tincantheory

ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Marking Black These Xs in the White Room

We mark all these black Xs in the white room

Sweet yesternothings something semi-gray

Then crank this cranks horizon turn and push broom

And sweep the night like shatters into day

Hooray

Stoooooopids We (You and I and Most Dear Five)!

Spin who span the answer

Yes, we all be can, sirs

Oh me wow me pantser

Yes, we all be can, sirs

Pander there fee ere her?

Five whole dollar can, sir

Gripe the gripper glander

Can we all in can, sir

Said can we all be can, sir

Theodore

I’m not sure if I’m comfortable sharing how much I actually knew at that point in my career and how much I was just guessing. One thing I was sure of: I did not want to impose. She had not left the house for three days (I know because I had ScoutMaster 3000s all over that bad boy parameter and not roach nor dust spec could breathe without my knowing of it. It was impeccable. It was unscrupulous!). I was great watcher and kept a very careful eye, but I will tell you this: I am not the creeping kind. I am protector.

You tell me of the shadows, whole unbeknownst, that lurk in the daytime, under the very sunlight, under the very nose tips of your loved ones. You tell me to the teethed evils sky-popping, splitting waves, hopping dimension for the blood they smell. It’s the taint that leads them. They smell it all the way from Number Nine.

You cannot speak to me of malformed grotesque, or the breath of evil and whose mouth, and so you cannot dub me The Creep. I sit and I judge wind and I eyeball the live feed from up here in this tree. In fact, you cannot tell me anything. It is through here that I communicate and these words are one way. You will not find me. You will not notice, spot, sight, see me even should you gaze with ultra intensity at my space. You cannot capture my image through meditation, concentration, advocation, or summonation. Here I am.

They call me Theodore. I am Aura 2382 and my assignment was Aura 549903217652. That was her tree and from there I stared intently at and around her place of living. I was new to the ranks of high intelligences. I was recently promoted. My lower level records were stupendous. I was well-regarded and superbly awarded; if you could find my hall of honor, you could never find your way out of it–the labyrinth it was!–but I was to leave nothing to chance.

Before we released Wikipedia, we’d been using it 72 total eons. I did my research. The ScoutMaster 3000 was second to forget-about-it, it trailed the tail of zilchness, ate the dust of only it’s own wind as it sped the expanse, spanned the universe with the most peerless of ease.

So, she hadn’t left in a couple of days. You see, normally we leave privacy of the home to chance. In the outside we follow. When they’re inside, I sit in this tree with my ScoutMaster. We are issued monitors. Fire, excessive water, routine-impingement, but interaction is limited when the aura is in the abode. We also have the GA Instinction and other astral intuitions. None of these had been triggered. She had not left.

I watched the front door. I scanned my ScoutMaster, resynced my synchrons, twiddled my thumbs, phoned back to base.

Who’s the what and where does it give? I had to go in.

A Spring of Stank Autumn

Fallen got up and got cuppity cup. Who’s thirst was it anyway? You take the two dollars, divide it by anonymous, and no one gets parched anymore. Race ever won. Though. Haha. It is funny sometimes. You lay it flat it’s the ocean; the river in motion. How many times–

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

–do we rise from the bank bottom. Stank autumn. A burning leaves refocused, forged in the valley of the let’s thrice again–many times the charm–hobbling with arm open and heads on backward. Hark we are here and we dumb from the water. We birthed of the otter. We swim to the rim, but then what’s alma mater?

 

Glib.

Rib.

Eve has got dibs.

Fumble the wherewithal; cuddle the squid.

 

I would do it for forty dollars. Show me the gunny. Almost the win, but we did  it for honey.

 

Digging for gold and direction is buried.

 

Boots Mama Boogie

Who gotcha boots. Botta boots. boots.

Scoots in the suits. Inna suits. suits.

Who’s gotsa swiiing inna me me me

Downtown to sing mama blue decree

Boots in the roots. River roots. roots.

Boots come a boots inna boot-boot-boots.

 

Where mama stare? Over there. there.

Clean underwear. Cause ya care. care.

I got the tiiime gumma golden grime.

Wisky for wine with those pantsomine.

Mama beware. Cause we care. care.

Ifin fall there you so-close-almost there.

 

 

Steam me Primo

Smoke

sup sup sup sup

eeeeeeeeeee

ooooooooooh

give a time a give a time a give a time a time o

chewwwww

mastication proclamation Jerron gotta rhyme o

 

Clearing

up up up up

meeeeeeeeeem

wooooooooomb

fetal bake a birthday cake awake in time awry glow

chohhhke

shake a shake a shake a shake a

 

Jerron gotta rhyme o

 

(my zipper got stuck)

Cat Sometimes

I run up all

I cat sometimes

Me ffft ffft ffft my way

 

I catch them all

The mouse sometimes

And sleep sleep sleep a day

 

I num de tox

My litter box

From silver bowl cafe

 

I rub your leg

I cat sometimes

‘Til cat is go away

 

 

No Point

Who wasn’t

No he doesn’t

Turn rip

stripngrip

Dip it in the baker’s dozenth.

 

Rip Rip

POTATO CHIP

Letcherhair

cummmmmmOUTTA CLIP!

Get Get

onwithit

In our skin we

steer the ship.

 

Circles.

Write for Tin Can Theory

There’s a little tin can in all of us. In some, it’s a bit larger, like the big family soup kind. Still others are so ingrained and tuned to their inner tin can that boundaries seem to blur. We call these tin men–eh…tin people–and these people need an outlet, a can opener, if you will.

Don’t worry, it’s metaphorical.

How is your tin can? Have you spoken to it lately? It may be that you never knew it was there. Introduce yourself. Put your fingers to keyboard and bring it out to play.

Tin Can Theory is open to submission. It’s not easy work–you’ll know if you skim through. It’s a duty. A way of living. About what you see is about what we’re looking for, but with your twist.

Right now it’s just a man and his can. Shake us up. Mix us around. Show us what you’ve got.

 

If you’re interested (and it would be very great if you would happen to be interested), please submit work or questions to jerrontables@tincantheory.com. We’re not so much looking for a guest blogger, but more of a colleague who would post with at least semi-regularity. However, single guest post submissions are welcome.

 

One thing is for sure. This is bigger than a Jerron Tables. We are all here–all of us atumble in this great, big aluminum clanker, skidding down the pebbled pavement after one swell of a well-deserved swift kick.

Are you tin can enough?

 

‘course you are.

Broth of Man

Francesca opted to not. She didn’t know what to when and who to how. And where? But she knew it was cool. So she said she’d have two, please. And opted all the hot ones.

“Oh and extra Jimbo on the side. The biggest, the bester and est.”

Whom and whose? Wither whence? Hup two-three-four. Hup two-three-four.

Stand up! In the name of sexual activities–prenuptial penile proclivities. Promiscuous perversions, you sweet and sour pussycatimus cantankeronomous. Rubber Rhinoceros. Grab the the bull by it’s hornblower, you pantomiminous polymered butter hole. Read em’ and weeps. Whip. Weeps harder! Buggard!

You sorry sack of seed something, summers after spring cling. You all the other instances of neosporin spleen steam.

Ouch.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

I counting all my dates. I sleep when eyes awake. I bitter sack and ice my back when runny tummy ache.

“Francesca, you too much TVs. You glue your eyes to your demise and grope the silver screen!”

“Aww moms–your probs! You Calvinistic sobs. Your mind should grow and wrap around the sheets of bob and bob.”

“Which way?”

The can! The can! The way the world began. We made ourselves and somethin’ else and blah blah–

Squeeze the hand

Broth of man

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