ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Month: August, 2012

Engulfed Inflamed

O, count me out, and fill me in,

My EARS are flarin’ up again!

I’m second thought, I’m half all-in,

my WORDS are topped in Old Tom Gin.


dum, dee, dum, dee, dum, dee, dum, dee


I’m quittin’ up, I’m can’t be stopped,

UnTIL the gettin’s gotten off.

I’m higher tide, I’m crumble fun,

The GETTin’s got me on my run!


dum, dee, dum, dee, dum, dee, dum, dee


World spittin’ time, world cumbersome,

World TRY for light–world weigh a ton.

We crawlin’ for the fallin’ down,

A GREAT escape beneath the ground!


dum, dee, dum, dee, dum, dee, dum, dee


Hard times alive, hard got me by

The NECK that keeps my head on tight.

Me hopeless hope, me corner dope,

My STEED is hot to trot me rope.



Devon Hambrone in Springdale


Pennapoka County, TN – 11:58 AM

At precisely 8:32 AM, Wanda Peters noticed a drastic change in the tune of the inner humishpere and the tweetage of her caged canary, Canardo Singerthy III.

“They’re usually both at a C or something. I don’t know, I don’t read music,” Mrs. Peters told APC News.

She was busy gardening when, suddenly, her ears pricked and the aroma of her begonias let loose the absolute choicest of scents.

“I wasn’t sure what it was at first,” she said, “but then I started tingling and I knew right away that it had to be an actor.”

It was an actor. Early this morning, the asphalt of our very own Springdale Airport was touched by the rubber soles of Actor Devon Hambrone–Me, You, and Her (2005), Beer Goggles 3: Acid Based (2007), ‘Til Seth do us Part (2009), Giggle-Toots (2011). The airport soon gave way to orderly chaos and utter exasperation. Women fainted and grown men in business suits channeled the screaming of their crazed twelve year-old daughters and nieces. 


Lucas Perkins, a mile away, recounts his experience:

“Last night I dreamed that an angel played by an actor told me that an actor would be joining us here in Springdale. It’s so beautiful and refreshing to have someone that can pretend to be another person here in our presence. The force this morning was very powerful. When I woke up, before I pulled myself out of the wall, I saw the image of Devon Hambrone and I felt at peace, despite that parts of the television were inside my leg.”

Lucas is scheduled to be release from the hospital Wednesday.


Six year old Harper Washington also had a premonition:

“Yesterday I saw Devon Hambrone’s face in the cheese on my breakfast potatoes. And then I ate my breakfast potatoes and I haven’t eaten lunch or supper or breakfast again or lunch again, because I’m still full. I’m not even hungry.”


Attempts to speak with Devon have, to this point, been flouted by bodyguards and that ancient Egyptian force field set to protect the ARMKA (Alpha Race of Men Known as Actors). It is not known what he is doing in Springdale or how long he plans to stay.


We certainly hope it’s a while; reports of medical miracles have been flooding in.

“He cured my fibromyalgia,” says Luisa Fonseca, librarian at the Springdale Public Library (Leafy Branch).

And get this: Ronald Golly is walking.

“Hollywood be praised! Thank you, acting!” says Ronald, “It was a yawn from Devon–from Mr. Hambrone, and then his body guard yawned and the smell from that body guard’s breakfast toast jelly touched my nose. It was rasberry. Rasberry I can RUN to!”


The people of Springdale are certainly lucky. To have a little slice of Hollywood right here in our own backyard is something special–but take heed! Let us all exercise caution to ensure that Devon does not catch us napping. Wear your best clothes! Grab your little dogs! If you have recorded Carcrashian episodes, watch them! Take notes! May Hollywood guide us home and may we all reside there when we pass!

Go Spin Yourself

Megan crossed herself and stood up from her rolling chair, pushing it with the backs of her knees toward the silent middle of her begawked cubicle community. It was a conversation like a frustrated scream, climaxing in a brutish head-on, ending loudly and with teeth. Eyes were fixated. Gaping mouths followed until a hard left gave way to whispers and muffled laughter, exaggerated reenactments.

