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Tag: Skin Passion

The Dance Without Dancers

“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.

NO CAN NOTS

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


Frank Moore at UCB with medical students.
Recorded May 2, 2002 at University Hall, University of California, Berkeley.

This poem was published in the book Skin Passion, a book of poems and paintings by Frank Moore.


Is This Appropriate?

“Nude Stacy”, digital painting, 1996 by Frank Moore

By Frank Moore
February 2, 2003

When I cried out,
they said crying out
was not “appropriate behavior”.
I do not think appropriate behavior
is good.

Everything
that is not
appropriate behavior
makes me feel.

Don’t trust
Anyone
Who labels
Things
As not appropriate behavior!

Art,
Poetry,
Music,
Sex,
Love,
Belly laughs…
All outside of
Appropriate behavior.

That’s where I live
In freedom!

THE MAGICAL CAVE LOVERS

“The First Rebel”, oil on canvas board, 12” x 15”, 1966 by Frank Moore

Magical Cave Lovers by Frank Moore. Reading by Linda Mac.

March 20, 1995

the cave is our world, his and mine. together around the fire in the warm cave. it has always been this way. mother and grandmother…mothers and grandmothers have always been in the cave above the tribe, have always been talking to the world spirits for the tribe, have always been taking the tribe out of the world of survival, cold wet fear…into our body cave of warm laughing joy, taking them into us deep for awhile.

and there has always been one of his kind in the cave. mother said that before i was born, the one who she lived in the cave with died. his death cursed the tribal field, cursed the tribal planting. the tribe again survived only by the hunt and the gathering. the spirit of the field would only come back when mother could mate in the tribal field with a healer after hair grew on his body. until that time, during times of moon blood, mother led the tribal women in the chant of plant magic, keeping their knowing of the secrets of growing alive during the years of waiting.

as the world spirits desired it, for many years no deformed male baby who could be a healer lived for more than for a few days within the tribe…even when mother secretly took such babies from the sacrifice rock and brought them to the cave, where she and the old healer tried to bring them fully into life.

so after the death of the healer, mother had to make the secret and dangerous journey to the sacrifice rocks of other tribes in her quest for a deformed boy baby, for a spirit that didn’t dwell in the world of survival, for a magical son who could be a healing bridge between all realities. mother had to hide behind the sacrifice rock of each tribe for many nights, waiting for a father to put a deformed boy child on the rock to die.

one day the tribe discovered that mother was not in the cave. they went into a ritual dance and a fast, piling all the food outside the cave to bring her back. they had a feast when they discovered that she had returned with a new healer. she had found a deformed boy baby. she saved him from the sacrifice rock and carried him to the cave. there she gave birth to him. everyone knows that cave magicians can give birth to even full-grown men. so no one was at all surprised to see this baby in the cave.

mother took care of him, raised him in the cave. she grew to understand his sounds, his moving body, his spirit talk. i understand him now. as he grew up, his healing magic became physical touch. he was in the future and the past and the world spirit…linked with mother’s body. now linked with my body.

when hair grew on his body, mother took him as her magical mate. then the secrets of growing, the magic of the plants, again came out of the moon cave and into the field. once again, the spirit entered the field and was attended to by the women of the tribe.

once again, before every harvest and every planting, the tribe carried mother and her magical mate to the fields. there she would take him deep inside her. they became one body together in ritual pleasure, offering the pleasure to the earth spirit as a thanksgiving. these were the only times he left the cave. these were the only times that she took him deep into her, although they were always together in the sacred play when they were in the cave, rubbing, licking, laughing, moaning, crying within the awareness of life. he and i are still in that awareness cave.

mother got big and i came out of her into the cave. if i was a male baby, mother would have gone like a spirit with the baby out of the cave to where the woman of the chief slept. she would have put the baby beside the woman and then slipped away. the boy would be born to the woman of the chief. the magic of the cave mother can only be passed on to a daughter of the cave. if i did not come from mother’s body, she would have gone on a quest for a cave daughter, leaving the healer alone in the cave. the tribeswomen would take care of him as best as they could. but if mother would die on the quest, the healer would die. then the tribe would die.

