get a break and start moving toward recognition as a performance artist?

2. While you were moving toward getting to where you needed to go, how did you make enough money to survive while not taking away TOO much time and energy from your creative work?

3. How do you spend your days now, mostly? e.g., approximately what percentage of each day is spent writing, marketing yourself, planning shows, arranging tours, scoping out and applying for grants, bringing in outside income, acting as a mentor to other artists, etc.?

4. What do you love MOST about doing what you do now?

5. What do you HATE most about doing what you do now?

I can only answer
art is not a career
not a money maker
but a money taker
an addiction,
a life long master
who does not give
a flying fuck
what I “THE ARTIST”
loves, hates,
what I want to do,
where I want to go

the artist’s job is to surrender,
to follow, to melt into art

making money is easy
but the river of art rarely flows
naturally that way
without damming the river up

so keep your day job
get a day job you like doing
because art is your mistress of night
& you ain’t her pimp
she’ll take your money & time
she will take you into the basement
of the unseen

you’ll get old with her
attending her needs
rocking on the porch with her
no goals, no plans, no marketing,
no rush.

Just rocking, just surprises everyday,
just people dropping by,
just floating without knowing,
just doing, just suffering, just enjoying.
Just following.

Just trust the bitch art!

© Frank Moore 03/20/1999

mutation is evolution

you foolish idiot!
You want to make
everything,
everyone
normal!
You want to cure
prevent
all crips,
freaks,
crazies,
oddballs,
slow ones
misfits,
bums,
artists,
poets,
and all other impractical
different looking
strange mutations
you fool!

How to condemn the human species
to extinction!

Look…
the game of evolution is
change by experimentation.

We freaks are the experimenters

the name of the game
is flexibly adapting
coping
leaping
risking into the unknown newness
of uncontrolled future
we crips,
we misfits have always been the adapters,
the leapers

hell,
I’m not wasting my time
talking to you about magic and such
just about evolution

well,
if you don’t need us crips,
us misfits
if you don’t need us no more…
our advice is
don’t breathe deep
in your air-tight coffin
of normalcy
and move very slowly
very carefully
in your thin-skinned world
of ever increasing fragility

oh yeah…
good luck!

© Frank Moore 04/23/1999


“Mutation Is Evolution” poem by Frank Moore
Read by Annie Krist

A segment from the web video series LET ME BE FRANK, Episode 7, “Nonfilms”.
Website for the series: http://frankadelic.com/

tortures

© Frank Moore 5/18/94


Reading by Attaboy & Ben Burke on Frank Moore’s Shamans Den, October 24, 1999

events are real,
but victim’s reality
ain’t mine.

loud doctor
judge
voices kept pronouncing
no intelligence,
no future,
no spark,
just a black hole drain…
put him
forgotten
memories
institution.

family screaming voices
over thanksgiving
and christmas table
accused
the mother’s sins taken out on the son…
the son
there
listening
crying
for 13 years.

ugly doll.

kids were pulled away…
maybe it’s contagious.
kids were slapped away
for looking
at the slobbering
doll.

adults,
keeping
the doll
for awhile
to give
the poor woman
a break
saying
over coffee,
why does she keep him,
no future,
can never do anything…
sure, he understands…
but more the pity…
understanding doom…
look at him
listening to us
in the chair…
4 years old
and doomed
to can not.

abandoned at 5…
hospital,
their excuse,
a baby brother being born,
then me
with chickenpox…
but i knew it
was because i shit
too much,
pissed
too much…
so i held it in
until i couldn’t
anymore…
and then sat in it
because i needed
too many baths.
sat in it
until after college…
it was the least
a burden
such as i
could do!

they were going to leave me
again…..
the floppy
ugly
thick-lipped,
buck-tooth
dumbo-ear
no-future
me…
for 2 years…
i’d be 10
before i’d see them
again…
if then…
but my hives
put an end
to that!

frames steel and leather
pinched,
rub blisters,
rub raw red sores
from hips to ankles,
framing
imprisoning
chaining
this gross
abnormal beast
down into the sacred appearance of
normalcy,
that abstract state.
if the beast crossed his legs,
the illusion would crack…
so wedge a lead bar
between these frustrated legs
for 26 years…
never mind
it pinches his balls.
he will just watch tv
all his life.

me
lying on a hard table,
listening to the professionals
discussing my doomed fate.
me
only in underpants.
they want
always
to cut open
my body and brain.
i knew kids
who were twisted zombies
after doctors
cut them open.
doctors want
to give me drugs
to stop my slobbering
and to tranquilize
my body
into the american dream…
or in the ballpark. they settled
on daily physical torture.

dad
missed my ninth birthday party
for a bender….
babbling drunkenly later
about how he loved me.
teachers
bribing
one another
about who would get the freak.
one quit.
but the professionals
decided the schools weren’t equipped
to handle such a creature.
sentenced
to isolation
with mother
in the towers…
with daily outings
to physical tortures.
bent fingers,
arms,
legs
so far into unnatural positions
that it took
three of them
to do it,
so far i screamed in pain,
screaming
i want to be normal.
i lied,
i never wanted that!
one time
i stuck my hand up
into their cunts.
they rubbed ice
all over my body,
then brushed me
hard
with a house paint brush.
i awoke
when i was 13
after an operation
to pull my balls
down,
i awoke
to hear one nurse
saying to another,
“why did they bother,
no woman
would make love
with him.”
mom
once told
me,
“any girl
who would want you
must be crazy.”
in the towers,
i lost my hearing.
the teenage “babysitter”
blindfolded
14-year old me
so i couldn’t see her
and two girlfriends
dance sexually
with one another.

