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!
From the book Skin Passion by Frank Moore.