i grew up cuddled up between their bodies, playing with their bodies, smelling the herbs mother hung to dry in the cave, smelling the teas and other medicines mother made from them to give those who came to the cave to be healed. i ate the food and drank the water and the milk that the tribe brought to the mouth of the cave everyday.

i always played with mother and the healer…to me, he is laughing face because his hairy face always has tickled me…when they played together. but she put me into the child hole to play whenever she and he did rituals with a tribesperson. grandmothers from long ago dug these child holes. there is one just outside the cave for when mother danced with the chief before every hunt, before every battle, arousing his power.

i now arouse him.

there is a child hole at mother’s secret place where she goes when the tribe faces death from nature offended…the secret place where she offers herself to earth spirits as a sacrifice by working herself up by dancing and rubbing until who she is burns away. and there is a giant children hole in the middle of the moon cave where all the tribeswomen with children without body hair go during the times of blood. i watched the rituals from the child hole. when i could get out of the child hole, i could take part in the rituals…even before body hair and times of moon blood.

mother started teaching me cave mother magic and how to combine and blend it with the magic of laughing face. laughing face has always been my brother, my playmate. i grew up understanding his sounds, understanding his body, hearing his thoughts, seeing through his psychic eyes. he is my body. since i had body hair, he has been my mate.

mother started teaching me cave mother magic. cave mother magic is body magic. the body of the cave mother is the body of the earth. after i could get out of the children hole in the moon cave, mother started teaching me cave mother magic. mother said a long time ago the women of the tribe did not bleed together as one body in the full bright moon time. each woman bled alone at her own time away from the tribal fire, bled alone in dangerous cold darkness. one day, the moon, full and bright, told cave mother that the women will only have their time of blood in the nights and days of bright moon. the moon told cave mother that on the night before the full bright moon, all the women with all the children before body hair should leave the tribal fire, carrying a flaming branch, and dwell together in the special cave until the last moon blood fell. the times of moon blood are the most magical.

during times of moon blood, the elder men with the chief stay with the healer in the healing cave, taking care of him until the cave mother returns. they feed him, give him drink, bathe him. but they themselves fast and chant and rock and gently touch him. they can not understand him, can not see through his eyes. but as they sit around him, his spirit fills them and they are filled with visions.

mother began my magical training by taking me with her when she left the moon cave during the waiting day and the day of restoring. on these journeys she would collect herbs, special stones, healing mud, and all the other magical objects that she would prepare and use with the healer in their cave, our cave. she told me the story and the power behind each object. she told me the secret magical stories hidden within the stories that the women shared within the moon cave, rubbing one another, rocking together, enjoying their single body.

after the times of blood, when we returned to the healing cave, mother started letting me help her prepare the healing objects. mother said the objects by themselves do not have healing powers. but the body magic calls forth the healing effect of the object just as mother and the healer call forth the healing magic within each other. after someone left the cave after a ritual, mother started explaining to me what had happened. most of this explaining was not done in words, but by mother and laughing face playing with me, turning my body and spirit on.

laughing face would melt into the person’s body as they played, seeing what was needed. sometimes by touching deeply, he could transmute the inner sickness. other times, when he felt death was approaching, he and mother would arouse the body spirit to melt with death. but most of the time, as the healer was physically melted with the person, mother saw with the healer’s eyes, felt with his body. then the healer would lay back, and mother would begin her body dance, rubbing wet warm, sucking the other into her, licking coolness, blowing life into the other, dancing hard and long deep into the woman cave. the other could be the ill person. often it was the healer. just before she left, mother started to pick me to be the other dancer. the dance would fade into sleep. then just before dawn, mother would wake the person up, give him herbs or a magical object, give him rituals, then would send him back into the tribe in survival.

i absorbed all of this. i saw boys come to the healing cave when they first had hair on their bodies. the boy with first body hair would be barred from entering the moon cave on the first time of blood after body hair first appeared. the cave mother would ritualistically force his mother to not bring him into the moon cave again because he would never be again her son. the cave mother would send him to the healing cave. there, the chief would bar him from the cave, telling him to sit on the rock outside the cave, to wait for cave mother, to wait, not moving, without food, without water, without sleep.

