Behind the Pulpit: What Lies Behind the Angry Face?

Behind the Pulpit: What Lies Behind the Angry Face?

By Walter Beck

I’ve known street preachers, first getting acquainted with them during my second year at ISU when I first met a man named George Smock (aka “Brother Jed”) and his side-act that year, Brother Mitch. When I first met them, they seemed like the standard sort of religious fanatics that I’ve seen off and on my whole life. I hassled them for the cheap laughs, getting myself a little bit of press in the process. I would play devil’s advocate and get the crowds riled up and laughing.

Since my first interaction with them in the Fall of 2008, I’ve gotten to know others as well, I’ve known Brother Larry, one of the most notorious in Terre Haute, Preacher Saunders out of California, Sister Pat and Sister Cindy, Brother Cope and Ruben Israel, one of the most hardcore street preachers in America outside of the Westboro Baptist Church.

In the public eye, we’re the perfect matches, these angry men calling down hellfire and damnation and me always there in my ripped up jeans and black metal t-shirts, an unrepentant and unapologetic young rock n roller extoling loud music, rebellion, booze and sex, the public poster boy for decadence. And I always went over the top, French-kissing my buddies in front of ‘em, chanting “Hugs Not Hell”, reading from The Satanic Bible or from George Carlin, singing rock n roll songs, anything to get a laugh from the crowd. That’s what I was doing, defusing the anger of the crowd before it got out of control.

But here’s the truly funny part, I started to get to know these preachers “off-stage”; I think I grew closest to Brother Jed because he was a regular, he’d always show up at ISU. I saw a side to him that the public rarely saw, that of a gentle old man who really felt he was just spreading love. I saw him without his mask on, without the hellfire and damnation pouring out of him. It was startling.

I also got to know Brother Larry quite well, mainly because I was the only guy on campus who would give him the time of day. I think Larry means well, but he doesn’t always know how to turn off the switch, which gets him in trouble. But I have nothing personal against the guy, hell I invited him out to a poetry gig last year.

Even Ruben Israel, one of the hardest of the hard; I don’t know him on quite as personal of a level as I do Jed or Larry, but we’ve spoken privately online. Even he, who posts some of the most unrelenting damnation of anyone I know, told me that if I went out of town, he’d pick up my mail and walk my dog.

So here’s my question, where is the line with these guys? I mean, you’d never think that I would ever have a friendly word with these guys, as polar opposite as we seem. But it’s strange the friendships I have with these angry men. Hell Jed took me out to dinner and next time I see him, if I have the money, I plan on reciprocating the favor.

I wonder how much of their screaming and yelling is all a show? If it’s all a show, that’s fine, I can totally respect that because I’m a showman. And trust me; I’m a completely different person on stage than I am off-stage. As my friend Heather is fond of saying, “Beck, you’re not the Molotov-cocktail throwing anarchist you want people to think you are. I’ve seen you with orphaned kittens.” She’s right, it’s all an image, when I’m back in the room, I listen to Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin and watch Fox News, waiting for Glenn Beck to shred our Commie President with his deep and thoughtful wit (EXTREME SARCASM). No, I listen to Megadeth and feed my political addiction, but there’s still a strong line between on-stage Walter and private Walter; selective schizophrenia, all performers have it, it’s just a matter of controlling it.

Maybe that’s why I’m friends with these guys, because we’re both showmen and we respect each other on a certain level. Even Jed and his side acts have mentioned my ability to work a crowd and my affable nature with people. I’ve watched these guys more than I should admit publically and what they do is total performance art. These guys are the true alternative artists, they do it all for the draw of the crowd, that’s why many of them are so over the top. They’re good at working crowds and they’re good at drawing publicity. They love controversy, maybe even more than I do, because if they get escorted off campuses, banned or even arrested, they can claim persecution and martyrdom. And “martyrdom” is worth more than their weight in gold to these guys.

So that’s where I’m at, wondering how much of the hellfire is just an act; if they can make friends with an unrepentant bisexual rock n roller, how much of their “purity” is just for the papers?

Does anyone out there know?

An Homage to the Muses: Dedicated Poems

Author's Note: Granted, every poem has an inspiration, a story behind it, but the following poems are dedicated to certain individuals. There are very few poems I've written that are dedicated to and written for one specific person. So here we go!

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.

"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.

Walter Story Time: The Story of the Most Controversial Photo Ever Taken of Me

Well welcome back brothers, sisters and otherwise. I hope you’ve enjoyed the poems so far posted here, but now as Monty Python said, “for something completely different”. It’s Walter Story Time, so pull up a chair and fetch me another glass of bourbon and an ashtray while you’re at it.

It was back in January, I had finally come out of the closet as bisexual after eight years. Believe me, that was a hard week. My old man took it very well, telling me, “Son, that doesn’t mean I love you any less or that I’m any less proud of you.” So now that the dam had burst, the genie was out of the bottle and my world didn’t end, it was time for a celebration and what better place to do than our favorite (and only) local gay joint, ZimMarss.

It was me, my brother Jeff, Kris, Darren and Joel who went and man, the booze and good feelings were flowing. I immediately ordered a martini, stirred NEVER shaken (you bruise the gin and dilute the drink) made with Bombay Sapphire at a 3:1 ratio of gin to vermouth with a lime twist; my favorite cocktail, man. I was also pounding back shots of Bailey’s Irish Cream courtesy of my brother since that’s one of his favorites and of course, Kris and I were pounding back beers.

The jukebox was cranking, I remember somebody playing Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode” which I thought was fucking great because honestly, I know it’s a gay bar and all, but there’s only so much Lady Gaga I can listen to in one night. I’m a rock n roller and all the guys I hang with are rock n rollers.

So anyway, it was my brother, Kris and I up at the bar ordering a fresh round of drinks and I had my ex-girlfriend’s camera with me because she wanted a bunch of pics from my big night out with the guys. Well my brother snaps a picture of Kris and I French-kissing each other; there was nothing romantic or sexual about it, we were just a couple of lushes partying.

The next morning, I posted all the pics from the evening on Facebook, including the one of Kris and I kissing. I mean, hell, I’m a transgressive artist and certainly there were more boundary-pushing photos of me out there than me kissing one of my best friends. There are photos of me covered in stage blood, photos of me in a leopard print dress, photos of me surrounded by empty liquor bottles, etc. I’m known as a social outlaw and certainly no one would raise holy hell about a pic of an innocent drunken kiss.

Well on that one, I was wrong; holy shit, emails and comments started flooding in, mainly people from camp who were shocked by the photo. Seriously it was insane and it honestly shocked me, there’s nothing explicit about the picture. I didn’t see what the big deal was. I stood by my guns until Kris’ mom freaked out over the picture. Which is even more perplexing, she knows he’s gay, so what the hell, man? Well for the only time in my life, I caved into the pressure and took the picture down. Later it would be used on the inside cover of my first live poetry album Mental Cage Menstruation: Life Cycles and Blood Loss at the Sycamore Lounge.

To think I, the same guy who was unofficially barred from ISU open mic nights for using stage blood in a poetry performance, the same guy who caused holy hell at Ransburg Scout Reservation by writing brutally honest prose, the same guy who has lead rallies and spit fire for the local press, caused one of the biggest controversies of my life with one little kiss.

Well that’s it for now, stayed tuned here on Passed Out Fully Clothed for new poetry, rants and a new episode of “Walter Story Time”.