She was a simple girl–sweet and kind, clean and unoffensive. She had only had four boyfriends and they were all very serious. And she had only slept with three of them. She had only had a one-night stand on two occasions and that was in college. She never over-drank outside of turn–major holidays and the birthdays of her and her friends. Now she steamed toward the bathroom, puffered and warm with exasperation.

As she was pushing the door, Megan danced with an older lady that had been pulling and was trying to make a joke of it. She burst into tears. In the handicapped stall, she grabbed a toilet seat cover and placed it neatly on the floor in front of the commode. She placed another one on top of that. From her pocket she removed loose wet wipes that had begun to bleed damp sanitation through the fabric of her office pants. She wiped down the lid of the toilet and placed a cover on top. She placed another one on top of that. Then she knelt down and prayed, sobbed–echoing off the lid and the bathroom walls.

Megan was not so religious lately and hadn’t been for years, but more than that she was not an inside salesperson. Megan did not enjoy computers outside of casual internet and word processors, but she had set herself up for it. She had gone to department stores and supersales and spent not dollars but paychecks on hot pants and glimmer paint. She was peachy for the camera. She was the flytrap, the Megan of bated breath. Then she got her man–too earnest for good–and together they fell into establishing themselves. Conquering. Playing nice with other perception. Purchasing car, apartment, entertainment, friend’s birthdays, major holidays, minor ones, restaurant foods. Iphones. Automobile speakers. Tiny dogs and bottled water. Premeditated accoutrements.

But she did not have him anymore. All she had was this job in this office at this point in time when she was nauseated for her mother and the melting ice-cream of her summertime youth. She prayed for home, for bicycles and promises with sweet friends that smelled like strawberries and were sticky like them, but she only had this car and her dog and this cable television. And now she had this toilet and she was calling for God in a world that searched with its eyes closed, spinning itself and pretending it was the real thing. She could see it now, standing on rocks and playing teacher like a skin-kneed child, red finger in the air, shouting things that are stupid.

Final Frontiersmen

Strap me to the rocket, man,

I’m going to the moon

To speak with David Crockett and

That fellow Danny Boone.

I’ll wear a buckskin jacket

with the tail of some raccoon,

And we’ll discuss

Our former lives

For never come back soon.


Cast me out of socket, man!

I’ll not return to thee.

With Davy Dear and Danny here,

I’ll replant every seed.

We needn’t you, we’ll start anew,

And build the way we please–

But wait a jot,

On second thought,

We need a woman–







My Plank is Eye Plank

“Politicians! Smallish minions!

There’s rats in my potatoes!

I can’t believe they’re morally

the like of cesstornadoes!


Those filthy rats! Those ding-a-bats!

Disgraces of our nation!

Their tails and fleas and stinky cheese

Should face extermination!”



“My dear, my dear, you’re right, I fear

But come on in the housey.

Come nearer to the mirror–see,

We’re really pretty mousy.”

My Story (Parts I and II)

Read Part III

From my personal blog: http://jerrontables.tumblr.com/. I thought it might be good to explain myself a little more.

Part I

It’s not easy to do when you’re seven and your parents die in a Parisian car accident. The sign said arrêt, but they didn’t know what that meant. They didn’t speak French. Since then my life has been dedicated to translation, which is really convenient, because my life was already dedicated to translation anyway. They were on their way back to the states to make it in time for my early graduation from St. Mary’s Translation School for Boys. They didn’t make it. I was the only kid in a crowd of blue-robed men. I scanned the audience over and over. I walked the stage, accepting my forty diplomas (all in different languages) and found my teacher, Monsigneur Godot, waiting for me with the news.

I spent the night at the school, rocking back and forth and retranslating the Odyssey.

Part II

I rocked. I rocked and I rocked—lines of the Odyssey running through me. Man, I was sharp. Never had I worked with such speed, eloquence of style. The text took up space and I was Odysseus, venturing out on the lonely journey of my own life, the words my comrades. My mom. My dad. They were gone forever.

There was the overall pain of this realization. Loved ones lost. There was the first and bitter sting–pieces of myself that had never before spoken, wails of begging like captive birds.