days later, the cave mother would return to the healing cave, without giving any notice to the sitting would-be man. she would enter the cave and would lie beside the healer. the elders would slowly dance from the cave to the sitting would-be man, lift him up, carrying him into the cave mother, lying him on her, belly on belly. then the elders would leave to dance outside of the cave.

mother would gently let the boy enter her body, guiding him to melt with her in body and spirit, pulling him into the deep trance of transforming pleasure. then, when the boy had died to his child soul, the elders of the tribe would enter the cave, lift the entranced would-be man onto their shoulders, and carry him out of the cave and on into his quest for a vision, for a new soul, and for a proof of his worthiness to be within the tribe.

when a girl first entered the moon cave on her first time of blood, the women gathered around her and rocked her gently day and night until the moon blood stopped flowing between her legs. then they washed her childhood away, washed her into womanhood, washed her first in their moon blood, then washed her in clear cold water, welcoming her into their collective body.

then the cave mother took the new woman outside of the cave, laying her down on a bed of leaves. mother would reach deep inside the new woman, gently breaking the seal of skin, if it had not been broken in child play. the mother started calling forth from inside the new woman, started calling forth wave upon wave of intense moaning burning pleasure moving within the new woman’s body, joyfully burning up the little girl’s insides, the body of the young new woman writhing, opening wide to let the whole universe in. when the little girl had been completely burnt up, the tribal women took the new woman into their circle to rock with her.

as my mother did before, i live with laughing face in our cave of love and play, far outside the reality of cold survival of the tribe. most of the time, people of the tribe come to our cave not to be healed of some sickness, nor to know the future, nor to appease the spirits, nor anything that you in your time might think would be magically important. most of the time, they come to be rocked by me and the healer, to be sung to by us, to play with us, to come into our personal love of warm playing skin. the possibility of this personal love has not truly entered their reality of survival…except in their memories of what they have experienced within our cave…slowly this pleasure playing of personal love has leaked out of the cave over the lifetimes of the many cave mothers from the time when the first young girl found the first healer and hid with him in a cave, sneaking out to steal a blazing branch from the group fire of the human pack, sneaking out at night to gather berries and fruit…sneaking out so that the pack wouldn’t kill the useless deformed boy…sneaking out until she became an earth spirit to the pack when they caught sight of flashes of her. the young cave couple lived a new kind of existence together. in the pack there has always been the physical love of a mother for her babies, and children of the pack always have played together. but when the children entered the adult pack reality of cold survival which was dominated by fear, by individual isolation, and by being together solely out of physical need, this love and this child play quickly faded into the ultimate black beyond the light of the night fire of the pack.

but in the first cave couple, the personal love that was the mother-child physical love within the pack transmuted into the personal love between people that hadn’t been linked by the birthcord. this new kind of love was what melted the bodies of the first cave couple together. their playing together as children in adult bodies called forth this new kind of love. slowly their play revealed totally new physical pleasures which humans had never experienced before. in the pack, there was an ever-present lurking of a violent urge erupting in some male, grabbing a female from behind just to let her go a minute later after the pressure of the urge had been relieved, the woman going off to soothe her wounds.

but within their cave playing, the first cave mother and the first healer began discovering the many paths of pleasure within their body of two…long giggling tickling belly warm chest moaning exploding white light turning colors sleeping warm skin. on these paths of pleasure, the moon came to them and taught them magic. the moon told many strange things…that men were not just protectors and providers…that men have a direct and active role in the creation of life…that everyone in the pack is physically connected to one another as a body. becoming aware of these things would transform the pack into a tribe, calling forth tribal love, extending into the land and animals. this awareness would come slowly as the tribespeople visited the cave, visited the personal love of the cave mother and the healer, experience within their own bodies the new physical pleasure. they would take tiny bits of the expanding cave reality back to their relationships within the tribe. the moon said every pack had a cave couple developing, hidden, playing.

i am seeing into your time through laughing face’s eyes. i’m seeing past the marble temples where cave mothers became sex goddesses…past the men of power dividing the cave mother from the wounded healer, chaining her to promote isolation by turning her into just a safety valve for the release of guilt of power and the frustration of unattainable desire.

but laughing face and i are still in our hidden cave waiting for you to come and play with us.


