I HATE NICE PEOPLE



Frank Moore



Thursday, April 11, 2002




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!