t a l k
M I C H A E L M A G E E
for Ann Lauterbach
You were interested, you said,
in the gap
between truth and reality. Fuck, I thought,
I spent a lot of time last night
and the hardware-store guy
told me crazy-glue sticks like a sonovabitch,
but if that didn't work
he had clamps. Camps? No, clamps.
Clamps, camps, whatever, what I
was looking for was a name
occuring at two different time-points --
I met Mangan. Later I met Mangan.
Always to say much
later, You've met Mangan, haven't you?
Later: the possibility of
a yes, a yeah, a yup, across
two bodies, like the one we reach
during dinner, you have begun to talk
about Eve who gambles on the gap
of dialogic space
while Adam keeps screaming, You are Donkey, you
Koala Bear, to things that don't speak
(xy = xy, N -> ¥?
Adam's faux chromosomal calculus)
supping stew, over
the table, our agitation
sub-vocal in the throats' timbre, double timbals
Adam so much anymore, it's
Mangan, he's late and that's so like him.