tincantheory

ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Month: October, 2012

My Story: Nightmare

A continuation of My Story (Parts I and II) — An elaboration of My Story: Part III

 

The grey would greet me—oh hello—different shades of different magnitudes and densities, fog sprays–

hainted misgivings in the city of light.

Crumbled intersections abounded–great, red octagons looming, bursting big and teasing down to hulk back up again. Bulging and mobile. Spouting language. Gushing out the red mouth.

 

Arrêtez, vous stupide

Wer nicht zu stoppen?

это большой, красный восьмиугольник.

 

Yo soy el rey de parada y tú eres mi esclavo desobediente!

 

Shouts came from all around me. There were two headed stop signs, evil eyes. Some with arms, sprouting and throwing other stop signs, winged and screaming.

Inside and outside of each other–lopen voor het!–etching new ones of old ones, self-multiplied, hot and asexual orgasms of stop-carred municipality, pulse-popping monstrosities, ugly and wanting, grasping and gnashing, varying in pulsating size like circus mirrors, clowns dancing off their hotch spot. Laughing. Birds. Caw to prey for scooping, swoop the skies awarbling, spinning vultures. Avian salivation for the flesh of the dead, tongue bled–hell’s ruffled worm feathers lurching at the living for their rotted selves partake.

And then–

Boots stamping on the cobbled pavements of France.

Alouette, gentille Alouette
Alouette je te plumerai

Clomping. Soldiers about the buildingwork. Huffing. Marching the perimeter. Take a peek. Empty potato sacks. Big boots a Frenchie. And on the sky—

Bonaparte the winged Pegasus to fly–

–“ On est toujours forcé de donner quelque chose au hazard!”

 

A potato sack of full. The emperor spud-fire. Raining. Breaking windows. Quaking the pavement.

Stoppe ut som en dum dum! Stop like a dumb dumb!

Je te plumerai le nez
Je te plumerai le nez

 

 

 

All is dark now.

Mother’s womb.

Itching and tight.

Burlap tomb. Rough and quiet. The yelling, the screaming stopped–calling of the birds, Napoleon’s winged horse hushed. Muffled words of the French too quiet to be understood or cared about.

Thumb suckling.

Tossing to the ground. Six feet stomach wrench and thud—roll on earthen wonder. Stop. Sharp sputter. Spilling of the soil. More and more. Spading of dirt, metal to small rocks, shuffling of feet.

Home.

 

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More on Me, Jerron Tables (My Story: Part III)

A continuation of My Story: Parts I and II.

After the death of my parents left me with nowhere to go. Monsignor Godot offered a hand. A shoulder. The chance to carry on. To conquer somberly. I would later blow that chance, but that’s another story.

The outlook was grim. Monsignor Godot became a father to me. He could never replace my dad, but his call to heredity was close enough. His thoughts and ideas were mine. We both gave an unwavering focus to translation, simple in everything outside this most endeared and entangled complication. It seemed that despite the circumstances, I had landed on my feet, in the most suitable of places, the one other spot in the world for me. I was comfortable, for the most part.

His wife was wifely and kind, their home homely and cheerfully unsevere, so unlike Godot himself when bent over a piece of foreign text; it must have taken very strong blood vessels to hold the man as he was “marching for Aletheia”. Their house was small and held nothing unneeded outside a mild decorum. The food was hearty, quite adequate and quite bone-bearing. There were perpetual mashed potatoes and squash, constant beef and ham. My parents did not eat much meat and for the first time I had iron in me. Whatever that meant.

After a while, I had developed a sort of confidence, especially in class. At the head of it, I could not rule on intellect alone and so I employed a new daring, a brass and bold Napoleonistic grandeur. I also employed Dennis the Janitor, who understood my plight. When some new translation smug-shot enrolled I would see his eyes, the questioning, the waiting for a punchline. Who was this kid and how bad was he going to get it when the teacher walked in? I was the clown about to give a good one. He had no idea. I was fierce. I would lay into him, make him bleed the conjugated verbiage of languages like knifes, article explosions on the perimeter, heat seeking conjunctions to suffer you your last milk-for-nothing dime and spit under your covers.