dad was pissed.
he couldn’t hit a crip.
so every night
at the dinertable
he would scream
at my brother,
humiliated my brother,
backhand slapped my brother,
whipped my brother
with a belt….
and then exited to the local bar.
i always cried.
my high school teacher
made me eat clorets
because my breathe
and body odor
stank bad.
college wouldn’t take
me
because my slobbering
would offend and distract
other students.
airlines
used this logic
to not let me
on their planes.

rubbing myself
into climax
in college,
nothing came out
like before.
orgasms weren’t messy
like before…
before that bladder operation.
curious,
i went to the college nurse,
who checked with the doctor
who didn’t see any reason
to tell
a 27-year old virgin
ugly
rag doll
about the side-effect
of the operation
of no-mess orgasm…
after all, rag dolls
don’t have sex or kids…
we don’t want to have more rag dolls!
my would-be mother-in-law
told my would-be wife
“marry somebody else…
and adopt frank!”
she said a lot
more choice things…
but time and space are limited.
but she did bribe
every justice of the peace
for miles around
to not marry us.

if you don’t shut-up,
you spoiled brat…
living
with old drunk
male nurse
who kept rag dolls
in their place
by punching them out.
lived with him for 6-months…
until he pulled
a loaded gun on me.
then i screamed him to sleep.
a knife at the crashpad…
if i didn’t stop laughing at him…
i wasn’t laughing.
a paper dixie cup at the headshop…
if i didn’t start talking,
he’d push it down my throat.
never mind the hitman.
never mind linda’s mafia papa.
and i’m sure i’ve forgotten a lot.
my first french kiss
was from a guy
who then tried to rape me
putting his penis in my mouth.
i like french kissing.

but all in all,
life has been good!

Detail of “Luna” by LaBash ©1991

wrapping and rocking

the two nude figures sit in
time and space.
one upon the other.
rocking together.
rocking in their cave.

two magic figures
rocking together against time.
rocking back through time.
back and forth.

mother rocking her baby.
rocking against sickness and tears.
rocking back into love and peace.

in the cave,
unseen except by the spirits,
the holymen rock out of this reality
of personal isolation of greys.
rock until they rock
into the pulse of pure light.
back and forth until at-one-ness came,
until atonement came…
not just for them…
but those outside the cave.
magic rocking.
passion rocking.
almost sexual,
not quite…
very sexual…
beyond sexual.

two bodies rocking together,
rubbing isolation away.

grandpa sits in his rocking chair,
slowly holding onto creaking passion of living.
lovers dance,
rocking back and forth to the music.
sometimes fast.
sometimes slow.
passion rises warm and comforting.
pain and grief disappear.
a kid holding onto a blanket,
rocks back and forth,
holding onto the wrapping
that holds us all together.
colorful ribbons of our cocoon.
the 2 lovers pumping
hard on the swing, working together
to get the highest
thrilling flying and swooshing drop
on their bellies
and, yes,
in their loins.
almost sexual,
but not quite….
very sexy…
beyond sex.
mere sex would get
in the way of
the child-like melting
of earth and sky.
back and forth,
up and down,
wrapping us together
in brightness
and softness
and the magical commonness.

a girl laughs
on a big old rocking horse.
a g.i. holding his guts in,
blood oozing out,
rocks on the battlefield…
rocks to keep life in
and pain out.

light pulses,
reflected off tin and plastic.

daddy rocking baby to sleep on his lap.
cozy togetherness in ribbons,
rocking by the fire
far away from reality.

the arab woman,
on her knees beside
the unrecognizable remains of her husband
rocking to handle grief and pain.
a crazy rocks
on the street corner,
talking to beings from another reality.
wrap us up cozy.
wrap us warmly.
maypole dancers with ribbons.
admit that we all are wrapped up together
in see-through ties.

the gypsy woman,
eyes closed,
rocks back and forth,
giving master spirits
her voice and her body
to speak through.
rocking in her tent.

the boys rocking
uncontrollable from laughter
at their childish pranks.

rocking surrealistic in the darkness,
in their colorful bonds,
the two nude figures,
using magical passion to melt together,
rock like the blind,
like the insane,
like the holy men,
like lovers…
and the magical melting spreads out of the cave
and into the world.

© Frank Moore 1986-2002

Featured image photo by Kevin Rice.

“Wrapping/Rocking”
Poem by Frank Moore
Chanted by Michael LaBash
Background music:
excerpt from “Body Music”
performed by Frank Moore’s Chero Company: Leigh Gates, Michael LaBash, Alexi Malenky & Rourke Smith
Thumbnail photo by Kevin Rice
A segment from the web video series LET ME BE FRANK, Episode 4.
Website for the series: http://frankadelic.com/


Here are some Wrapping/Rocking performances:

Wrapping/Rocking @ The Intersection, San Francisco, California
March 14, 1986

Wrapping/Rocking, Sixth Sense Gallery, NYC
May 19, 1987

Wrapping/Rocking, Painted Bride, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
May 23, 1987

Wrapping/Rocking & Statues, EZTV, Los Angeles, California
September 9, 1988

“Wrapping/Rocking”, Berkeley, California
January 14, 1989

Wrapping/Rocking, University of California, Berkeley, May 1, 2003
http://www.eroplay.com/Cave/mayday2003/mayday.html

Poster by LaBash