If a poem can loosen up molecular forces

If a poem can loosen up molecular forces

by Jon Rappoport

September 7, 2016

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

I begin with a quote from The Magician Awakes:

“Nothing is engraved in stone. The old Tibetan magicians proved that. The forces that hold things together in this universe aren’t traditional in any sense of the word. They’re just another long con. I propose that, at one time, the bonds were a lot looser.”

Here are several untitled poems—


behind a fence, curbside service for ice cream, hot dogs, and a stand where a crone hawks pink angels


A thirteen-year-old girl walks up and down



The fruit orchards received new blood.

Flying citizens were seen above the city.


I crossed the street and walked into an OTB office and laid down a chunk on Narcosis in the third at Gulfstream


I took a cab to JFK and ran to the counter for the Virgin flight to Mars and got the last seat


Strapped in

I heard the flight attendant say

we wouldn’t be coming back


No problem

Things were getting too heavy on Earth


If I had to live inside a bubble on Mars for the rest of my life I could catch up on my reading

I wanted another shot at Proust

and Joyce wherein he “puts language to sleep”


I’d read Arjuna’s conversation with Krishna 48 times, and 24 times I’d come down on the side of Krishna and 24 times I’d been for Arjuna

so maybe now I could decide the issue once and for all


when we were out in space though

and had passed the pull of Earth’s gravity



I saw stitched seams in the sky

where it had obviously been put together


and that’s when the co-pilot came down the aisle

he was waving a big gun




…I saw her once before


She was bending over picking up a brown cat



She’d looked up at me and nodded

she had green eyes

she sized me up



and now all these years later here she is again

tending bar at a CIA costume party




These are the letters of my ancient fathers,

And these are the letters of the roses

Blowing across the rolling apparatus

That moves the sun,

Shining through old windows

On drowned men.


They shake off the rime

And stagger up from their trench,

Without a city.




Summer nights I sat on the porch


rhododendrons were thrashed by slow comets of rain




Physicists will soon say the universe is one giant atom


and they will say it with a straight face


they will march into a room and submit to the one atom


they will fall on their knees and ask for special dispensation


a papacy will be established at Los Alamos


and finally the environs will be granted status as an independent nation


diplomats with portfolio and immunity will populate embassies and vases of flowers will sit on many polished tables



the giant atom will reveal


five billion languages he has been hiding




astral locale

little island in a sea of blur


I was going from one apartment to another

and there were people talking and drinking

people I’d never met before


I wore a black cloak with a gold insignia on the shoulder

I had no idea what it was


I found myself alone in a room

with an important man who asked me questions


pretty soon I realized I was a spy

I had been somewhere else where I’d gathered information


I went to my car and drove to the ocean

on the way it started raining and when I got there

a cafe was on fire

it was sizzling and smoking

and fire trucks were pulled up all around it



the fire chief came up to me and said



I know you’re in this thing up to your neck



he strode away like a big shot and started giving orders to his men



they turned the hoses on him and drove him into the sea

power outside the matrix


…in my Broadway suit and short black winter coat with the belt


I’m walking up 6th Avenue on a snowy December afternoon



nothing to do



I wander into

a massive granite building

art class

naked model


I tell the teacher I studied with Phil Guston and Phil suggested this class

thought it would be good for me to draw the figure

the teacher scrambles and brings me a pad and pencil and I sit there looking at the naked woman

she’s about 40

frozen on a wooden chair

gray eyes


After a while, the teacher comes back, looks over my shoulder, and timidly asks, “Would you like my comments?”


“Excuse me? What’s that? No, I don’t need any help, I know I’m drawing the model with a very small head and the body of a giantess but I’m looking at the chair and platform too and the street outside and I think it fits because the Great Wheel grinds us down but we always come back..”



“And,” I say, “suppose the model sitting on the platform knows all this…


“I like her leg sticking out over the East River, she’s dangling it above ships and garbage and then do you see how her right shoulder is obscuring New Jersey…




“Do you see how her shoulder is turned to the left of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and the hip loosens the Chelsea District, and one foot, is it a third foot, is entering the 42nd St. Library from the park, and her eyebrow is rattling the George Washington Bridge…”


He backs away


I take apart the model’s ribs. They’re open books in a shining arboretum.


I’m sitting on a bench. Next to me is a ghostly something.


“You’ve concealed yourself,” he says. “But you know we permit no visitors. There are penalties.”


I nod and look out at hills. Beyond them are immense decks of stone and clouds.


“I’m willing to risk it,” I say.


“Here, where we live, the paradoxes have all been resolved.”


The creature smiles.


We sit quietly for a few minutes. The sun sets, and it’s dark all around us.


“Go home, stranger,” he says. “This isn’t for you.”


“Look,” I say, “I smell a phony deal. You haven’t resolved anything. This is a top-down operation. I’ve seen a lot of them.”


I stand up.


