My Name Is Chuck by Ed Markowski

And I live on a dead end street and I ain’t no dead beat and I ain’t no alcoholic
in any way shape or form just because I’m the last man out of the White Water
Lounge seven out of every seven days I’m a big league all star up front laying it
all down on the table no excuses all world rum dipped wrong fielder who would
drink Mickey Muscatel Grover Cleveland Brandy Alexander Hack Daniels and the
Sultan Of Schnapps way under the water table if all three of them boys rose up
and out of their graves in the prime of their careers . . .
And I always ride with two quarts of Listerine under the front seat just in case
I break down in the eternally dry hell of a Bible Belt panorama . . .
And I’ve never laid the blame for my lethal love on the weather or a woman 
or my father or a rough night at the Rouge Plant or at the cloven feet of the
low priest who bought and blessed my first bottle of God at the Stardust Party
Store on the sordid side of mind where every second is rush hour and Abstinence
Avenue flows into The Addiction Expressway . . .
And I drink because I love buying pretty glass bottles and I love the Autumn
Amber shade of bourbon and I love the Jamaican Patois of Sea Wind Rum and
I love the sweet nothingness of impure Everclear . . .

And I love the Russian Seduction of Stoly under summer stars and I love to
watch the hell bound ascension of High Life bubbles in my Superman Glass
and I love Queen Angevin’s cheap Chablis more than I love Queen Angevin
in room number none at the Alsace Motel when she laps it off all over me . . .
And I love the Zen simplicity of Sake and I love the burn of my sun rise
shot before breakfast as it corrodes and bores more holes through my buckshot
stomach lining and I love the solemn shroud of Scotch that slams the door
that keeps me hidden from lovers fools friends clowns strangers neighbors freaks
pitchmen barkers and myself and I love the romance language and alley etiquette
of my patron saint Amigo Tequila . . .

And I do love each and every Seven Crown Slut Havana Club Whore and Dixie
Belle Doll who shared a bottle in my bed fucked me left at noon and never
came back because they knew they couldn’t hold a swizzle stick to my true
love that nameless bitch who lives in every bottle on every bar from Alaska to
Zaire and from Absinthe to Zinfandel . . .
And I have no regrets or amends to make because from my fractured angle if 
a soul ain’t a drunk or dope dog by the time candle number twenty – five 
melts into the Kahlua Cake then that nobody hasn’t lived has it all wrong is
wasting the gift you’ve so tragically given and needs to make an appointment
with your post modern version of a wise man and the Geek God Of Groveling
Doctor Phil . . .
And every one says God God’s got a reason for every one and for every season
and it just hit me like a dust mote . . .
That I am the Matinee Idol Poster Boy and undeniably the best evidence that
the grand experiment you devised and titled Mankind has failed completely So
Bobby mix the Master here your best ten – billion megaton martini to ease the
burden of his twenty trillion megaton fuck up and put it on my tab. 


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