They would cry or leave the room. A few would smile like I was clever. I was, and they would spend the rest of class by the ankles, forced to smile so that it looked like a frown, beet red and sorry (this is where Dennis came in). “Sorry for nothing,” I would tell them. It was dictator defense, though my heart was of a different caliber. It was all a front, but I would rain on them like flesh-hating water, encase them like a salt-spitting fog of foreign devil-tongue. The poor students. I made them wet themselves in Italian. Defecate in Chinese. To humiliate. To weep. To shrivel. To cry out in terror. To want to die. These were the first verbs they learned.

I was eight years old, but I was not to be treated like I was even three times that. The accident didn’t help. There was that chip on my shoulder, razor sharp and a thousand pounds, taunting everything that moved.

But I was respected. I was engaging. The children and older boys and then the men would stare, follow my moves, oogle at the rapping of my ruler on the chalkboard. My students would consistently score higher on standardized and conversational tests. I was brought more lunches than the principle. Apples. Bananas. They would request time after class, these eager minds of worded wonder. There was a yearning for truth, a duty for exactitude. It was electric. There would be arguments over prepositions, bludgeoned stomachs and bleeding, and then everyone would come together like family, loving, sharing in the triumph of a particularly stubborn paragraph, dissecting foreign sentences by the lamplight.

I had found my footing and the Godots had saved me. It was a pleasure living with them. Monsigneur Godot had taken a liking to me from the start and finished to raise me with no second thought. He said I reminded him of himself, only I had the talent—“and it is truly reminiscent of God,” he said, “who knows all of the language, Jerron”. It was a wonder to hear, even outside the compliment. He said “language” with such a passion, such a tense wonder.

As lucky as I been since the accident, it was not always so easy. I could not erase the great absence. After my parent’s death I would have nightmares every night, fierce callings of Frenchmen, “Arrêt!”—they would carry me off in a bag and drop me somewhere in the ground. When the dirt began to rain I awaked.

coup de destin

For to My Caroline

Caroline is a bum diddly. A scarlett runner.

She knocks my bleedin’ socks off.

I don’t know how to describes the type of beauty that comes from that nature of person from the level of that of my

Caroline.

So I…

Do it in spittle
Quite spits in the middle
nonsensical crazed
compliments

(dee dee dee)

Her fiddle is tittle
And feedeth the riddle
Of flesh and bone
Spaces I rent

(all for me)

She is miles and miles. She covers the skies like balm oil, my Caroline, matron of the lily water, keeper of worlds that I’ve found. She makes me–

Hothered and bothered–
Throw fits in the water
And laugh when there’s no
Fun around

(dee dee dee)

I wind as I wing
In a slumberly dream
And sing like there’s no
Coming down

(all for me)

She stickers out among the grout like piggledy-wiggledy woo. She numbers the stars with personal greetings and asking them how like she knew.

Because she…

Splaces and splits me
And never forquits me
The grandest of places
I went

(dee dee dee)

I circled the world
And for no other girl
I’d pease off my hot
Circumvent

(all for me)

She’s beauty and beauty and beauty on duty and swallows me whole from above. She’s song in my saddle and offers me paddles for travels her globis of love.

She…

Breathes in the breezes
Her bouquet of teases
Quite pleases the beeses
Of May

(dee dee dee)

For when I go out
Sing my pourus to shout
That she’s freightened
My muffet to stay

(all for me)

The Bees Fly Southern Thither

We sing our powdered pollen
in the field of weeping weeds.

These petals fail to keep
their mirth in realistic seed.

Our colors toss and wither.
Dark, the wind becomes to gust.

And with harrowed patience
Biodegredation sweeps for dust.

Groping for Time in a Dusty Mirror

“Forget about it,” he said.

