oh, the cool living within the shade of the big oak! The girl swinging On a high branch Looks down And sees my bright Pink and yellow petals, Jumps down to smell me And lies beside me To listen to the music Of the oak leaves Playing with the summer breeze.
All my life I have been sheltered By my friend the oak, Being protected from Hard rain, Gusts of cold wind, And hot sun, So that my gentle beauty Can grow strong & bright Within the circle Of vibrating shade… Refreshing shadows of living together, Rooted together Within just being together. Ah, my friend, The oak tree!
“Koala Bear”, oil on canvas, 22” x 30”, 1975 by Frank Moore
For Barbara Smith’s 70th Birthday by Frank Moore Friday, June 29, 2001
It is too late For THEM to defeat us. We have made it to the gravy years! We have lived rich lives, Within a deep web of Tribal community relationships, Deep into shamanistic rituals Playing, Surrendering To the magic Without limits Sitting on the mat In the universal room of hidden imagination, Feeding Every body who comes in A magical feast of contact connecting flesh rituals, Growing, working the garden together Walking together Within small circles of evolution, Of risks, Dangers, Trust, Deep pleasures! Yes, my fellow playmate, They have failed To take the riches of living Away from us. Sure… They raped us Tortured us Pretended we were just feeble-minded silly foam But we have transformed All that into our web Of change Damn! Ain’t that what life, Art, Magic Is all about anyway?
And now it’s too late for them!
They can kill us, Put us in prison, Take everything/everybody from us, Erase us from memory, But we would still have our life, Our changes, Our melting Into the universal tribal body Their only hope Is us taking our lives back By doubting, By stopping playing, Touching, Enjoying But fat chance! We are having too much fun!
Ah yes, My dear, We are in the GRAVY YEARS! And the gravy Is rich, Hot, And spicy… Just right To be poured Over winter squash!
“Jackie”, oil on canvas, 32” x 40”, 1977 by Frank Moore
For Erika by Frank Moore, Sunday, September 01, 2002
Really There is no beginning, No ending, No leaving or going, No stages or signposts You came with an urge To expand Into yourself Outside of your skin Into your body Outside of what is known or comfortable This terrible urge of yours Is the same urge That’s exploding The whole universe In all directions Without itself You came to dance With me Within your dangerous urge, To battle demons With me, To play And explore pleasure Freedoms, And fears With me… Always dry wisecracks And shrugging off Misgivings Loudly Before you leaped But you leaped Every time into the expanding Rings of vulnerable power Of becoming… Becoming The gentle tides That wash away The sand fortresses Of isolation Which appeared so massive solid, Just dissolved, Melted harmlessly. Yes, you became The gentle spring rains Erasing the hard chalk lines Drawn on playgrounds
By bullies… “If you step over this, you sissy!” Now the ghosts and demons Seem just silly fearful creatures, Only barely visible Running away From your bright, glowing body, All juicy and relaxed Yes, You have expanded, Are expanding, Into enjoying life, Dark and rich And we, You and me, Have expanded lustfully Deep inside each other, Body and soul, Cozy home rooted in love, Fellow warriors and lovers Carrying each other Deep inside There is no leaving for the likes of us, Just a never ending graduation Of us playing together In the ever pushing urge to surrender Into the ever new unknown
“Batman’s Face”, oil on canvas, 40” x 40”, 1976 by Frank Moore
It is natural Human To create happiness Within our combined body Living together Just a part of enjoying Being together Infusing Melting Surrendering into one another.
This is pleasing, Caring, Just being together In being enough, Not going anywhere, No separation, Floating together In turn-on, Doing the dishes together Cleaning house Making love Cooking dinner Feeding one other Within our body Without anything to prove Or to show… Just actively following Together the flowing Blood within us. THIS IS PLEASING.
It is fashionable today, Backed up by correctness, To refuse to please. But this “pleasing” Isn’t our pleasing. It’s appeasing. There is nothing within our body To appease! The wife appeases Her abusive husband To not get clobbered… The 18 year old girl Appeases her parents To win love, approval, Whatever… To escape a fist Of power. Appeasement Is coins feeding The meter Of isolation And separation.
“I don’t want to please anymore!” is bleak, cutting the heart out, sealing active surrendering, melting, infusing up in a cold cell. And this is why Appeasing / Running away Is fashionable Today.
NOT VERY PLEASING… OR PLEASURABLE!
I ain’t writing This so-so poem To please you Or appease you… It just came out Of our body of loving/enjoying Being together… Just like kissing, Washing dishes… IF I KISS YOU TO PLEASE YOU It would separate us, Would be denying.