“Deep Core Love”, digital painting, 2004 by Frank Moore

LOCKED IN, LOCKED OUT

By Frank Moore
March 12, 2004

Evolution searches out potential
Within every life form,
Within every experiment,
Flowing through change,
Flowing through adaptations
Into new possibilities.

This tide wave
Moves everything,
Shapes everything,
Leaving everything
Which doesn’t find
The ever changing
Potential within its soul
Behind…
Just didn’t live out
Within the dynamic dance
Of existence.
Failures are the golden steps
Of expanding creation.

But we civilized humans
Have been denied
For most of the blink
Of our history
Most of our potential.
The tide wave
Has been dammed up,
Evolution has been funneled
Down into a narrow,
High pressure laser
Focused for profit and power
Of the hidden few.

Most of our potential
Is locked in,
Locked away,
Locked out,
Locked up.
Locked away in closets,
Locked up in factories
Of meaningless work,
Locked away in warehouses
Of waiting to die…
Death waits
A dull lifetime to come.
Locked outside the margins,
Locked outside on the homeless streets,
Locked inside the suburbs of isolation,
Locked within the walled communities
Of comforting unreasoning fear,
Locked up within well-paid sitcoms,
Locked out toiling in the fields,
Not allowed to eat the food,
Dying in the false famine,
Dying from thirst
In the African dust
Manufactured from bottled demand,
Dying from sickness
Preventable,
Curable,
Locked away within
The dark other,
Locked in the kitchen
Cooking artificial food
Of bland pretending
Routine not fulfilling
Any need or love,
Locked down in chains
On the sofa,
On the shrink’s couch absorbing unattainable desires,
Locked in gridlock,
Not coming,
Not going,
Just sitting within
Unmoving isolation,
Listening to the latest muzak
Of loveless loneliness,
All shining and cold,
Locked away
In the passionless bedroom
With the glass ceiling,
Tied down in the bed of hopelessness,
Tied down,
Locked up in the nursing home,
Lifetimes of wisdom
Dismissed and forgotten,
Locked up in padded cells,
Dangerous healing imagination
Being burned up by electric shock,
Burning up the trash that could
Save us all.
Locked up on Death Row,
Within the isolation cells
Lies change.
It will not die,
Even under tortures
Of ten thousand years.
Just lock it up!
Dam it up
With the oily gum
Of dogma!
Manufacture fear and mistrust
Of the other of difference.
Pour the many flavors
Of this poison
Of bigotry
From childhood
In mother milk,
In God’s image,
On the blackboard
Of coloring within the lines…
Lock what’s acceptable,
Normal,
Within the lines…
Then send these good citizens
Off on crusades of killing
Of the different other,
Of killing off diversity
Which is the curse
Of profitability.
The brew of bigotry
Blinds the eyes
to red is the color
Of all human blood,
Blinds us to
We all are locked in
Locked up,
Locked away
On the plantations
Of slavery,
In the sweatshops
Of suppression,
In the factory farm fields
Of exploitation,
In the occupied territories
Of closing walls,
Of refugee camps
Of wandering Jews,
Of death camps,
Warehouses of all kinds
Filled with waiting-to-die
Living hopes, dreams,
Loves, imaginations,
Cultures of the human spirit
Which do not fit into power,
Wealth, and the controlled reality.

Yep, we all are in there,
Including most of you
Who believe you are
The masters and the guards
In your dank cubbyholes
Of fears and addictions.

And within our cells
We have been digging
Throughout the ages
Underground passages
Linking passions together.
When we reach to touch one another,
The bars melt like butter.
We sing together
In words that the masters
Can’t understand.
We create together,
Dream, imagine together.
We hope and make love
Together behind the dam
In evolution.