Then there were the tiny, searing strings that hung from the blanket of my new life:

  • I would never, ever again have someone to make me lunch, someone that would not only do it because they had to and it was the right thing, but because I was their own.
  • I would never again, on this earth, feel that level of love. Where do you find it? Where does it live? It starts at the moment of conception as a belted elation on the highest mountain top and travels on the lightest of wings, ever upwards as each second conceives itself and melts away. They were probably with that love now, high above the rain, the noise, the thoughts of men.
  • Who could I share things with? Where were my confidants? It was me trying to channel my mom and dad, wondering, always, if I was right, trying to guide my seven year-old memory of them.
  • No more would anyone give teeth and nails in battle for me. I might find someone to die on my behalf, but I would never find anyone with the superhuman fire of fight for a beloved one—that capacity for selflessness and suffering. I would never find anyone to endure the torture, to morph with the light of passion from God and trump everything with the awesome cudgel of brass-knuckled parentry—darting and tearing like a blunt weapon with teeth.

These feelings were bigger than me. My colleagues were bigger than me. The language professors took me in, raised me as their own. I honed my skills. They made for me the sandwich of their learnings, spiced it with scholastic contempt for the world. I got it. I was watering before they planted the seed—ripples in the small ocean of my burgeoning life. There wasn’t much they could teach me, but I gathered some from each and mulled them in my mind. I pressed on. It was the first thing I could never translate, and so I let it be what it was.


Read Part III

Everyone is on Fire

“What’s her name again? Mandy?”

“Victoria,” Jeff said.

They were at the local dance and feel, about a third of the night under. Marty and Dan sat across from Jeff. The music was loud. Three feet away from each other, they had to shout across the table.

“Does she huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-uffff-huh-ufff?” Marty bit his lip. Jeff looked at him, looked at Dan, looked at Marty.

“Aww come on,” Dan said, “You know she holla-holla-holla-holla-holla-holla-holla-holla!

Jeff looked across to the rub floor. People were rubbing. Girls barely holding in–slim ones and slim-to-nones; clothes from the same shop mall. Guys in whatever the girls want them to wear. Whatever button-down fetched their last girlfriend’s latest compliment. They were clean and trim, fresh and party-pink. They were rarely called men and women anymore. Guys and girls. Boys and ladies. It was sexier. It was forever youth in a world more and more deeply connected to itself.

Dan’s eyes were rolled back into his head and he was braying like a horse. Marty was still huffing and had begun foaming at the mouth. There was gyration under the table. Heat. Hob-knocking and sloshed drinks.

Two girls came over in mechanic jumpsuits, greased up. They highfived and air-pumped their hips. They grunted. Jeff looked into his beer–a gnat had died in it. You could see where the weight of each leg impressed upon the surface. The girls started positioning themselves sexually. Jeff looked at his friends–hoo-hawed for hup-hup. They were lewd-noising and nip-knocking. Their beers were table dancing half-full.

Jeff stepped outside for some air and everything was on fire–burn-orange and screaming red.

Adam was a Good Idea

The First Man

God’s eye
Paints me.
Breathes and
Lives me,
Pokes and
Points Forth.
All in working order.

He is I AM.
I am

Millennia upon millennia, the curse of my curses branches from the seed of knowledge. My pain. My distance from God. Suffered from the very first. Horrid, the weakness of Eve.

And the weakness of Scooter is the weakness of me.

For what this rabid dance about race? My skin is different from your skin. Where is a difference that means something, that changes the way we can interact, that threatens you or me? Where is the seed that sprouts this malice? For whose sake if not Hate’s? The Devil is in us–but so is God. We are all born of the line of Scooter.

Dearest Eve,

I am really not happy with what’s happened. For one, you could have been bitten. I worry about you all day and–yep!–come to find out you’re playing with snakes. You may not know about them yet, but I named the things and I’ve seen them in action. I am not happy about your bold interactions with the unknown. Second, our entire line is forever doomed to suffer trenchant physical and mental pain. I’m not very happy about that, either. Well, it’s only a hundred years for us, or however long we live. What is life? What is death? I suppose we’ll find out in good time. This is all so weird!