“Tracey Is Ready!”, digital painting, 2001 by Frank Moore
Frank wrote this poem about/for Kenneth Atchley (K.A.) right before the “Voices from the Underground” event on June 27, 1997 at Modern Times Bookstore in San Francisco. It was read as K.A.’s introduction before his performance. From the poster:
THE CHEROTIC (r)EVOLUTIONARY, a zine of all possibilities, presents VOICES FROM THE UNDERGROUND, an evening of readings and music by a wide range of agents of cultural subversion … featuring Dorothy Jesse Beagle, Barbara Golden, Noni Howard, Jack & Adelle Foley, K. Atchley, Frank Moore … plus special surprise guests. If that is not enough, everyone will get an autographed xeroxed piece of art by LaBash!
Frank had published one of K.A.’s written pieces in his zine, The Cherotic (r)Evolutionary. K.A. also played with the Cherotic All-Stars several times and even travelled to Seattle to perform with Frank in 1996.
About K.A.
June 23, 1997
A southern gentleman, gentle being, creates a noise fountain, a gate to a dark erotic motel of razor blade cutting blonde white skin in love. Time going backwards into a shamanistic perverseness, floating back into a pipeline of a sustained note, a sexy machine whine, strangely human, strangely divine.
This gentleman puts pictures in my head too taboo.
This gentleman with his noises super real spray opens up caverns of possibilities like a knife ripping open a child’s belly.
And I always have wondered what is in southern comfort! A gentle spirit unbounded.
“Voices from the Underground” poster by LaBashPoster by LaBash for Seattle performances in 1996.
For Kirsten For her birthday by Frank Moore, Monday, July 21, 2003
Outside of town, Behind the field Where the carnivals And the traveling preachers Set up their tents, There is a woods, Deep & dark & dense… Nobody knows how far back it goes. Everybody knows to keep out of the woods That always threatens to swallow the town up. Everybody? Not quite! The crazies and the moonshiners , The forbidden lovers, And the lovers of the forbidden, And wild, untamed children, All find cover for their sacred crimes Within the hiding edges Of the woods. But not the sane, The respectable, The normal… We never go near the woods, With its saber-tooth tigers, Giant leather birds, Rabid wolves, Razor grasses, And the deep hidden pit traps With generations Of the bones of corpses. I’ve heard tales Children getting sucked Into the dark heart Of the cruel woods, Wandering out years later Naked, muttering gibberish, To spend the rest of their days In THE HOSPITAL OF MERCY.
Me… I never went near the woods…. Until now… Until I started talking to Indian Joe. People say he’s drunk and crazy. But his breath is sweet; His words are clear, Infecting my brain and heart With longings for new possibilities. He lives deep in the woods! He tells me stories of THE CREATURE KIRSTEN, The spirit/body dwelling Within, Just within!
So here I am, Walking into the woods, On a quest for the unlimited unknown. There’s a ball Of excited pleasure In my belly As I pass through the community of outcasts, And leave them behind On the edge. I just walk and walk, Deeper into experience, Smelling Live and Death All mixed up. Everything is melting into everything, Not staying within skin. Colors and sounds Intense, clear, But blending into me. My brush presses swirling Into the fleshy paint pot, Presses firmly into bright surreal Colors, Cool colors on the woods’ floor, Sunlight vibrates through the leaves, playing music with the birds & the water. Is it Kirsten? Is Kirsten in me? I’m walking in a joyful creek, Cool gentle on my feet, Alive finally! Enjoying the mud, The smooth yellow stones Enjoying walking, Exploring, Surrendering, Merging. I hear hearty laughing, From a sexy belly. Must have been me Because I don’t see anyone else. I hear sobbing Which sinks reality deeper. I hear “FUCK!” that explodes into my very being! Not my voice… Too much raw emotion. It’s her! I keep walking, Going to the source Of the creek. There are balls of mud clay, Maybe eggs Each with a unique design. I keep seeing more of these objects. Magical? Ain’t everything in these woods Magical? Was Kirsten born from one Of these mud eggs? Did a child play-make these mud realities, Or a primitive? Questions seems so silly Within this God! So do my clothes! I leave both behind. Keep walking, Exploring. Everything is fusing together. Every move causes warm pleasure. I can’t tell what is me anymore. Don’t need to anymore! Just keep walking to the source!
I’m now…. Mmmmmm! I’m indeed now! But I mean I’m now At the source of the creek, A spring of purity. Outside a crude comfort hut, A creature stirs a soup pot, With a keening wail, She climbs a tree! With a wild laugh, She right here with me, Sharing nude skin pleasure Rubbing herself into me, Taking me into her, Fusing bodies, Simply enjoying being together, Being enough! She keeps changing, Snorting at the sheer fun Of our dance/play. She keeps changing. An old hag Croaking sex hexes, A young girl Full of wonder, A lusty sexy seducer, Now she split into a whole tribe. We are home Sitting around the fire Cooking the soup… She keeps throwing red hot peppers in Along with other things she gathered. I stir the pot as she dances Beyond time with others in our tribe. All their voices and bodies are within me. I’m within their dances As I stir the pot. We grow old together As we wait for the soup To chill. We can wait Because we are in our tribal home Of being enough. Then she pours in the moonshine. This cold hot pepper moonshine soup Has such a kick!
