by Jon Rappoport
June 19, 2019
(To join our email list, click here.)
In THAT case, I make no secret of the fact that I see majestic earthenware bells lying in a churchyard
And a wind is blowing through the chapel tearing the roof apart, and the blue sky is filled with ships ploughing toward unknown destinations
The last weak wave of the Atlantic folds up on the sand swamping the clams, a mother holds her child’s hand and leads him to a crone who has fallen out of an apartment window and lies frozen in space
An odd series of events, but for me a harmonious step-down progression occurring in the slightly perfumed air of a small apartment in New York on a summer night
Three dark knights came out of the West,
Sienna veneer painted on their skulls.
They issued a stroke and the sky dell parted,
Showing mountain range after mountain range of babbling bureaucrats
I know of 6,254,987 universes
They’re mix and match operations
Borrowing, stealing from one another
As I’ve long suspected
Export-import is the business to be in
The sliver of soap in the sink, bottles on the shelf, crumbs on the boards, clouds over the breasthill, an old blue shirt hanging in the closet, the cross of Mary Magdalene on the chapel door, someone ringing the bell at the front gate, I pass through the plaster wall and go for a walk in the neighbor’s apple orchard
I keep trying to convince my cousin that this cruiseship moving through the Atlantic toward France is MIXING, as brown sugar bubbles with pears in pot, with a pleasant Egyptian craftsman who is chiseling original text on a stone pyramid door and highly machined structures spiraling into the sky from a planet in the middle of the Milky Way
Matisse—a small room above a garden withering in the winter sun, a rickety table, a vase with flowers, a diaphanous hat on a hook, a door into a kitchen, a woman sitting in a chair sewing a shirt, a memory of events that never happened in this life
A single thought takes in the cigarette in the ashtray, the plaster ceiling where Da Vinci saw faces
(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)
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 NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.
Outside the Reality Machine 
Jon – Your skill at turning the everyday objects in our lives into magic, is jaw-dropping…I knew they couldn’t hold you down – welcome back, buddy!!!
Very good, Keep on Truckin!
It is amazing
What one see
If one
But looks.
Oh God!
I did it again!
Please EDIT:
PLEASE interpose can
one can see
I blame you Jon!
Your poems are too
Evocative
My heart rushes…
And my fingers falter,
On this too tiny
Fingerboard.
Apologies.
“Three dark knights
came out of the West,
Sienna veneer
painted
on their skulls.
They issued a stroke
and the sky dell
parted,
Showing
mountain range
after mountain range
of babbling bureaucrats…”
—
Oh so beautiful, Jon.
I must share below, from a fellow poet.
—
Snakes are coiled upon the granite.
Horseman ride into the west.
Moons are rising on the planet
where the worst must suffer like the rest.
Pears are ripe and peaches falling.
Suns are setting in the east.
Woman wail, and men are calling
to the god that’s in them, and to the beast.
Love is waiting for a lover.
generations kneel for peace.
What man lose, Man will recover
polishing the brains his bones release.
Truth conceals itself in error.
History reveals its face:
days of ecstasy and terror
invent the future that invents the race.
Donald Lehmkuhl October 1974
Good poem.
Unreality shows the face all the pains of imposed ignorance and suffering.
Only one thing remains for comfort and reassurance, it is temporary.
gratzite; imposed suffering; a complete imposed maligned artificial value system. Yes, may it be temporary.
dream
Online I saw an old house for sale in new york state that had big bells lying around the the property made by some known artist back in the 1900’s that was long since gone. The bells were massive and seen as garbage by the realtor.
It looked like a magical place seen from Phx. and I wish it had only been a state or two away I would have explored and offered assistance.
New York has a ton of experimental groups and history.
My God !
I just read This Piece.
Again.
Oh Brother…
Jon, you are jaw-dropping.
*
SHORELINES, ART
LOVING, MUSINGS
& KARATE