Poem for somebody or nobody or anybody

A poem for somebody or nobody or anybody

by Jon Rappoport

October 14, 2016

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

perfect as rain and the night I fell in love with trees and buildings on an avenue in Chicago as I was heading out of the city toward a highway that led to 66 on my way to Amarillo and cows standing in faded yellow dawn rolling up like a fancy poster for milk and war, my memory now Amarillo is a city geared a center a radiating pulse broadcasting an invasion the little diner the motel the city hall were there olive trucks and soldiers 40 years ago passing by as I was standing with my thumb out on 66 I was rooted to one spot across from the motel the whole day and no one stopped and the poster of night snapped down like a shade and I reached up toward the yellow margarine moon in the middle of a cloud I was remembering songs dozens of songs I listened to on the radio in the make believe ballroom everyone knew Sinatra was the god but in the yearly poll they would bring in someone else eddie fisher or johnny ray crying like a lost kid on the railroad tracks his mind torn up you’re on a cement playground and a kid starts crying what are you going to do he just breaks down and ten years later he’s on the front lines with his gear we heard he was a junkie heroin disappeared and then a tall rangy guy stopped his car and I jumped in he took me all the way to Albuquerque middle of the afternoon February warm I told him about the kid he said it wasn’t right the father and mother should have looked after him he shook his head he was a retired oil man couldn’t have been more than 40 said he just drove around the country visiting his family he gave me a new pair of pants and a shirt out of his trunk

power outside the matrix

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.

4 comments on “Poem for somebody or nobody or anybody

  1. Dagmar says:

    Beautiful ode, beautiful ache, free-flow soul chants spilling on the page. Thank you Jon.

  2. James says:

    I usually read the first couple of lines of something like this, then move on. However, this sparked my interest to read more to find out where this story was going. I scrolled down and felt disappointed when there was no more to the story.

  3. The racing mind, alone in a foreign place. the armour of youth, and naive courage to sheild one against an unknown world. The desire of life, and new experience to drive us on to the next.And a mantra. New.

    A painting of a different color…yellow. See if you like it.


    I was painting ten paintings the other day. In the music studio and lost an idea among a pile of dead poems sitting on a shelf,
    it was a good idea!
    It was something about the sound a bird makes after a terrible storm;
    for the world is stilled and made over completely in that single solitary second.

    This is not the only world…by far.
    A thousand million universes compell the worst to be imagined…and the very best.
    And yet, there is still more.
    All round and threaded on a string around my lovers neck..
    like pearls

    This fake world stops as it does, at my ceiling, the real thing above it all, collides with it itself endlessly…and I am safe in this false cave.
    It all ended I feel, before I was born.
    A subversives poetry sung by his ghost…
    from another dimension.
    A message in a lonely dream…a warning to the future ones “Beware all, pay attention. For the cancer of the universe draws near.”
    If not closed off and in a box…
    in hope that the future is not shut then forever, and exalted for the good, as good.

    Barred off, and running round, a fence, a paint peeled sign; for sale.
    Shutters closed, the door nailed shut. The weeds are long and the house is dressed in a veil of dust.
    Old newspapers cling to past-time walls, the monthly bills under a foot…heaped up flyers collect to a barbed wire fence around its heart. And echos fall back and to the boulevard of unleafed trees. Long shadows cast, and the sun is low, red and in that last day.

    There will be no tomorrow.
    A cat walks past that mouseless place, on the street were no one lives.
    Were, no one a has ever lived. A dream with no one dreaming it.
    I’ve seen this place within, and wake from it in, exhausted hurry.
    The last one again…time will move on slowly. At it own pace; and I will sleep it through another aeon.

    Looking up, and I see the grey imitation, and come to worry why I had not noticed this, long before.
    Or had pretended that I had not noticed.
    I watch the watchers watching, and they, unaware, that I am not really here, but in the other.
    I will always be safe now…I know that,
    for I have come to the end of that long journey of fear, and there is none here but me.

    A tall woman, the most beautiful woman in the world; her breasts rose and slightly fell saying, “Summer is quick here, and we are cheated, like unrequited lovers…
    hours are stolen from us…and in the fall, a war for the soul continues and still the heart of a men beats on.”
    And then she sang it in a song.

    I looked out this morning and turned a deaf ear
    At the coldness, the din of a harvest assaulting my flowers.
    Wooden ducks gather at my back door, waiting for their messenger to return and say its time for them to leave; and the once great migration will begin.
    And the few that are ancestral to those millions that once leapt into a granite sky,
    leave on time and in an orderly fashion, bit players in that grand play.

    A storm starting…rains that block the sky with clouds as thick as oily smoke, lightening moves through them like yellow fish in barrel of dirty water
    the thunder yells to my ears about its power…and then it wanes and waits for his brothers reply.

    I was painting ten paintings the other day. In the music studio and lost an idea among a pile of dead poems sitting on a shelf,
    it was a good idea!
    It was something about the sound a bird makes after a terrible storm,
    for the world is stilled and made over completely in that single solitary second.

  4. From Québec says:

    George Strait – Amarillo By Morning

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