Jew World Order

Waiting in the cart-line at a grocery store in Long Beach early one Sunday afternoon with my wife a day before my 29th birthday I was scanning all the items we’d nabbed in our cart; then I smirked and huffed thinking of a conversation I’d been having with Kara a few minutes before.

“Oh my God,” she said, embarrassingly looking around. “What is it?”

I smirked gripping the main bar of the cart. Then I faced her (in my usual jeans and brown t-shirt) and said, “It’s what that lady told me in the jelly aisle (recognizing me from Acres of Books).”

Wearing jeans as well and a purple v-neck my wife smiled. “Someone actually recognized you from your writing? You should be grateful.”

I chuckled and sighed. “Yeah: you’d think I should; but here’s the thing. She completely took me wrong (from what I was saying in the poem) assuming I’m some pessimistic asshole who can only talk about negative subjects— how civilization is on its last legs; and all that doom and gloom crap.”

She raised her eyebrows and grinned. “Well, you—”

I interrupted her: “Oh, c’mon—I’m not always negative.  If you don’t get anything else from my work other than bitter spikes you’re no different than that jelly-aisle-bitch.”

She smirked choosing not to comment.

I was glowering with a grin. “I’m not saying ‘give-up’. I’m saying: ‘L I V E! By all means: live and be alive for a change!’

Kara smiled.

I snickered and followed-up with: “We screwed-up long ago the moment we shook hands with the devil.”

She huffed and grinned with a shrug. “Here we go.”

“The metaphorical devil, I mean.” I sniggered. “Sorry to say: but if we don’t change how we go about things, and keep on this blind-folded path, walking the tight rope over this flaming abyss toward the mouth of the Banker Cartel Monarchy Elite then our time here (the way we’ve lived as free human beings in America) is limited.”

She didn’t comment. ”It’s pretty limited now. Isn’t that what you were saying?”

I nodded. “Yeah: the free market is disappearing daily; but at least there’s still semblances of it left.”

She nodded.

Relieved she was listening I said: “if we continue being led as Zombie Ducklings by these Lord Vader Assholes (wearing suits), then perhaps it’s not such a bad thing we die-off as a species.”

Kara chuckled and scowled: “Okay; but you didn’t say that. Besides, what does that even mean?””

I smirked. “Look: human beings are meant to have free will—take that away; and we might as well be insects in an Ant Farm (built by Ronald McDonald’s deformed son).”

Kara sniggered.

With a sneering grin I said: “Hey—let’s face it. Even ocean molecules disappear into the sky on a daily basis; planets come and go; stars explode and spiral into black holes; nothing remains the same. Why are we any different? Realize this; and you’re as old as the wind. But if you think progress is going strong and steady in this illusionary, capitalist amusement park; and buildings should keep going-up despite a camouflage elite (killing-off people using a slow kind of genocide hidden by the mainstream media) then—”

Kara coughed glowering with a grin.

I pursed my lips: “That’s right—you heard me: despite a shadow elite killing-off people in ways that make would make Jesus vomit in disgust—“

Beginning to put grocery items on the black, moving counter (after nodding and saying ‘hello’ to the female cashier) Kara asked me: “What ways? Give me examples.”

I cringed and smirked. Then (with a huff) I said: “mercury poisoning in amalgam fillings, poisonous flu vaccines, plastic water bottles known to affect semen and ovaries and overall reproduction levels. Do the research on your own, Kara. Hell: I’m not gonna’ do it for you; and if you don’t want to do the research then you’re just being down right ignorant.”

The customer in front of us finally walked off with her cart of food toward the exit.

Kara grinned trying to hide her flustered cheeks; she then began placing grocery items (from our cart) onto the moving counter, as I helped. Shen said, “Wait a minute, Marcus: if these top, elite people (you keep referring to) want to bring down the population (using all these ways you’ve mentioned), then wouldn’t that affect the amount of money they make on us every day?”

I smiled. “Good question; but you have to understand the mind-set of these people. They think of themselves as Gods. They even have their own mythology (hidden in Scientology if you look closely enough at that wacky religion). They actually believe they’re from another world; and don’t see the Mainstream Population as people. They see us as cattle; and they figure they’re going to have to take a loss in profit now that the population of their cattle is getting out of control; and keep in mind: that’s an over-population pole according to them. Who are they to say the earth has too many people living on it? And how can we trust their population tables when we know their agenda in the end anyway?”

Kara didn’t respond (placing a bulk of groceries onto the moving-counter), as I pushed the empty cart (past the cashier).

The Anglo, teenage bagger began placing the paper bags of groceries (the cashier had been filling) into our shopping cart, which was now positioned at the end of the cashier counter.

“Besides,” I said, “they make free money out of the Federal Reserve Bank anyway. So (having created the biggest laundering scam ever) in the end they don’t really worry too much about it all when it comes down to it; but hey: maybe that’s their weakness.”

Kara remained quiet, as I stepped up to the cashier.

The cashier was wearing a grey collar-shirt and a dark-green apron (having a white nametag stating in black letters): ‘Rebecca.’ “ Hi,” she said (her brown hair in a ponytail), unnaturally smiling.

