[Felt Suit, Joseph Beuy, 1970]
The Lecture Hall
A double rim of hard muscle protects his spine.
His shoulders are wide to the sides and his eyes shift behind thick glasses.
He checks the perimeter, the center, the front edges of the raised and occupied wood slats before him.
He is attuned to his environment.
Every click or eyeshift he programs and interprets according to an intricate system of signification.
He believes no one.
He believes in sculptured silence.
He manipulates his moment.
It is his.
Yes it is his.
The rows of open egg cartons jiggle like students in a classroom as buses roar,
drills burr outside an open window. Disturbed
black dust finds the big man at the pulpit,
slowly suffuses his craggy earth colors to simple dark.
The eggs welcome the black dust. They are white
and he is black now and they can rest.
But the earth rock quakes,
pushes up mountains, throws off
rubble, the big man changes color,
then leaves the room