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Gabe Foreman: A Poem

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Gabe Foreman MAMMOTH At the point where individual talent breaks down through the clouds, and intersects tradition with a flash, T.S. Eliot is there in the flesh exposing himself to the hollowness of language. Using words good, a linguist on the lake howls at the smoky shore until the author of The Waste Land appears adjacent to the mud hut, his cape of lightning flapping. Hitting high and low notes nice in the hut’s northeast corner, two singers caress the sin tax their lyrics owe to Prufrock. Like Satan in his cathedral, T.S. Eliot is other people nobody’s him. A pandemonium of subterranean caverns flap and deflate at the whims of Eliot, who spread verbal misdemeanors like mozzarella, who fills awkward silences like saints fill days on the calendar. Rhetorical devices sprint down the starless slope flutter on their backs, fly up, thud against Orion’s Belt, explode. ‘I myself am language, nobody’s me,’ quotes the sky. It’s what the thunder’s