When poems destroy the reality machine
by Jon Rappoport
February 26, 2018
Poems. The threat of poems.
A literal mind wants literal reality. It wants language laid down like a perfect grid over the world as it is. If you give a literal human something else, he suddenly pulls up his horse, jumps off, and runs back in the direction he came from. He’s stage-struck, and not happy at all about his little jaunt in the high country.
People say they want to experience what is outside the reality machine, but when you give it to them they object. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ They actually want something that looks and sounds and feels like ordinary reality. They want the method and the system of ordinary reality with a few odd tidbits thrown in. If you move to another arena of harmonics and dissonance, where the interstitial connections radically change—poetry—they balk. They wanted to go in orbit around the Earth, all the time looking down on it, and you took them to an X frontier on an unfamiliar shore where the moon was moored in the dock.
Shivering in the green water,
Wriggling in the net of desperate oxygen,
Foam falling from their bodies…
I sat on the front porch with my mother
Rhododendrons were thrashed by slow comets of rain
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 silent men.
Now they shake off the rime
And stagger up from their trench.
They form a many-rayed subconscious moon,
Wavering in the tides.
They enter a sleeping shepherd boy near his flock,
To repair the damage of centuries.
of fantastic dream
on its way to a factory
on the antediluvian shores of a breastfed paradise
I have no arduous duty in the
library at Alexandria
the vanishing point architecture of eternity
My friends, do not be befuddled by what you invent
Focus on your power to invent it
And as for others, when they show you reality as they want you to see it,
Do not consider this a mystery
Call on the friendly forces to help you remember your own power
I see those words embedded between the lines of the Constitution
My friend has built a golden conveyance in his dreams
By which he can traverse universes of his own making
He knows exactly what he’s doing
At one point along the Great Golden there is a clearing where a blanket of mist is riding from the ground into sky docks of green colleges
Where they teach the lost books of Alexandria
The friendly books of charming magic
Open to all
There were those days
When persons of good will breathed clean air and shared their obvious discoveries
My friend is one
And now he is building again
He has turned the key of imagination in Fate and opened the grasses of the uncharted future
—At its core, the reality machine is the state of mind that produces and accepts ordinary language as the end-all and be-all—
Because ordinary language continues to spool out and re-invent a conventional (psychological and spiritual) status quo.
You can take any event and describe it from 1000 viewpoints, but if every one of those viewpoints embraces and deploys ordinary “realistic” language, what do you have? You have 1000 pieces of the physiology of the elephant in the room. It’s the same elephant. He has always been there. He is “things as they are” and “the WAY things are.”
The same WAY. The same connections, the same references and self-referential blocks of substance. Deck chairs on the Titanic. Do you want them facing east? West? Do you want them in pairs?
Poetry travels a different road. A million roads. The basic interstitial tissue is of vastly different forces. We are no longer talking about surface distinctions. The underlying vectors and sensations and combinations give rise to universes.
These invented universes are magic. Magic is not compounds of ordinary elements given a twist.
Language tells us how to see and what to see. If the language is ordinary, we come back to the same perceptions in the same bin.
give me a proliferation of gods
gods in plantains and mangoes
gods in broken chairs in Arizona motels
gods in piles of gray wood at the back of a barn in Mississippi
gods in statues on broad plazas in Brazilia
gods on the foggy windows of diners in Western Massachusetts
Before money was sold down the river and resurrected on a cross of blood
before a cash-loaded god strolled into town
before the Universal Hospital drugged synapses and drove the wild horses of imagination down into underground canyons
before sculpted androids stepped out in the aftermath buying back their own memories
I was a walker in the golden circus
And out of the Hudson I saw geologic mob wraiths spiral up with shrunken desiccated wings
and I set fire to their falcon heads against the blue sky
I see populations surge through golden avenues wrapped around the upper stories of Orphic ships waiting for solar winds
I open books in a shining arboretum, ten-thousand-foot wells pour
from the sky down into stratified layers of rock…
Summer night on an old porch, rhododendrons are thrashed by slow comets of rain, there is a sleep so pervasive numbing the chest and shoulders, a despair so charming as to be final, a titanic loss of mobility, then the arrow shifts and points in a different direction, the light in the candle stops wavering for a second at the fulcrum
there were buildings in the old World War 2 Paris that looked like beautiful rotting vegetables propped on the ark of the River
and below windows
scalloped stone sacred mucosal choirs
in a nostalgic vortex
death is a protocol
a virginal reopening of the wound
insignia piping gardens from its royal wax
into the dark
old pleasures run in familiar magnetic channels
Ah, this is old-world death, the happiness of remembering time, a thing of wonder in the thrall of dying autumn
and then we knew what could be lost, and then we knew we were seeing each other fading on sheets of papyrus
and we dropped through the earth
into the legend of the unconscious
struggled back and emerged up into the lights of the city
Now we move through the halls of this summertime life
the meridians of gills breathing in and out, in and out
and cross the bridges of memory
and are new
We punch through the wax of space-time into the warm rain
we unplug the money presses
we abandon the long steel trading tables and the slaughtering floor
we drink the root turning into the bud
the bud turning to grain
we brush away the choking filaments of narcosis and finally admit our immortality
we walk in the canopy of clouds
in the canal where time and space are bolted, cloth to cloth
We ride tigers across the Styx into the mud houses of Hades and blow sacks of north wind to clean the ruined stables of broadcast memory
We race up the canyons of the Rockies, we float on the Salt Lake in mirrors of gold
We walk out of the house in the middle of the night and watch the magnolia tree in the little grassy island open white flowers of joy!
