Komposition 8 July 1923 Vasilly Kandinsky
Do you think rationally? I ask my date in the vermillion dress at the bar;
with her rum and Coke. Or to the priestess on the street corner,
a plea for the soul of the world etched in cardboard. Preach, kindred spirit,
against their designs, their averages, their proportions; against the litany of ailments.
Don’t let them filter you out; don’t squander your clarity.
Painted frowns playing politics with masters of the universe,
one slip away from priesthood. Post-postmodernism.
The uphill struggles and refinements.
New sleep schedules, exercise routines; work smart.
The pharmacist questioning why,
why does my psychiatrist prescribe me two antipsychotics, so I tell her:
no need to worry, I’m an expert patient. I take advice only from the best.
Like the woman on the street corner, the most unusual font.
She doesn’t even accept insurance; my job pays part.
I think to myself, do I think rationally?
Opening the book of poetry my therapist gave me,
my eyes vacillating between the original and the translation,
which I wholeheartedly disagree with,
about the waves off the shores of Patagonia,
and the sea foam on the rocks, doves lilting through the air,
and the breasts of the lover of another man, long dead,
who has never met the woman in the dress at the bar;
with her rum and Coke.
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