The silly mentally retarded girl
Giggles as she runs to hug
An absolute stranger.
This is hope
Of evolution.
The police hose fires
High-pressure profits
Blasting of shortages
Through the dam’s hole…
Business as usual.
But it looks like evolution
Is about to burst through the dam.
Will it destroy all of us?
Who knows!
We always have lived
With Dooms Day
Judgment Day
Around the corner.
Sometimes it came,
Sometimes it didn’t.

But I’m betting
That our underground potential
Will be released in the coming flood
And will expand.

But then
This is written by
A guy
Who was supposed to have died
LONG AGO
In one of those death cells!

There’s always hope
Hidden up our sleeves!


Emcee Lynx of Beltaine’s Fire reads “Locked In, Locked Out” on Frank Moore’s Shaman’s Den,
October 11, 2009. Watch the full show.

Jack Hirschman reads “Locked In, Locked Out” on Frank Moore’s Shaman’s Den,
August 20, 2006.

Kirk Lumpkin reads “Locked In, Locked Out” on Frank Moore’s Shaman’s Den,
July 18, 2004.

My Night At The Café Ruined

2/25/03

Oh this poem is shit!
I might as well
Be writing an essay
Like I told the cops
When they ask me
“Are you with THOSE poets?”
Hey, Peter denied being with Jesus
Three times
Before the cock crowed!
But they ain’t no Jesus!
Just poets whining
About poetry being censored,
Being thrown out of the café
Because they wouldn’t follow
THE HOUSE RULES
To promise the poetry
Would not offend anybody,
To give a warning
Of possibilities of offense
So that earplugs
Could be inserted!
Now I agreed
That THE RULES
Are Fascist.
I told the cultural gatekeepers
My opinion!
I tried to be
THE VOICE OF REASON,
Tried to mediate.
I AM A NICE GUY,
After all.
But the immature poets
(obviously age ain’t a sign
Of maturity!)
Started reading poetry
Right here in the café…
After their permit had been
REVOKED!
EMBARASSING!
I mean I was embarrassed!
I started chatting loudly
To drown out
The forbidden words,
To not be connected
To the untouchables
Actually yelling about
CENSORSHIP AND FREEDOM!
Thank god
The powers turned up
The musak!
But the savages just screamed
POETRY!
That’s when I started
Writing my poem…
After all
I AM A POET!
But my focus
Has been shaken by poets
Being dragged,
Very roughly,
Across the floor,
Right in front of my table,
And being booted outside!
It’s a wonder I can
Write at all!
They have put
armed police protection
Around the café
As I write this.
That’s better…
But still the sounds
Of struggle outside
Invade the café
Just like the sweet smoke
Gets into my house
From the soap factory
Next door…
Some fools say it is a death camp!
Fools! No one would put a death camp
In OUR neighborhood!
OH, CHRIST!
The loonies are actually
Reading poetry
Outside
In the bitter cold,
Right outside the big window
Right next to my table.
They are making eyes at me,
Trying to make me feel guilty
For being a poet
Sitting warm inside,
Sipping coffee,
Writing poetry
When poetry is
Locked out!
Well, it won’t work!
I just moved to another table,
My back towards them.
Don’t they realize
The real censors are rightwingers,
Lady Bush, Helms, brown shirts
With their blacklists?
We nice reasonable people
Ain’t censors!
We are artists and poets,
After all!
We are family,
After all!
We ain’t the enemy,
After all!
And we will make you
Look like feeble-minded whiners
If you dare come after one of us,
THE REASONABLE PEOPLE!

Damn, they are still out there!
I can’t leave,
Going through raw poetry
Between home and me!
I’M TRAPPED
Listening to Phil Ochs
Singing on the jukebox
A SMALL CIRCLE OF FRIENDS.

Deborah Crooks reads “My Night At The Café Ruined” on Frank Moore’s Shaman’s Den, June 19, 2011.

That Goddamn Weed Of Life

11/28/02

That goddamn weed of life,
Green, yellow, purple,

cracking through the blacktop
in the park.
We don’t own it.
We own all life.
All life is our property…
Except weeds!