Tear away the seal on the tomb!
MASTERS OF TIME!
in any weather, any season
long forgotten and hidden in hard flesh
they are there
no one is sitting with bags of gold
no one is bringing a new book of laws
all the fires are out
all the wars of the bankrupt versus the bankrupt in whatever dimension are over, the bodies are buried, the corpses are rotting
time is new…
(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)
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 NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.
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Well then, i will sit here and wait
a quiet refuge while lions’ snarls wind in tendrals through the gate
While truth is being torched out on the ether
While gathering soundness for the storm.
Are you still waiting?
Do you need food, a blanket?
I’m worried, you been here ten days or so and not a sound
I can’t hear any breathing…
Are you sleeping?
your a buddhist then
a contemplator, one of those quiet uni-cycling, juggling staying in one spot quiet types
a very long time thinker…
I respect that
I like those types…easy to get along with, they remain quiet and let me do the talking.
They don’t say much, but, when they do speak…
gold and silver threads of speech spin shining fabrics of paragraphic quality
I’ll leave you alone then, to your mantra Buddhist.
You spoke of Klee in the next post.
I find it interesting that most of the interesting painters are visual poets. It strange don’t you think, that painters use words like they were line weight, shape and color.
And then use color and line weight and shape, like they were words on canvas
Klee was a visual poet.
I liked this piece of yours, you are better here than over there. You shine very bright here.
So..one for you in reward
The white dog stops…
we breathe in for a minute and take in the universal breath
Its dark out here…
its black and darkly cold, out here
The wind it cuts the image from my eyes
And I watch fall it fall frozen and tinkle like glass into the snow
This deep, and unwritten — waiting on edge
for a free life to write it
too large to see it all
deep back in there beyond my visions reach
The starry dingle…I begin, and
now I see it
I raise my head, to take in all this…
Scattered diamond dust on the top of Iron sky table
and shards and grainy rubies sapphire blue split through the black
Glitter… and, the stuttering glitter
And Betelgeuse drags Orion higher…the father bears the weight of his children
there about it all, those sparks from all those little fires
The white dog stops, and looks back green-eyed glowy still, on me and my light
All that loud shining sound above his head
I stare back and he blinks…his closed eyes lose him in all that
The immortal knowledge fills me again
Spirit moves in peace and…I surrender to it
On and on — cold frigid and wind blows snaps out like open jaws
on the backside of this frozen northern slough
looking back distantly behind me
a town asleep in glowing embers of its progression
and echoed detachment from all the real that surrounds it
Blue box light shines in every distant window
the faithful at their prayer in strange religion
DOG AFTER AN OWL LOOKING FOR A MOUSE
Between frozen cattail
thick ice I trust beneath my boot steps and water neath that too — I hear great wealth of life down there..dozing in and out of lengthy sleep and waiting the new green
The dog calls me on and not to stop — round the edge we go, on slippery legs and further into that void
Jagged long dead willow gnarled in dark twisted sketching lines and feckly shadows cast from a tiny light– and things look back and he and I look forward
I turn my lamp off and trusting, let the night swallow me whole
black cold embrace it gently lifts
I hear the deep thrust into the trusting place of a wing, and smell of feathery memory as the hunter is headed home.
Walk on not knowing were the ground is and feel my legs lose their weight…
Roll around embraced of that eternity, and remember that I have always been
remembered and recalled from times on another place, another thing
and white dog pulls me back and reminds me we are on a mission here
to find the best spot
and I am blind to all but that above my head and the direction of a dog’s nose
White dog and the stars are my master now.
You are Odin. He has infinite names.
“Tear away the seal on the tomb!”
“time is new…”
mmm… I like that!