Inspiration After a Long Night (For Chuck Willman)
(By Walter Beck)
24 hours
Without sleep;
My mind too tight wound
To wind down.
The sun up and low in the East
On this cold November morning,
Waiting on the bus,
My eyes heavy and staring,
Heavy with fear
And cheap cognac;
My breath
Exhaling a cold fog
Of Camel smoke.
Waiting on the bus
And reading the only printed pieces
I have of yours.
All I wanted was black coffee,
But I read through
Your five pieces,
My mind alive in the pages
Of “Pussy” and “The Lesson”.
Heavy images
For a mind so tired.
I stood there
In the cold November morning,
In my dirty jeans,
Stiff with spilled drinks,
My black GRUBSNAR Quartermaster shirt,
And black leather jacket.
No one would want me
In my ragged clothes,
My greasy, exhausted aroma
Of booze and cigarettes.
I should be too tired
To function,
But your words
Lit my brain on fire.
With the Masks Off (For Brother Jed)
(By Walter Beck)
Our yearly ritual dance
Was today;
An outspoken rebuker
And an outspoken freak.
Yes,
We danced for them,
Didn’t we old man?
You shouted of judgments
Damnation and hellfire,
And I shouted of peace, love
And rock n roll.
The cameras flashed
In the sunny fall sky,
People laughed, cheered
Raged and yelled;
Us squaring off
With our army
Of goons.
A modern masquerade,
A contemporary burlesque;
We entertainers
Giving the people
What they wanted.
But as the crowd thinned
And the dance slowed down
You invited me to dinner
On your dime.
I broke bread with you
And we spoke civilly.
With our masks off
We respected each other;
There was no shouting,
No grandstanding,
No cameras,
No one turning heads
At our conversation.
I told you of my trials and tribulations
Over the last year
And you listened with a sympathetic ear
Unknown to most
Who only know you from the pages of newspapers.
Just as I
Spoke with a friendliness
No one would believe
With the likes of you.
We sat with our masks off,
Not as enemies
In the eyes of the public,
But as friends.
You gave me a lift,
Bought me dinner,
And said a prayer for me.
With the masks off
We are friends.
I am an Old Man. You are a Young Poet (For Eric Norris)
(By Walter Beck)
“I am an old man, you are a young poet”,
The skinhead said to me
After I chatted with him;
Back from the local freak joint
Full of beer and shots, cocktails and Scotch on the rocks.
I am a young poet;
Young enough to be worshipped and idolized
By horny and hungry people,
By artists and revolutionaries.
Young enough to be vilified and hated
By parents and preachers,
By teachers and cops.
I am a young poet;
Young enough to feed off a fading stash
Of adolescence,
Where a hangover is a minor annoyance
Instead of a warning sign.
Young enough to be fueled all night
On Wild Turkey and Pig Sweat;
Writing in a fevered frenzy,
Spinning the muse’s words
And inspiring people
(To do what, I have no idea).
Pounding my fist,
Calling for solidarity and action
With no end in sight.
I am a young poet;
Young enough to believe
In the immortality of words and art
And the beauty of the human race;
To be more concerned with creation
Than the bottom line,
Where money is a sideline
And not the main attraction.
I am a young poet;
Young enough to live
Off greasy take-out and Pabst Blue Ribbon
In a cheap apartment
And know I’m on top of the world.
I am a young poet;
And many of my friends
Doubt
I’ll live to be as old
As that skinhead.
A Wifely Duty to Shave Ass (For Bryan Borland)
(By Walter Beck)
We spoke,
Comparing notes of audio and hooch;
He told me he was listening gangsta
And downing a 40 oz.,
I told him I was listening to one of Hank Bukowski’s live records
And craving a bottle of cheap wine to go with it.
But I couldn’t get it;
The liquor stores were closed
And it was too far to walk to a bar that was open.
Even if I could, they wouldn’t have what I needed,
Whoever heard of a bar serving Mad Dog or Night Train?
We both wanted to get the Blue Laws changed
So outlaws like us could get hooch on Sunday.
Maybe I should be a Catholic so I’d have an excuse
For wine on Sunday,
Pray to Jesus to turn my tap water
Into a jug of Carlo Rossi, sweet poet’s wine.
He told me I looked hot
With my hair and beard braided and dyed
And my bare chest scrawled with stage blood.
I had a private chuckle;
Thinking about Chuck telling me
I looked hot in ceremonial gear,
“Chief Smokempole”, the guys in Swamp City said,
Or Eric wondering how I didn’t have a perpetual hard-on
Surrounded by shirtless, meaty-smelling guys.
I couldn’t keep a hard-on there if I wanted,
The septic smell of the forever clogged johns
Killing whatever drive I had.
It’s all funny in a way to me;
Sex at all or even a good compliment on my appearance
Is as rare for me around here
As a bottle of single-malt Scotch.
Right before he said goodbye
He reminded me
That it wasn’t his fetish, but he liked the results,
That it was his wifely duty
To shave his husband’s ass.
A Letter to Bob Mazzuca, the Chief Scout Executive of the Boy Scouts of America
(By Walter Beck)
Dear Bob,
I hope you will listen to me,
Please hear me out,
I’m an Eagle Scout,
A nine year camp staff veteran,
I’ve even worked at the National Jamboree,
The Centennial Celebration no less.
I’m a Firecrafter
And an OA member;
I’ve given my life to Scouting,
To service and to the boys
And I want you to listen to me;
Why do you have to sell us out?
Why do you have to slam the gates
In the faces of the kids
Who need to be reached out to the most?
Why? Why? Why?
Oh God, I ask you why!
Do the checks help you sleep at night?
Are you deaf to the cries in the streets?
Are you afraid of what will happen
If the checks from Salt Lake City
Dry up?
Don’t listen to them,
Money isn’t the end
And it certainly isn’t the beginning.
Money means nothing,
Politics mean nothing,
When you look into the face
Of a kid
Who’s having the time of his life.
See that innocence and beauty
Shining through,
See the truth,
That we have to reach out to ALL the kids,
That they are valuable,
That not one of them is worthless,
Or hopeless,
Or damned.
Please see all this
And disconnect yourself
From the flow of money
That floods in.
God it’s embarrassing;
It lowers our organization
To nothing but a junkie
Paying out for his fix.
Please open the gates
To those who need to be reached
Out to the most.
It isn’t politics,
It’s the simple fact
That we’re turning kids away
Who need us.
I hope you’ll do the right thing.
Sincerely,
-Walter Beck
Eagle Scout/Camp Staffer
To My Old Man
(By Walter Beck)
I remember the most important things my old man taught me;
He taught me to read and love literature,
He taught me to think for myself,
Even at a young age,
Even when I was eleven years old.
This education came in handy
When I got my first brutal lessons in authority;
When my aunt and her underpaid goons took my radio
And my Beethoven and Chuck Berry tapes;
When they took my Civil War books
(Whoever thought that a kid would be punished for reading);
Or when my grandfather
Told me that kids were nothing
But the property of authority,
That I, at eleven years old, wasn’t a “true American citizen”.
I didn’t believe any of that then;
Because my old man taught me
That the liberties and dreams of
The Constitution,
The Bill of Rights,
And the Declaration of Independence
Belonged to me,
Belonged to all of us
Regardless of age,
Regardless of race or gender,
Regardless of sexual orientation.
He taught me that being a robot or a puppet
Is no way for a true American to live.
We are all Americans,
We are all free,
We are all equal.
That’s what my old man taught me.
His education and the brutal lessons
At the hands of other family members
Turned me into the Patriotic, gonzo-influenced, fist-pumping street warrior
That I am today.
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