After the riots,
We put all living greens,
All living color,
Behind tall black iron fences.
Lovers, babies can’t lay on the grass,
No dreamers stretched out in fresh smells,
Looking up into the fluffy clouds of possibilities
Ever changing.

All of that was too dangerous.
Now we separate flesh
From life colors.
Now, walk or roll on blacktop,
Squint thru black bars
At grass, trees, flowers…
All at a safe distance…
Sit straight up on benches
With hard arms of separation,
Preventing love-making,
Sleeping…
Showing any tender pleasure.

All of that
Is kept in a safe distance
In the past
In this zoo,
In this gas chamber
Of a park…

All at a safe distance
Under control
Under lock and key…
Except for this goddamn weed of life
RIGHT THERE!
We sprayed it with poison,
Ripped it out,
Crushed it…
But it keeps coming back!

Doesn’t it know?
We own all life now.
It’s our personal property now.
We own the building blocks,
The dna keys of life…
Under our patents and copyrights.
We own the water.
We own the seeds.
We own the monopoly on life,
Hijacking evolution itself
Into the goal of profit.
We who sit in first class,
In box seats,
Behind oak doors,
Not to be seen.

WEEDS! WEEDS! WEEDS!
80 percent of all humans,
and of all life
are useless weeds,
to be ultimately destroyed
by all means necessary…
and in the meantime
to be contained within warehouses,
keep them moving from warehouse
to warehouse,
nomads without space
on blacktop
without water wells,
rain barrels,
farms of independence,
or music of a free soul.

We own the rights to all imagination
And dreams.
We hold all the cards!

So why is this goddamn weed
Cracking the blacktop?!
How come this single weed
is spreading unprocessed life
all around?

And the cracks
In the blacktop
Are spreading!

 

John The Baker reads “That Goddamn Weed Of Life” on Frank Moore’s Shaman’s Den, March 25, 2007.

Tribal Performance

september 30, 1992

i am not interested in
climbing up
onto the altar of the stage,
in hiding behind the invisible fourth wall.

i am not interested in
dividing myself
from the people,
from the magic,
from the tribal community.

i am not interested in
hiding
behind masks
or characters.

i am not interested in
doing monologs,
standing alone
and isolated
under the spotlight…

not interested in
being a cultural commentary.
not interested in
being a lone artist,
suffering,
alone,
traveling around the land,
chasing fame…
or at least recognition……
embittered
that art doesn’t pay.

i am not interested in
fucking you
the audience.

i am not interested in
just putting my cock
into your body.

i want much more than sex.

i want to put my whole body
into your body…
i want to take
your whole body
into my body.
i want
our naked skin
to melt together
in touch…
our skin
melted
into an organ of tribal body…
an organ of connection……..
an organ that brings everything within.
i want
to erase
the false role
of skin
as the dividing line
that separates
you from me,
the outside from within,
the above from the below.

i want us to be
in a tribal body,
in the state of community.
i want us to be
cozy,
wrapped up into one another’s bodies
as parts of one body….
rocking together.

i am not talking
symbolically or abstractly.
i am not talking
flashes or peak experiences.
i am not talking
about fractions of a second,
or seconds,
or minutes.
i am talking about
hours and days
within this tribal body
within the magical reality of performance.
i’m talking about
physical reality that
makes us sweat,
makes us be turned-on…
a reality that
we can touch and rub…
a reality of
human laughter
and heavy sobs of true feeling…
a reality
which sticks onto our bodies,
our naked tribal body…
and gets carried out
of the ritual space
into “the real world,”
“real life,”
infecting
that outer world
with the virus of
new alternatives and new possibilities.

but this tribal performance…
this calling up of tribal body,
tribal experience,
tribal reality…
is much more possible
when the “performance”
comes out of a tribal life….
when the tribal reality
is not limited
to the performance reality.

life on the road
for an artist
is lonely,
isolating.