Fruitfully yours,


Your Other Left


–like a glass jar slamming into concrete. Gregory scrambles. Button tapping. Ruffling sheets. Wholly Muff, she’s home.

803 Maple. A large house with a grey roof. Trim lawns. Eye-pleaser green Go ‘head, take your shoes off. Grass your feet. Perfect for puppy defecation, go ‘head. Driveway for thin tires, soupin’ up the daylight–itchy ouchie itchy ouchie! Mother discipline inside. Dad. Nike flip-flops. Always with the golf club. Tee me. Happy-happy–soupin’ up the daylight.

“Did you see the movie film…”

“–oh yes, oh yes. Quite right.”

Skies hot and not much leafy to block the sun tan–real tan, florescence, walking dogs with short shorts on, hair down, open for business, open for hunks daily, 24/7/365, mighty mighty breast bones. Blue sky seamless. Full of lawn mower sounds. Birds: tops of heads: haireds–the human essence dying at dead ends; balds-the outer edge of consciousness shim-shinning like dyed and waxed supermarket apples.

“How you do?”

“Oh yes, I do.”

“Him shim through.”

“Oh me shim, too.”

Chemical enhancement. Parking lot children. Mothers and hustle-ups. Eating as we live. Scarfing New Jersey imagination. Human innovation. Popcorn chemically enhanced to taste like your front lawn–honey, let’s get rid of that dog. Aisles and aisles of smilers. Hooray for granola, cereal compacted into cereal bars (factory floor sweepings–janitorial commission), egg whites, sunshine potatoes, caramel puffs, candy strings. Hooray! Hip-hip for happy! Taste good! Cartwheel for food! Food industry good! Makes sex. Makes lots of sex for lots of monies for more sex for more monies! Fist pump high-five! Pay for smile and then pay for food!

And cool when you walk down the street to look cool for street and man-men and open women to swaddle in the bed clothes, to seep something, to smock-a-coodle-coo when the youth peaks.

For wrappers. For hooray!

“Chunk bars for my chook-chooks”


Elation that ends in the thin layer of air just above the ballmart–survives in it’s own world and dies outside the person perspective–the genius, the knowledges of it all, knowing without knowing, without knowing-within-knowing, everything-in-one-bottle. Solution! Fifty franks! Just above the toilets of the town houses. Just above the fat tuesdays of the marketing flashbulbs–smile for the criers. Just above the windsteam of the jumbo jetskis.

“Janie, I can’t see you anymore.”

“But I killed my husband.”

Then outside the nonsense: noise–pierced yahoos and braberry purses. High-fives for sex that comes in cartons. High-fives for the great edges of knowledges. The spittled cusp of everything. Figured out. The know-it-all for everyone. Congratulations. Conflagrations. Conflatulations. Great good. The greater, greatest good. The great, gleaming globe. All for us and us for all. Steaming, self-enclosed muskateers. Free and unfree. Free and bounded at the ever-loving ankles. Free to act within allotment. Without a lotment. Scruffed. Screwed.


The stars. Watching. The airless space. Expanding. Ever outward. And we are tighter. And we are dimming–every other rock that falls through space.


And the creator distance is greater because of decision we have mader.


Because the manure stench of our lawns rises higher than our consciousness. Closed and hoping. Damned and damning.

Gregory went to his bedroom and finished.


The Yodelers

About the singing mountain tops,
The yodelers there lay.
They sing aloud all through the night,
Then all a-through the day,
And when the rain comes falling down
They sing out anyway–
Loud and proud and through the clouds,
These are the words they say:

We sing ’cause we need not much of things
And we cry when we stinkin’ do!

The yodelers are mountain men
and wear not any clothes.
If they have something to hold
They put it in their nose.
But things to hold are not their bag
and so the story goes:
If something comes they toss it down
to those that live below!

They love their stuff and we hate this crap
So we don’t mind if we do!

Those below sure love it fine; please
Take old Mr. Hodges.
He loved to buy things at the store
To stuff in his garages.
He worked his life to work some more and
Pile hodges-podges,
But he forgot, it’s all for naught–
He died of natural causes!

They pack a lunch that’s fit for a king,
But they won’t need any food!

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