"Dear Nicholas"-A "Passed Out Fully Clothed" exclusive

Author's Note: This poem, making it's debut here, is a written response to a poem written by Nicholas YB Wong called "Dear _____", his poem was an open letter. You can find it in Assaracus Issue 3 through Sibling Rivalry Press.

Dear Nicholas

(By Walter Beck)

I never set multiple alarm clocks;

I don’t even use one,

I just get up when I have to.

I have a “German sense of time”

As my ex would say.

I usually stretch my back

First thing in the morning.

Too many years of heavy lifting

As a roadie and quartermaster

Have fucked it up.

I wash my face first,

Rinsing the remains of the night before

Out of my eye sockets.

My toothpaste taste minty

(Never heard of marshmallow toothpaste,

It would probably remind me of work).

I’m a shower sort of guy

And I’m not one to sing,

I’m usually composing under the hot water,

A new poem,

A new rant

Or new story

To write when I get out.

My dog never pries about my nudity,

Don’t have a dog.

Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have a dog,

I’ve been bitten one too many times

In my life.

My anus? I never checked on the color,

I’d imagine it’s a tired shade,

Like the remains of camp chow

Mixed with stale Wild Turkey.

My ex-lovers,

Some of them are known,

Some of them are anonymous,

I’ve never had enough

To really worry about it.

The toilet seat’s usually up

And I stand up to piss,

Unless I’m too drunk.

I never paid attention

To which way my toilet paper

Is put on the roll.

The toilet paper rolls,

They make me think of work,

Countless hours in my crusty uniform

Unclogging shitters

That are older than my brother;

My hands down the pipes,

Up to my elbows

Fishing out the cardboard roll

That some little snot-nose

Jammed down there.

I should recycle,

But it’s not part of the trash service

Here at the University Apartments

And I’m too poor to ask how much it is.

I never stole the laundry bag and slippers

From a hotel room,

I usually nick the “Do Not Disturb” sign

Or those little bottles

Out of the mini-fridge.

I don’t sleep naked when I’m alone,

I usually pass out in my t-shirt and jeans,

Maybe thinking if someone came along

I’d have something to tease them with;

Strutting in my room to the sounds of Bo Diddley’s

“Who Do You Love?”

Unzipping my dirty jeans

While give them the eye.

I rarely touch the Bible in the drawer,

I deal with religion enough as it is.

I think Christianity is too concerned with sex

For anyone,

Heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, pansexual,

To really have any fun

With their bodies.

I think Christians are more helpless

Because too many of them can’t relax

And enjoy fucking.

Hard to say

Which words I always spell wrong

Because I always edit them;

I use a lot of slang, jargon and dialect

In my writing,

So maybe they’re spelled wrong

In the eyes of the computer.

My old man still has a typewriter.

I’ve thought about getting one,

Maybe even his,

That way maybe I can hear the strange music

The way Thompson did.

My old man still has a Polaroid,

He still used it

Until the film became too hard

To find.

The sexist sound?

I’m not sure such a thing

Even exists.

I don’t put my ears next to shells,

I live in the Midwest

With no ocean in sight.

I would love to hear words from another world

Or at least someone reading “Howl”.

I never smelt my mother’s bras

Or put them on my head

To play Superman,

Never had the feeling of being

Norman Bates.

Not lactose-intolerant;

Thank God

I love White Russians too much.

I’m positive that I’m HIV-negative,

The only other thing I’m positive about

Is when I write poetry

Full of inner malevolence

After too many brews down

At the local gay joint.

I can remember about a dozen

Of my friends’ phone numbers

And I only slept with a few of them;

They smelled like I did,

Cigarettes and booze

With a subtle hint of Outlaw.

They moaned like Joey Ramone sang

Or like Lemmy played bass.

I can recognize quite a few National flags

I’m not even sure why.

I rarely look in the mirror,

I’m not sure I’ll like what I see.

I write my “I” the same way most do

With a little dot above.

I prefer lasagna;

Mainly because of my brother

Because he was really into Garfield

When we were kids.

And I always use a toothpick.

Top or bottom?

Depends on who it is,

I like flexibility in my fucking.

I never screw without a condom,

I’ve been too pumped full of paranoia

Growing up.

My eyes are pale blue

Just like the Velvet Underground song.

I don’t highlight my hair

Just a natural brown.

Hairy? Well I have hair going halfway

Down to my ass

Due to not having a haircut

For the last ten years.

I never shave down there

But other than that

I’m not real hairy.

The highlight of my day

Is usually sitting at my desk

And scribbling out a new piece,

Or getting ready for a performance.

My day was long before I read this,

Having gone 24 hours without sleep.

Signs for what? I’m not into astrology,

Too hard-headed I suppose

To be superstitious.

I got a pile of books

Next to my bed;

Mainly Beat stuff,

Burroughs, Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti

Along with a copy of the Gonzo Papers Vol. 1.

I’m 6’1, lean and mean.

I don’t remember where I first made out,

Or how old I was,

Or how old he was,

I never had many lovers

And my love of whiskey

Makes the details hazy sometimes.

I’m circumcised, like most American guys,

I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

I’m a boxers sort of guy,

Simple knit plaid-style, size large.

Never had the money for silk

But maybe I will someday.

Never kept a diary;

I had my camp notebooks

Just because I didn’t have my computer out there.

Wasn’t really a diary

Just a composition book

Full of poems and drafts for stories.

I suppose I do write about you

Since I’m replying to your open letter.

And now that I’ve revealed so much to you

I do wonder how you look.