So she did. For twenty years. Twenty dimmed down, dead-done years.

“Wow,” she said.

When he left it wasn’t as if the lightning had struck. It wasn’t as if the world had up-stood–stun shaken. It wasn’t the paradised epiphany glowing up the brain canals to pierce the soul for seeping.

It was just the second he was here and the second he was gone. The invisible birth of a moment between two perceivable points in time (now…now–now now!). No one ever sees a life change. Instances, whether fated or spurious, are not conditioned or nourished by us to become. They exist and they are as if they always were:  Poof–here is a flu germ land; here is a lady’s will.

And William, taker of his own advice, forgot it too. One was spite and the other was spite. One was lady’s shoes and the grinning possibility of a jock jim’s leathered and horny touch.

Forget about it.

The other was a night with dudes, nights where cigarette smoke calls you baby if no one else will, the screw-it gone wilds, the writing on and off the walls that say things cute and catchy, provocative–winningly inspirational penises and breasts–days of learning to be a French harpist with a hairline bend for the chronic insane.

Jock Jim and French Harp are two separate paths along the same disheartened vein. They exist in preconception and flower away from the other, never touching and ever out of shouting distance. They both found each other when the one was exactly where the other is. Professional and making it–brash and flashed, burdened and gathered. Because time thin ran out–the light switch turned down, yellowed.

They stared at each other in a subway station and didn’t know what to do.

Buford and Charlie and the Rapture: The Musical

(Adult orphans singing–Mr. Buford among.)

For not for where

For never care–

For store us all in tuperware–

Preserved for all the dwellers in the

deep refridge of hell.

 

For love for hate

For boredom’s sake–

For sleeping with our sex awake–

Reserved for explications with the

midnight caramel.

 

(spotlight on Mr. Buford and dog, Charlie–forlorn soliloquy in song)

And then

For shame

For barely knew the name

For showing to the party late

And snoozing when we came.

 

(Now talking–sad acceptance)

Well…

I guess that’s about it, old boy

Guess we kinda…missed the boat.

Heh…that’s a cliche

We’re all sorta cliches by now.

Well, there she goes.

Wind in her sails.

Wave, Charlie.

Goodbye!

Goodbye!

 

(Buford return to singing)

Verbose verghost

Verdemonhost–

Forever vied to hold the most–

But lo the boat is sailed and now we

have no light to veil.

 

(Quiet chanting)

Boat sail away, boat sail away, boat sail…

Boat sail away, boat sail away, boat sail…

 

(Buford Sighs)

 

(Pause, burst of light and confetti. All dance energetic–enter line girls in full kick and costume)

Boat sail away! Boat sail away! Boat sail!

Boat sail away! Boat sail away! Boat sail!

 

Personify the world

He’s kind of a jerk

But what if he’s a girl?

She’s corners to lurk

Prancin’ the expanses for a dollar                                                                  

(That’s it?)

Gnawing the advances of our fathers                                                      

(To spit)

Whorin’ neosporin and formin’ back into clayyyyy

our

BOAT SAIL AWAY! BOAT SAIL AWAY! BOAT SELL! BOAT SAIL AWAY! BOAT SELL AWAY! BOAT SMELL! BOAT SELL AWAY! BOAT SELL AWAY! SELL IT AWAYYYY!

Yeah!

(Hold last pose and all loosen up at once and kind of start laughing about random songs and being dead and stuff)

FADE OUT

Busy Work

Benny send me dollar bills,
I’ve sharpened all my holla skills;
I’ve whittled down my life away
To one specific wrought.

A penny saved, but cabbage kills,
And living benefish the will
Of fortune when transform the youth
To something I am not:

A roller ever up the hill,
This boulder big and biggered still–
We push this ball for reasons that
We all full now forgot.

Percy’s Lament

It was never really fully understood. Do it or don’t. Mutter the won’t. It wasn’t like the good ol’ days. It never would be. They used to strike while the iron was hot. Now they cool it off themselves and sit on it. Sit around the small talk and congratulate one another on good promises and futures well fanned. Save the baby. Force feed the whales. Jam slam crammit–just suckle the hams.

