Perfect State of Mind

it exists only after four-five strong drinks, tall highballs drained
early in the morning—or afternoon, depending on when you wake up.

the fifth tall drink unearths strong emotions, a light numbing of
the musculature, you breathe easier,

you forget the nagging voices of those around you—parents, friends,
spouses, and whatnot—you even stop seeing the pandemic,
the socioeconomic obliteration of the globe.

the fifth highball helps you ignore the fact our
bodies are but
coffins—like a wise man once said in a long lost play.

pouring the sixth opens up the gates of creativity, stories form,
and bars are conquered. the barfly in the sundress becomes
your new best friend, companion for one night,

and the sixth drink helps everything to come out to the surface;
angels, demons, horrific monsters and lovable creatures with a nasty side,
they’re all out there. one night, you fight in backalleys; the next night,
you make sweet love.

the sixth and seventh drinks erase the world—everything’s at your grasp,
literary fame, eternal love, true happiness.

you add some shots, you’re feeling superlative, every positive adjective
swirls in your head and you feel them. it’s the only
state of mind worth thriving for, fighting the system and serving the Man
for those happy hour cocktails that unleash all the suppressed
desires twisting and stabbing your heart and soul.

the coffin you call body is lighter, the lid might even pop open.
don’t wait ten thousand years for your soul to complete its circle;
pour that eighth drink and hasten up the process.