this tends to
infect
both the artist
and the art.
and the fact of the matter is,
performance is
a full time occupation
for a single body…
and in cold practical reality,
this occupation does not pay the artist…
the artist has to be willing
to pay the art
for the privilege of doing it.
this has always been true.
this will not change.
this places the artist
who lives in only one body
in an almost impossible situation…
a situation
that is only made liveable by either
magic or compromise
(and compromise
is death
to both the art
and the artists).

but the artist
who lives and creates
within a tribal body,
a tribal community,
can perform
many different tasks
at once both
in the art
and in the mundane world.
the tribal body
can go to work
to get money,
do the art’s office work,
make the flier,
book tickets…..
all at the same time.
this is also true
for inside the ritual of art.

and besides,
the tribal body
has much more fun on the road…

and that fun
(joy)
infects
the art.

i have a dream for the 90’s….
that we will see
artist bands,
clans,
carnivals,
circuses…..
all self-contained
tribal communities…
roaming the country
doing art rituals.

yes,
i have a dream…
the night of the tribal bodies!

“Tribal Performance” poem by Frank Moore
Read by Edna Floretta
Background music: Sander Roscoe Wolff
Thumbnail photo by Kevin Rice

A segment from the web video series LET ME BE FRANK, Episode 5.
Website for the series: http://frankadelic.com/

Tribal Performance poem by Frank Moore artwork by LaBash
Tribal Performance poem by Frank Moore artwork by LaBash

Artwork by LaBash

Deborah Crooks reads “Tribal Performance” on Frank Moore’s Shaman’s Den, June 19, 2011.

Fuse

August 26, 2003

We are standing
before a gate,
On the edge
Of newness,
Holding hands.

All bodies desire
To merge with,
To fuse with
The core of every body
Within closeness,
Core within all cores.
This is the hidden secret
Of Gravity.
It is not a mere attraction
Of bodies…
Not sexual.
But this desire
Has been long
Thought of as impossible
In this reality of divisions…
Impossible
Because of unwillingness
To melt bodies and forms,
To melt through skin,
To melt beings
With the Other,
Going through layers,
Until cores fuse
Into just life.

But the time has come
For fusion,
A blend of explosions
And implosions
Outside of time and space,
Deep within our body,
Peeling away layers
By deep friction
Of warm love.
Time has come
To start to fade out
The reality of division
By lighting the fuse
Within the small hidden cave
Between our bodies,
Going within the warmth.

The reality of division
Started when the cell of Life
Divided and kept dividing.
This reality of difference
Released the possibilities
Of personal love and creativity,
The possibility of personal responsibility
And being in aware relationship
with THE OTHER.

But before the Pyramids…
A blink of an eye
Within an evolution…
The reality of division
Became CIVILIZATION,
Becoming a filter
Used by the elite
To turn evolution
Into progress
That benefited their
Empires of isolation.

Yes, we are standing
Before a gate,
On the edge of newness.
When we light the fuse
Within the hidden cave,
It will release unimagined
Possibilities.
It will release what has been
Locked up and away for so long.
Get the foot off the neck
Of dreams.
Get the weight of the world
Off the little kid’s back,
Release the deep beating heart
From the tight cage.
It may release blasts
Of tears, pain, joy, giggles.
It will release life
Full of wonder
deep inside our body.
Together we will take
The blasts within us,
Expanding us
In all directions.
We don’t even know
What fuse is.
It may not be any particular act.
We are just following it deeper,
Going past taboos,
Going beyond language…
Just going on a journey
Within between our bodies
Within our trust.
We will make our report
After we return
From the merge core,
And after we discover
A new language.

Life itself
Survives at all
Because of the secret journeys
Of the dismissed
Within small caves
Of love,
Personal trust,
And passion
Beyond taboo.

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You can also download the video here (mp4, 105.6 MB):
https://archive.org/download/fuse_20190829/fuse.mp4

“Fuse”
A poem by Frank Moore
Read by Edna Floretta
Art/Animation by Michael LaBash
Music by Sander Roscoe Wolff
A segment from the web video series LET ME BE FRANK, Episode 10, “Theater of Melting”
Website for the series: http://frankadelic.com/