The hunter at the end of day

The hunter at the end of day

by Jon Rappoport

August 30, 2016

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)


First, I give you two poems about sudden effects on the consensus called the space-time Continuum…the poems are meant to reflect the fact that the Continuum itself is exceedingly fanciful.

The so-called laws that govern it are provisional at best.  Even experiments in the sterile conditions of laboratories reveal that humans can exceed statistical probability, when attempting telepathy and telekinesis.

But this is merely a pale clue that dynamic consciousness operates beyond physical cause and effect.

The third poem, NSA Man, indicates the lockdown strategies taken to enforce the Continuum, to tighten it, to embroil the population in insane events designed to limit perception, to narrow it down to “crimes and possible crimes and pre-crime surveillance and invented crimes…”

An extraordinary amount of human activity is calculated to create a society in which distractions are the Main Event, and therefore our hidden potential is buried, ignored, and forgotten.


The Hunter at the End of Day

slick string tie and dead rabbits over his shoulder

rifle by his side

diamond chips glittering in his fat pinky ring

he took

his time getting to the moon

a mile from his cottage


the layout of his body and mind

was a temporary cartoon in the dark afternoon


the sun and sky and forest were on loan from a local production company

a renegade crew lurking to catch footage of the assassination of the president


the colony was unstable

construction workers were en route to repair the fractures in space

the president had vowed to restore order

but had failed


and now the mining consortium had spotters and shooters in the gloom ready to go


as the hunter took a long step from the stage on to the moon itself he heard the dry whisper of limos moving across the white powder


he saw the first few black shapes rolling toward him

and then the open car with limp flags

and the president sitting in the back:

a triangular block of non-reflective gray

whose brain was percolating a hundred thousand miles away floating in space


BUT the rabbit hunter held up his hand and the caravan ground to a halt


there was no force to stop him


in the woods, under brush, the spotters and shooters fell into a paralytic state



it was the moment for permitting the illusion to disintegrate on its own




down on earth the press were gibbering about meteors and comets and asteroids, presenting their cover stories

but this rip


would extend down in space all the way


all twenty billion minds on earth would rattle like dice


and universe2 would emerge titanic


the hunter grinned

and hummed a tune

he felt light on his feet

and green as berries of constellations across the darkness



The Magician in the High Hills

the Tibetan sat in the high dirt at night

and tossed his old books on the fire


his lessons were done

he looked out at the black sky

and removed a piece of it


he shrank it to a small cloth

and held it in his hands


the wind picked up

he saw the vacuum begin to suck in torrential space

and he stopped it


tossing the cloth into the air

he saw it it fill out like a great and grateful sail

and take its old place in the firmament


he stood up

brushed off his pants

and trudged toward the trading post


where men told stories about demons and mindless stalking creatures of the mountains and the new priests with their baggage were setting up shop in the city


their hundred thousand ceremonies designed to postpone the magic he adored

power outside the matrix


he sits in his office all day

and watches

the population


he has a burning desire to know

who are all these people?

what do they really want?

are they

like him?


just once will he see a man rummaging around in his kitchen at midnight

suddenly walk through a wall?


NSA man wants to know before it’s too late

before they give in

before they surrender to him entirely


what happens when ALL human communication is swallowed up and interpreted within seconds

for each moving second

of every passing day


will the time come when there is nothing left to watch, when 20 billion people are so transparent one look is enough to penetrate them all?


NSA man prays for No



Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

This entry was posted in Poems.

4 comments on “The hunter at the end of day

  1. Michael Burns says:


    Moving into the hole and ever back towards the place where time and history would remember it…

    Moving in amongst stone and much..

    that smell of old dark wetness, ancient long away from light

    and discovered…


    and so I beat down the orcre and spit the stuff between my fingers

    and scratched with burned blak lines imagined…

    fat muscle and bone, 

    and beast claw and prey tooth


    stone lay down and in the cathedral of it all…

    bulls run, and bulls thunder above the head…


    antelope and cat and hungry men

    deep in dark darkness

    oil lamps kept lit by children, quick and nimble finger, the pale orange glow, and sounds echo through the black

    sound of the imagined

    the earth mother stirs and everyone listens in her womb

    And then rub the fat into the stone

    Another man moves in to the hole and ever back towards the place where time and history would remember it… 

    and the holy becomes the hidden in plain sight of mostly nothing

    insensed and incensed air the message to the mind


    nothing will ever be that free again, and ownership became the need and religion clued the temperance and obediance of us all…

    and foot by step and miles gone by on stacked eons…

    and so rememberance of that time

    man has fallen

  2. Terri says:

    Thank you Jon.

  3. Paul says:

    “The Hunter at the End of Day

    slick string tie and dead rabbits over his shoulder

    rifle by his side

    diamond chips glittering in his fat pinky ring

    he took

    his time getting to the moon

    a mile from his cottage…”

    sounds like vice Chaney.

  4. Paul says:

    “NSA Man

    he has a burning desire to know

    are they

    like him?

    NSA man prays for No


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