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

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

A Date

Her doormat said ‘Welcome’. To what? He wondered. Anything. Salts. Mice. Her daily doings of things. Did she spice up her food? What was her smell when there was no perfume? He knocked. Always, he erred on the side of too softly and he wondered if she’d heard, rocking back on his heels and exhaling, trying to look like he didn’t have a gun through the peephole. He didn’t have a gun, of course, but he wanted to look like he didn’t have one, too. They had only met once before and he was a little bold in asking to pick her up at her place, her apartment, this place where his welcome was preempted, pre-approved. It was five minutes away and ten to the coffee shop. They could walk, he’d said, and she said they would walk. After all, what’s a nice afternoon? And maybe that’s why she had allowed him to meet her. There was no car and she might have felt she could outrun him. Her legs were slender and her movements were very controlled. She looked capable of ducking from danger if evenly met, like she could hop a fence or two. Deerish.

She did not answer and Harold had to worry about seeming impatient or too timid. What if she happened to look out the window to see if she could catch him approaching? What a creep! Hatching his schemes as he stands on my doorstep, hadn’t he time at home, the insufferable fool. Oh no, mister! I forgot. I’m with my friends. Angela had a breakup and–well you know how things go.

He could knock again. Hold it, already! Who is this man that I come right to the doorstep for him? He’s right on time! Who expects a ready date on the dot? There are things to be done. There are necessities. Not this servant girl, Mr. King, sir. I don’t even feel like coffee. Just some water, thanks, and off home! It’s getting late. It’s my mother, you see. She’s over on Hammel and I’ve got to go. You know how these things go.

So he walked away. Where is he GOING, the LOAF! What am I? Barrel Bottoms? Did he get some HOT TEXT!? What? Does he need to pee? What a goph! What did he forget to let his parole officer know he was leaving the house? I don’t think so, you flake! I know how these things go!

He walked back and knocked again. He heard something. There was movement inside. He wondered if she owned cats, a rambunctious dog. He could be licked. He could be licked and laugh and pet dogs. They made it easy! He’s the good guy and that’s a good boy–that’s the spot, yeees, that’s the spot, you good boy! Maybe they could go to the dog park. He pictured himself bending down with a tennis ball, tossing it– overdressed for play, but they were having fun. What’s a grass stain anyway, when you’ve got a dog like this?

It was her. The doorknob–should he open the–

“Hi!”

“Hi, Marissa”

She opened the door and didn’t walk out. An invitation to him. Maybe this was done with frequency. After all, though she favored an attire more homely than most, she was not an unattractive woman. That was plain. It was written on the real side of her. Her smile and greeting and her true disregard for her motions themselves. They were of her and she whisked them about with complete trust and precision. Martin was different. Every movement pained up his spinal cord. He was rigid with exactly where to act and rest. She was fluid.  Maybe her homliness was a ruse. Maybe she lured and seduced. The ol’ bear trap. Quiet, unassuming men for her meat, her desire. They were timid, but, by jove! they got her off!

“Please don’t mind the place,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Martin looked around and saw a book open on the coffee table with some papers and there was a sweater draped over a chair of the dining table.

“What’s wrong with it?” he said.

She gave a light grufff, a feminine grunt of frazzle, letting her arms up and flap against her hips. It was stressing out, good natured and good enough to make him wonder where her trials were. Was he a relief or did he grate her? Where was she meaning to go and what were her troubles for?

“Oh, I threw some stuff in the hall closet when I heard you come. I forgot to not tell you it wasn’t like this a minute ago. Still kind of a mess”

“Fair enough,” he said. He smiled. She grabbed her purse. “Let’s go,” she said.

And they were off. It was just like that. The knock, the purse, the door. Why over complicate things? And now they were on a stroll. Officially. Walking beside each other–side-by-side beside–Martin weaving around poles and posts to give her room. The sky played nice and they talked openly. It turns out she loved this coffee shop. They wondered why they’d never seen each other there. She usually got to-go. Coffee and run. Martin would sit for hours with a window, a book, sometimes a laptop. She worked in finance for Ford and went to school. She would have herself bake and make beautiful things and as she talked, Martin imagined her flour covered arms working dough in the kitchen. He would taste her work and it would be exquisite. It would sweet and fill like the real sugar of her, he thought. Cakes, pastries–they would have tarts for breakfast on Saturdays.

Martin sold IT to businesses. He had trained to be technical right out of college, fresh off an English degree. It was all the same. It was money and there were words involved in some way. It wasn’t ideal. He would go to school too. He would write masterpieces over creamed cupcakes, powdered sugar. Together they could sweet the world and guide it.

Marissa walked up closer to the door and Martin reached to open it. Coffee. He wondered what the workers’ families said when they went home–pollinating java puffs, bringing hints of cream and a general sense of being pried awake. The place was empty. Every table to be had. The corner spot, the lovely coosh of the couch there, the low wooden table, a candle.

They sat down and he drank his coffee black. There was no steamed cream, no caramel in his fantasies, none of the sprinkled cinnamon, and he sat there, stared at this woman, and slowly filled his mouth with the hot, steaming milk of the earth.

 

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