Intro to Feldman

As if he had been dipped in sleep, upside-down.
As if sight were measured by the thickness of one's glasses and light
projected a different film inside his mind than the one we got on our flight.
As if he didn't believe in sentences
arrived at except by magnified study in low light, on piano lids,
after multiple false guesses and trips to Turkey for metaphors,
after he'd already questioned the pre-conditions for before
and found them preposterous, hanging thinly
like the last thread of pastrami on rye.
Can we take a break for pastrami on rye?
He weighed 300 pounds.
He wrote music, wore wrinkled suits—fedoras and jackets
pressed into service by the gravity of his puissance—
an atom of a man, orbited by long strands of attention
he's forever combing back into place.
He's my El Dorado, my Pee Wee's bicycle.
His face is the roadside billboard my mind constructs each morning above my desk,
mouth looming like a fossilized crack in the Western Wall of his head,
the short prayer I roll up and slip into a minute's quick measure
whenever I want the seconds to be counted, to matter.
Chapbook of Poems for Morton Feldman
P. Scott Cunningham

Chapbook of Poems for Morton Feldman

P. Scott Cunningham

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