Kittens without spines. Tiny furred snakes. Limbs. Cutting through the grass. Chasing yarnballs on yarnbellies. Pretending to bite your hand. Limp in the extremeties.

It still isn’t understood. Less so than then. Every day the crashmen come. Hob and knob when the mind wears off. Injections of convenience. Disease. Space ages to wage worge. To burn from the inside. Tiny individual spots. Firestarters. Fire feeders. Pigeon eadders.

A gulfed a flamed. A gulfed a flamed.

Percy never had none. Committed. Two fly boys and a pastry stamp. No good for the worse. You think you got problems. Problems got a long way–forget it. You probably don’t even know what a thunder bug is.

 

Spine wrenching happiness installed the wrong way. A baker’s few.

 

Like you never thought. Like you never thought.

 

The acrid smell of sulphers. The smokes. Pwfff. One by one by one. Nightlights and nursery flares. Call to the wild. Call to the somesones for do something.

I cannot.

 

My hair is on fire.

Moo

The pasture is sweet.

Our drops are rank.

We giggle and greet

The swank the swank.

We come from our mothers

To grind on each others

And growing of wheat

Forsake forsake.

 

The outlook is bleak.

The slank is blank.

We offer the teat

To crank to crank.

We run from the farmer,

That vegetable charmer,

And taketh our meat

To bank to bank.

 

Irregular

Dictionary.com says it is an adjective; the definition numbered to three. It can mean without symmetry, shape, formal arrangement; not characterized by any fixed principle, method, continuity, rate; not conforming to established rules, customs, etiquette, morality…etc.

It sounds interesting.

We, however, understand the connotations, how the word breathes inside of its definition.

Bowels, heartbeat, speech patterns, breathing.

Skin cells.

Sam Drove. Janie looked out the passenger side window after her surgery. She had been biopsied and Melanoma was spoken to her by a nurse, a doctor’s something, over the phone. They were confident that it hadn’t spread. Devastation. Relief. Burning hot, nurturing warm–but it had touched her like ice. There were two spots and a third was suspect. The surgeries were to be done one at a time over the period of a month.

Somewhere, invisible, hidden inside of vibrations, there is a room with a chair here and a chair there and everything  painted a single changing color—blue, black, caked like there are no walls, like it expands in claustrophobia, ever inward. Windowless. Carpetless.

In the chairs there are two people and one is Janie and one is Sam. There are no expressions or movement, though the chairs are mobile of their own accord–slowly to soothe. Of a sudden, Jamie moves backward in the chair and lays her chin on her arms over the top rung of the back. And Sam’s head goes down. And they sit. Moving in patterns too complex for perception. The entire expanse theirs for the taking. This room.

The highway relented, headlights groping. Sam would glance over at her and try to show his concern—fathom, translate, express. Impossible. He would try to push his element out and absorb the feeling of hers, look like she looked, feel like she felt, understand the mindset behind the squeeze of her sinews and vocal tones. She leaned her head against the seat and gazed out at the passing foliage, brief and indistinguishable, outlines of things behind them.

Irregular is hurting. Sam longed to unsheathe it, to strip the word of it’s housing–clashing of great metal, twisting bolts and shredding joints—destroying connotation. She was irregular from the beginning and there was never any hint of conformation. She did not twirl with the norm. She was radiant, fitting nowhere amongst the text, leaping off the page in full color, eyes ablaze, full like a beautiful storm that crashes you aside, feeds you with power from its core. Their love was shapeless in the way that water would spill the earth if would nothing restrain it, turn to mist and rise should something dismiss it. Their future had somewhere to be and their path was against the wake of everything.

In the room, Sam lifts up from his chair and beats the hell out of his chest.

And they drove—Janie still staring, knowing exactly the weight, and Sam guiding them off, striving, praying to understand

 

and not

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