Apocalyptic Jujubees and Margarine Heresies

I’m a big fan of conspiracy theories. I think some conspiracies are just truths waiting for the right country to form.  At the very least it’s entertaining to know every time I watch Robot Chicken YouTube that the data is being fed to the Central SuperComputer deep underground where Dick Cheney recharges and run by Sasquatches who have betrayed their peoples for a few extra seats on the 2012 mothership so they can have a chance to hear John Cusack quote lines from Say Anything.  I believe in underbellies and touching a long ignored truth is like grazing a testicle; it jars like hell and sends everything else it’s connected to into a pang of spasm and confusion; trust me ladies; so I have my sites I like to check for my Underbelly News; one of them is Rense.com and today they had a video series on sounds of the apocalypse;  people all over the world recently recording these foreign sounding deep angelic horn blasts that seem to come from nowhere permeate everywhere;  angels at band practice;  I listened to a few and there was a deep urgent sense of Earth making a statement that the world’s about to toss off a shackle or two.  I don’t consider them apocalyptic;   brimming little invisible truth vibrations that are starting to yawn and push us into the future or drag us there;  I”m a new agey type and also an old schooler type;  I haven’t personally heard these fifth dimensional mach waves; I just get a sense that something wonderful, sensual and healing may be coming for all peoples, even Dick Cheney.

I always considered February the hardest month of the year in my life.  In 8th grade I recall making that  statement to myself;  things have happened in that month that defy Hallmark. this is year is personal retreat and training.  before spring or whatever seasons are becoming these days: really hot blast-shit summer, two weeks of fall, winter in Virginia,  spring in San Diego, really hot blast-shit summer. Sponsored by Exxon and the Mayans.

Jesus: ‘Judas, from the sacred to the inane, holiness reigns; and to have so much love to give and merely my inadequate hands to scoop it out to the world hurts worst of all;  that’s why I need her; her hands are like the sun hollowed out and filled with the tenderness of the moon;  she’s a gentle fever, wine of the stars and she can take what’s inside me and through her kiss scoop out what’s  inside and blow it through the air like seeds; she is the magic that dispels the illusion and her lips and her touch and her breath the waves that break back within her hips are colliding masts that somehow guide use safely back to someplace familiar and divine; she is the sex that catapults the memories of stars to shine for her glory. I love her Judas, like a nightlight made of olives and burning heresies.’
–Out of Hell Comes Christ


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