VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE: A poem for the 21st century, (Excerpt 005)

by Jon Rappoport (Copyright 2021)

December 29, 2022

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Excerpt 005:

midtown Manhattan…my father walks from the haberdasher to the
barber shop with a new hat in a box
he sits in the chair and the barber winds it back and shaves him
with a straight razor that was lolling in a tall glass of alcohol
the barber wipes off the blade with a white linen towel and
moves the razor back and forth on his strop and shaves my father
and cuts his hair

the pool room on 14th Street, old men playing three-cushion slowly
with long tapered fingers, under a hanging lamp one face peeks in
and then it’s ripped away as the floor sweeper lifts the shades and the
sun comes streaming through the dust
ever deepening beauty,
there is a little garden behind our house
where vines grow over a wood shed

and purple bougainvillea and morning glory

in this idyll I can rest
I can dream of her while I hold her hand
we set the kettle boiling
and pour the steaming water
and drink a tea of the world

you sold me an empty room
I moved in and found you there

you waited in the rain for me
And I came to you

The home we built at the end of a street
Is becoming larger every day

The poet picks the street on which he will starve
and grow rich

I am painting on a sheet of sturdy paper
A small garden
The sky is on the bottom
The flowers are on top
There are window boxes

I am making the same proposal to you, my darling

I pray to prayer
I deliver myself to you
I say the night and I say down the stairs we go again

never the garden

ever the garden

we are always in between everything we thought

always

my darling,
I’ll go with you
into the garden
into the bedroom
into the living room
into the kitchen

on to the rust-colored couch after the sandstorm
when the evening is quiet
the stove is ticking

my dead father is again sitting in a metal chair playing pinochle with
his friends

my dead mother bounds down the stairs
she’s suddenly thirty again
grinning with the August of the Black Sea

my sister is holding a feral dog in her arms and he is wrapping his
mouth around her wrist and slowly quieting down

Not one god
not fewer gods
give me a proliferation of gods
gods in plantains and mangoes
gods in broken chairs in vague Arizona motels
gods in piles of gray wood at the back of a barn in Mississippi
gods in statues on broad plazas in Chicago
gods in lagoons festering with green mold in San Diego
gods on the foggy windows of diners in Western Massachusetts
gods on the graves of Vikings and accountants in New Jersey
gods in silverware and white napkins

one version of what the old Tibetans
called the Great Void:

everybody looks around and tries to figure out what to
do
because the long hustle of discovery is over
and all the explorers have been paid off

There is nothing left
except a few magicians
living in cold mountains
punching holes in the universe at will

In Lhasa they were faced with that Nothing
and they turned to it in the eastern sky hanging like a lamp in a long
vacated whorehouse
and bowed

that was the only ceremony in the original book
which they later
in quiet rooms
burned in wood bowls

before starting their exercises

Worship?
Decay?
Never heard of it.

And now think of something else, perfect automobiles
streaming down a tropical planet toward the
a mirror lake on which stands a demigod in green pantaloons
who holds all data everywhere in his outstretched arms

and freeze THAT in memory like a sword for sixteen hours
without moving
and finally see universe
is a product
of mind

this is what they were doing
before they wrote the books and ordered the prayer wheels from
sears catalog
and jingle jangled their way into a theocracy on a cold saturday
morning

they were the dim sum masters
never ordered the same breakfast twice in the holy rivers of
energy
took apart the river and the energy
too
down to Nothing
sat in Void for
indeterminate length of no-time
stopping all creating
because they could
and then emerged
those few
magicians in the cold wasted hills and

and said WELL
if you folks want to elect a billion reincarnated hopalong
cassidys
as your head chief go ahead it doesn’t matter
we’re out here on the edge
inventing and destroying dimensions


(Episode 32 of Rappoport Podcasts — “The Transgender and Transhumanist Agenda; I connect MANY dots in ways they’ve never been (but should be) connected” — is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)


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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.

4 comments on “VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE: A poem for the 21st century, (Excerpt 005)

  1. Paul says:

    “In Lhasa”
    ~~

    a curving ray elliptical
    cast forth
    from center, beating

    one or many
    receive incoming wave

    one or they
    project back forth
    to centered one

    cycle completed
    flow maintained
    in corpus rated

    *

    if/when such
    is not mended sewn & seared
    the centered one
    shakes the dust
    from leather

    & walks away

    to another day

    towards ears relay

    …relayer…

    en visions

  2. goldendragon2012 says:

    Kaboom!
    Personally,
    “one face peeks in
    and then it’s ripped away as the floor sweeper lifts the shades and the
    sun comes streaming through the dust
    ever deepening beauty

    you sold me an empty room
    I moved in and found you there

    you waited in the rain for me
    And I came to you

    The poet picks the street on which he will starve
    and grow rich

    my dead mother bounds down the stairs
    she’s suddenly thirty again
    grinning with the August of the Black Sea”

    stayed in my imagination and slowly burned a hole into another me.

  3. Paul says:

    “this is what they were doing
    before they wrote the books and ordered the prayer wheels from
    sears catalog
    and jingle jangled their way into a theocracy on a cold saturday
    morning”
    ~

    ok.

    but how does one launch past, one’s early learnin’, of source from on high ?

    the “fragile eggshell mind” of Jim the man, still echoes on demand.

    don’t answer that. gotta find or rather create my own way.

    the inner panoply pleads for another day, of sunshined rays

    when in doubt ?
    hit the exercises
    work it thru & out

    I reckon…

  4. Sean says:

    Love it, these.

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