Then I’m back in the old candy store on Post Road. I buy a Mounds bar, walk to the little space next to the magazine rack, sit on the floor, and count my change. I think about the new church on the hill, the big parking lot, the polished cars on Sunday mornings. The fathers who stand there, looking around, waiting for Marvin or one of his pals to come over and slip them an envelope. I wonder where the money comes from. Miraculously, here’s Marvin now, walking into the store. He sees me. I stare at his shoes. I look up into his eyes and I see an image of God. God is swimming in a sea of money. Heaven is a machine that prints the bills. The candy store is a small-time relay. A toilet flushes. The store owner comes out of his bathroom. He’s a little fat guy with a long face. The molecules of the store are loosening…


With a little push I could tip it over and it would fall into the school playground.


Marvin bends down and hands me a five-dollar bill. “This is for you, kid,” he says.


“My father’s the DA,” I say.


“I know.”


“It could be construed as a bribe.”


Marvin jerks back.


“God is printing money,” I say.


“You’ll never prove it, kid.”


But I could see the pipeline all the way up, and the massive tribes of adrenaline that were supporting the operation. The whole thing had a synthetic feel…


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 NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

This entry was posted in Poems.

One comment on “If a poem can loosen up molecular forces

  1. Michael Burns says:

    “tending bar at a CIA costume party” – JR

    Very funny.


    There’s a hospital for poets.
    End of the road for a broken dreamer and an artist with tarnish on his soul.
    There’s no line up there, you just walk right in and get into a bed.
    Dead dreamers are wheeled by on gurneys on their way to reincarnations.
    The place is filled with unspoken words, and half filled remnants of…those angry hearts.
    Ghosts walk the halls of the unpublished, asking you for a word…ah, “Please will you listen.”

    The great Dylan Thomas died here and the place reeks now of a writing shed. Corso walks by holding an antiquated toaster and speaks to him in tongues about the substance of a symbol.
    “I was born here and I will die here.” He exclaims in the accent of an Italian Hamlet…on passing.

    A water drenched rat from the Titanic, hugs the wall on its way to the basement to fornicate with its American cousin.

    Scribbled notes on latin edges, and pencilled words on back pages, of dog-eared books about etiquette, written by a Vanderbilt.
    And scratched last lines onto the walls grasped, and gasped out by those on their way to the other side for recycling.

    And the ‘wall of hope’ remembers…

    And so I check my pulse and found I had the prerequisites …to be in this place.
    I was definitely a card-carrying member. And my poems were sick.

    The nurse arrives and asks to take my temperature.
    I tell her “I am minus thirty and dropping…my heart is frozen.Can you heelp? There’s an ice age comin, don’t ya know!”

    “Aw” she says, “Would you like a hot drink, what seems to be your trouble Micko, and can you bend over dear.”

    She reminds me of a poem about another woman.
    An Irish woman named love. Who lives under a hill. And the words fall out of my mouth, “Come away O’human child…”
    I tell her I am suffering from double entendre

    “Aw” she says “There’s a lot of that going round these days.”, as she pulls the thermometer from its hold.”

    Nursey leaves swishin; I love that sound. And I wait, on my little cot for doctor Big Fingers to arrive.

    “And how are we today.” he says, on entering the clutter. He walks over and closes a cupboard door to staunch the bleeding words onto the floor, from the top shelf.

    I ask to borrow his pen and clipboard with a page. And scribble down quickly the words to my next ode.
    ‘I have a bug in my ear and I am tone-deaf to bullshit’
    I return his clipboard, pens are hard to get here.

    “So what are my chances doc…will I live?..is this fatal?
    Will I need an operation…maybe a transfusion. To rid myself of the parasites in my thoughts.
    Am I using my words well,?..am I color blind to context.
    Is my sense of semantics charged, and pure to the meaning.
    C’mon Doc, don’t hold back. Tell me the truth.
    Am I…a dead poet?”

    He looks at me and sighs, ” Poets are born with broken thoughts. And use words as pills to heal themselves.”
    Write a couple more lines, and I will see you in the morning…

    I returned to my room and there was Corso and that fucking toaster…he was chewin the fat with Larry Ferlinghetti…about spaghetti, al dente. And something about publishing his next book.
    They turned and looked at me and Larry said…”So you want to be part of the club, is that right kid. Are you a sick poet?”
    “No.” I sez…”Well…I wouldn’t mind a chit-chat about Fluxus, I sometimes get on my drums and start with my heartbeat Ferly.
    Bom bom..bom bom…bombom bombom and the blood gurgles glickly and falls through the holes at end of my veins.

    Larry leaves in disgust, hands in the air, exclaiming “Wannabee, couldhadbeen, mightdahad.”

    I am content now I found my own…I don’t feel as fatal. Not nearly as fatal.
    My poems are better …and fellow madmen arrive every morning with new lines.
    And my fake Irish nurse slips in for late night checks of my vitals.
    I think… I’m ok.

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