Damn, Why didn’t I go into The woods of imagination Before? Well, I’m here now… With you!
People sometimes ask, “Where is your work heading? What do you want to do next?”
It is not my work. It is not my choice.
For me, it is not a question of a next thing. It is a growing, evolving vision. I am carried along in this vision of life, of art. A performance does not have a beginning or an end. It is just a tiny bit of the vision. The vision braids around itself, flowing on. I do not know where the vision is taking me. I have not been down this vision before.
One thing’s for sure. We humans are not the end of evolution.
“Sunset Rise”, digital painting, 2010 by Frank Moore
I have always had a rich full fun life. Everything comes easy to me. I don’t care about being Respectable or so “successful”, or acceptable beyond this inner flesh.
I surrender to play and to life. Everything comes so far into juicy bits of extraordinary supernatural modality of relationship dynamics upon my word.
I know this is not what to say if you want to be included in the addressing Fields of dazzling whiteness over oils of press and applause.
They want victims suffering against overwhelming odds of the temptation to editorialize defeat to survive barely, waiting to take possession of these annoying medical monsters of yokes of repression…
A special freak who came to replace the control box by profound attention and ordeal of extraordinary dimensions bearing upon big terms of keeping with heavy leaden gray deceptive dawn between the tempest and this dreadful nightmare of repression.
Of course you can’t do it, they say.
He [me] is special with courage, strength surmounted all obstacles being mauled by isolation resulting from between physical problems… And abilities of luck… All of which you and most people unhappy don’t have.
He [me] is special exception that proves the extreme point of hopelessness, helplessness appalling disaster which imprison everybody without any possible alternatives.
They push this shit!
I am always able to handle anything, having fun in the freedom of not knowing what is impossible.
My dreams are melting into juicy molten every day activities just as people who thought I was Jewish!
I surrender to play and to life.
Everything comes so easy!
Yes, it is hard work sometimes.
But I have come out
of the extreme edge of things in my wheelchair addressing similar circumstances.
Escape from whatever between us and fun!
They want you to think you got it better than me, somebody, anybody!
You ain’t got shit!
But at least you ain’t a victim of cerebral palsy for life, suffering with cerebral palsy.
At least you ain’t confined to a wheelchair!
At least you can walk, talk, feed yourself, wipe your own asshole in the way God tends you to do!
At least you can play football until you break your neck playing football! Then…
Oh, well…
At least you ain’t a nigger or a woman, or a fag!
Reporters scramble everything up.
They don’t use their souls, their formidable pricking eyes.
They see a wheelchair and they write suffering victim of cerebral palsy confined to a wheelchair and is ninety eight percent disabled with no body control…
Oh yes he saw a murder!
Reporters are brainwashed.
They have only filter tip eyes!
They see me dancing, playing piano smothering the piece of pounding lustily on the keys with vehemence and whatever else, painting those unknown sights in oils by Jackson Pollock physical ritualism of direct engagement with my whole body control of the paint with my head, seeing me feeling up right up her inner flesh with style and aim…
And they conclude and report I am paralyzed, stiffened under the bottom of no movements or control or bodily feelings and am ninety eight percent disabled, helpless, vulnerable, hopeless fizzle. And you depend upon them for the clear ultimate vision of direct experiencing of observation of objectivity!
I suppose I could even paint if I was Jewish paralyzed.
But I would have to come up with a difficult style and techniques which involve the necessity of deferring to explore my luck and whatever between physical touch and the one more reckless effort to free any particular color.
But the brainwashed plot is so complete that some playmates who had romp with me flexuosity and yum yum yum have then bought that empty press surrebuttal of my Body of Christ.
I told you so, folks.
I obviously wasn’t meant for the control of what is possible!
Poetry of truffles and Champagne and yum yum of philosophy, humor among various gangland serfs and behind the curtain of fog and romantic shit about how boring it was to build upon communicating even before speaking.
The margins exclude almost entirely most of everything which is noncommercial, uncensored, unconscious, unexpected original Files under the command of Bruni d’Entrecasteaux, ignoring such bestial-looking creatures like you and me.
Also he gave me shit about getting deeper into the ultimate midst of the arousing desire of magical colors disappeared from humanity and love with wide open legs thrust into bed after eating the contents of folly!
But wisdom which may be able to procure fresh meat for everybody here is what I am looking for!