I nodded and grinned. Then I shrugged continuing to help Kara with the last bit of groceries. “Look—you have to remember: these people at the top have a family tree ancestry (stemming back to Southern States); and they believed and relied on the Slave Trade before the Civil War; and even back to the Monarchy Days of England.”

Kara watched the cashier punch-in our groceries, as the white dude kept bagging our items (using paper).

Concerned others could hear my conspiratorial rant I lowered my voice and said: “They don’t want the earth to be a cesspool of toxic waste for their Royal Offspring; no, of course not. What they want is modern castles around the world (resembling aerodynamic glass bubbles and see-through towers: even underground cities in case of total collapse; and acres and acres of landscape (surrounding their estates like in the Dark Ages where everyone other than themselves live as peasants while the Chosen—as they believe are them—will live like kings. This time, however, like the past they envision a future with servants; but these servants will have robotic brains or limbs or various mechanical organs mixed with living, organic parts.”

Kara kept watching the cashier (punch-in our grocery items).

The cashier was trying to focus on the computer buttons (unable not to catch some of the things I was saying). She kept smirking and furrowing her brow.

Seeing the cashier adding-up the last of our items Kara faced me and raised her eyebrows.

I winced and brought-out my wallet; then handed the female cashier a credit card.

As I watched the cashier process the card I smirked and said: “the trick, of course, by doing this (using Gradualism as a means for the population to accept such tyrannical maneuvers) is to eventually eradicate Free Will; to turn the population into robots without us realizing what’s being done.”

Kara looked at me as if I was crazy.

I smiled grabbing my card back from the cashier.

Glowering Kara muttered: “People without a soul in other words.”

I pursed my lips and put my card back into my wallet. Then I placed my leather wallet into my back pocket, said ‘thanks’ to Rebecca, gripped
the handle of the cart and faced the glass doors of the exit.

After stepping under the automatic-door-threshold (pushing the cart) I walked toward my red, Isuzu Trooper, which was parked in the lot; Kara next to me.

About midway to the car (still pushing the cart) I said to Kara: “This whole belief system I’ve been talking about is called Trans-Humanism
by the way—the very clever term the elites use (referring to a movement leading mankind into the cyborg stage).”

She didn’t comment. Then she said: “It sounds like The Terminator movie.”

I grinned. “Hey—that movie may be a little outdated; and a bit corny; but I think the director knew what he was trying to say.”

She cleared her throat.

Scowling I uttered: “Kara—if you think mankind could never be a fossil from the past then you’re just being down-right ignorant. You’re not looking at the Big Picture. That’s why I think it’s so important people open their Third Eyes (people like that lady in the Jelly Aisle) and see what’s going-on here. Not only will they awaken to the dangerous darkness (surrounding mankind at the moment); but they’ll see a whole universe of worlds, which exists on a day to day basis: snails; and worms; and beetles; and ants—wolves, bears, scorpions, eagles and the pattern- feathers they wear; oceans; and fish and liquid-y plants; trees; waterfalls; crystals in ice—fleas even; and the microscopic worms inside their blood. Go smaller than that; and you’ll find the molecules; and cells; and electrons (zipping around those minuscule balls like rings of stars around a sun).”

Having tripped with me before on psychedelic mushrooms Kara was grinning, as I said: “Where does it end? And where does it begin?
Perspective is how large the heart can see.”

Sniggering Kara blushed a little. Then she stepped-up to the back door of the Trooper and unlocked it.

As if on cue I opened the back doors. I wanted to express something, but didn’t know what to say. Then I suddenly eyeballed an orange (sitting atop one of the bags in the cart), which reminded me of a night I was tripping on psychedelic mushrooms in a Mammoth cabin with a buddy years back.

Sitting on the grey rug of that cabin (in the living room holding an orange in my hand) I’d thought: there are so many canyons and valleys
in the skin of an orange.

Then I was back in the present—back to standing next to Kara in the grocery store lot, as I smiled and suddenly said: “So when I say ‘so what’
to the future of our race I’m not giving a Get out of Jail Card to the Cartel Pigs (currently running this man-made UFO known to some as Big Brother Incorporated)—a Prison Planet of sorts, as Alex Jones has coined on his Public Access Show.”

Kara grinned. “Who?”

I chuckled realizing Jones was practically unknown these days (the nineties). Then I faced Kara (under the twilight sky) and said: “What I’m expressing in my poetry isn’t just Negative Hog-shit—that’s what I mean, especially if you’re open to it—unlike that woman in the store.”

Kara was grinning.

I was relieved I didn’t have to buy these groceries with some tyrannical microchip (implanted in my hand)—although I’d heard this new way to purchase items was coming down the pipeline.

When I was pulling out of the parking lot—Kara in the passenger seat—I turned-up the stereo, which was playing a Disco Biscuits CD I’d bought the other day called Uncivilized Area.

Having been to a few of their concerts I liked the band, especially when they didn’t sing.

It was the song: Aceetobee (8 minutes in).