Chinaski, Chinaski come over here
God Chinaski you stink of beer
Your late again and your work is slow
I should write you up, one more and they will let you go

Chinaski thinks to himself you'll see, I will not conform to who you think I should be
You can stuff your job, the pay is lousy anyway
I have better ways to pass my days

Down to the civic Chinaski did trot
They wrote up his resignation and cut him a cheque
Chinaski took it with great cheer walked down the road and bought a couple bottles of wine and a fifth of ***** and a six pack of beer

He got in his car and off to the track to blow the lot on some halfpenny nag
And to pick up a lady to befriend, maybe get lucky and back to mine, where we can share some bottles of wine

If not so lucky then that's fine by me, I'll get drunk and write my short stories
There's been one constant in my life, longer even than I was married to my wife
That's my typewriter it's special you see
It follows me from room to room, cheers me up when I feel gloom
I put the paper in and turn the carriage and start to write of love and marriage of growing up and moving out, of fights and bars and women and cars.

I write of being on the street of all the women that I meet
I write of work and racing, I write of hardship that I'm facing

I write of the tough life I've had but I don't write it for you to be sad
I write to make you smile and laugh
I write because it helps you see, I write it to cleanse me

If I make you happy along the way then well what really is there left to say

Have a good day, have a Chinaski day

the phone rang at 1:30 a.m.
  and it was a man from Denver:
  
   "Chinaski, you got a following in
  Denver..."
    "yeah?"
   "yeah, I got a magazine and I want some
  poems from you..."
    "*******, CHINASKI!" I heard a voice
  in the background...
   "I see you have a friend,"
  I said.
   "yeah," he answered, "now, I want
  six poems..."
    "CHINASKI *****! CHINASKI'S A *****!"
  I heard the other
  voice.
    "you fellows been drinking?"
  I asked.
    "so what?" he answered. "you drink."
    "that's true..."
   "CHINASKI'S AN *******!"
    then
  the editor of the magazine gave me the
  address and I copied it down on the back
  of an envelope.
    "send us some poems now..."
    "I'll see what I can do..."
   "CHINASKI WRITES ****!"
   "goodbye," I said.
   "goodbye," said the
  editor.
    I hung up.
    there are certainly any number of lonely
  people without much to do with
  their nights.

Chinaski licked his tongue over the opening of the whiskey bottle, knowing that it wouldn't stop me but he knew it would delay the use for someone else. He kept repeating his poem "she is dark. she is dark. she is reading about god. i am god." and the whiskey label suddenly turned into a lullaby, the only thing able to keep me under water and i heard it with blurry vision. she is dark. i am dark. i am reading about god. he is god. he is blood alcohol content whispering numbers too high for decimals, hoping i'd be my whole self tonight. waking up fractions of a second too close to consistent unconscious, wondering if i could even make it home with muscles meant for the sea floor. I have no legs when i am around him, and He as in Liquor, as in The Only Thing Keeping Me Up Right, The Only Thing Keeping Me Above Ground. I am sinking, slipping under waves crashing over my lungs like the wrong pipe. But he promises he's got the right one, Chinaski blowing O's over my bed frame. He is dark. I am dark. We are reading about God. He is God. Asking where is God? We are sullen prayer folding over the pew, removing shoes to show how raw we are, or are we removing soul? I've got no time to play in the second coming, Chinaski drowning himself in women promising their second coming, I've never admired him. Or Him, making hymn out of moans, telling everyone i am dark. i am dark. i should be reading about god, he is god. I never knew god. I don't know how to read a book considered fiction, running my tongue up the necks of the sacrilegious whimpering out Christ's name like he will know how to sacrifice the hands that tame the unholy. I pray he will learn to split time or bible, explaining truth from love. Chinaski never loved more than once, and that was with the glass in his hand and full gut of scotch. I am dark. I am Chinaski. I am reading about God. He is God.