Another different universe

Another different universe

by Jon Rappoport

September 2, 2016

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

Every day I die several times and come back to life

I’m finding out it’s a good gambit

I doesn’t matter who understands it

Yesterday as I wandered across into another universe

A man handed me their newspaper

…An old lopsided yellow moon

Rowboat at the dock

Restaurant, windows open:

There are 37 kinds of breeze

And I felt 22 when she walked to my table with her pad

I waited and the other 15 slowly and methodically took my order

My dead Uncle Jim is washing his face in the bathroom

He puts on a faded hat, grins

Says, “I can still work the long con”

They have their stars in that other universe

One looks like my sister

She’s riding a horse across a lawn

Jumping over a smoking pile of autumn money

Little felt hat on her head

Buttoned up suit and skinny pants

The horse is Angus deGuilders, a poet friend of the family who turned out reams of verse in a cellar apartment for 30 years and then died on the trolley eating a slice of cream pie

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.

The hunter at the end of day

The hunter at the end of day

by Jon Rappoport

August 30, 2016

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

Introduction

First, I give you two poems about sudden effects on the consensus called the space-time Continuum…the poems are meant to reflect the fact that the Continuum itself is exceedingly fanciful.

The so-called laws that govern it are provisional at best.  Even experiments in the sterile conditions of laboratories reveal that humans can exceed statistical probability, when attempting telepathy and telekinesis.

But this is merely a pale clue that dynamic consciousness operates beyond physical cause and effect.

The third poem, NSA Man, indicates the lockdown strategies taken to enforce the Continuum, to tighten it, to embroil the population in insane events designed to limit perception, to narrow it down to “crimes and possible crimes and pre-crime surveillance and invented crimes…”

An extraordinary amount of human activity is calculated to create a society in which distractions are the Main Event, and therefore our hidden potential is buried, ignored, and forgotten.

 

The Hunter at the End of Day

slick string tie and dead rabbits over his shoulder

rifle by his side

diamond chips glittering in his fat pinky ring

he took

his time getting to the moon

a mile from his cottage

 

the layout of his body and mind

was a temporary cartoon in the dark afternoon

 

the sun and sky and forest were on loan from a local production company

a renegade crew lurking to catch footage of the assassination of the president

 

the colony was unstable

construction workers were en route to repair the fractures in space

the president had vowed to restore order

but had failed

 

and now the mining consortium had spotters and shooters in the gloom ready to go

 

as the hunter took a long step from the stage on to the moon itself he heard the dry whisper of limos moving across the white powder

 

he saw the first few black shapes rolling toward him

and then the open car with limp flags

and the president sitting in the back:

a triangular block of non-reflective gray

whose brain was percolating a hundred thousand miles away floating in space

 

BUT the rabbit hunter held up his hand and the caravan ground to a halt

 

there was no force to stop him

 

in the woods, under brush, the spotters and shooters fell into a paralytic state

 

 

it was the moment for permitting the illusion to disintegrate on its own

 

ON ITS OWN

 

down on earth the press were gibbering about meteors and comets and asteroids, presenting their cover stories

but this rip

 

would extend down in space all the way

 

all twenty billion minds on earth would rattle like dice

 

and universe2 would emerge titanic

 

the hunter grinned

and hummed a tune

he felt light on his feet

and green as berries of constellations across the darkness

 

 

The Magician in the High Hills

the Tibetan sat in the high dirt at night

and tossed his old books on the fire

 

his lessons were done

he looked out at the black sky

and removed a piece of it

 

he shrank it to a small cloth

and held it in his hands

 

the wind picked up

he saw the vacuum begin to suck in torrential space

and he stopped it

 

tossing the cloth into the air

he saw it it fill out like a great and grateful sail

and take its old place in the firmament

 

he stood up

brushed off his pants

and trudged toward the trading post

 

where men told stories about demons and mindless stalking creatures of the mountains and the new priests with their baggage were setting up shop in the city

 

their hundred thousand ceremonies designed to postpone the magic he adored


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NSA Man

he sits in his office all day

and watches

the population

 

he has a burning desire to know

who are all these people?

what do they really want?

are they

like him?

 

just once will he see a man rummaging around in his kitchen at midnight

suddenly walk through a wall?

 

NSA man wants to know before it’s too late

before they give in

before they surrender to him entirely

 

what happens when ALL human communication is swallowed up and interpreted within seconds

for each moving second

of every passing day

 

will the time come when there is nothing left to watch, when 20 billion people are so transparent one look is enough to penetrate them all?

 

NSA man prays for No

 

 

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.

Why not poems

The why not poems

by Jon Rappoport

August 17, 2016

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

Crisscrossing America several times, I wrote poems.  Fragments.  It was not anything I saw.  It was what I made out of what I might have seen, could have seen, remembered, knew, didn’t know, dreamed here and there, because on journeys the inventions are always more powerful than the landscapes, and if you want to record THAT, you write poems, you look at them, you turn them upside down, you arrange them like postcards, and the pleasure you derive is far greater than the view through windows, or on mountains, or next to rivers, unless you’re selling real estate.

 

O little tune,

Little tune,

out of Chicago and Des Moines and the East St. Louis train station at 4 in the morning and Joplin where it was spring in winter and the hills above LA and the dead little cheap nightclubs in the afternoon in Santa Monica on Broadway and in 1961 Paul an old boulevardier cranky con man from New York I played cards with suddenly appeared walking out of a tunnel on the edge of San Francisco one afternoon as I was getting off a bus completely impossible…

 

We dropped great looping clouds on the gangster sentinels of Chicago and heard their machine guns roar in the empty deserted streets

 

 

wildcats of Texas dripping sweat into their high hats pulling black blood out of the ground and sending it through tubes of night to porcupine refineries on the shores of Corpus Christi

 

 

New horizontal towns were multiplying on Long Island, stage flats of perfect symmetry coddled in the breasts of hopeful mothers asking for redemption from pill-addled afternoons and hallucinatory music cooking in shining ovens

budgets laid out neatly on Formica counters below the knives

distant farm fields dead in the snow

blank-eyed children walking in the snow

 

 

We stood in the blinding sunlight reflected from low slung whitewashed buildings of Pasadena and El Segundo and Long Beach and felt the roar of departing space rockets cutting tunnels through the future and pulling back the future with giant magnets of illuminated dust

 

 

We walked through measureless windows of wheat and corn growing in the middle flatlands under the warm rain of supernatural mansions

 

 

Draped curtains of night in the upper Mulholland hills of Los Angeles where the mountain lion and the coyote and the mythical Greek beast roamed like penniless vagabonds, free of the Wheel, free from selling themselves…

 

 

Under poles of yellow lights, gasping midnight locomotives clamped on to lines of freight cars in the backyards of Chicago/ Plastic lilies grew in the pastures of St. Louis haberdashers and department stores

 

 

In Los Angeles, concrete sunset of three stacked freeways, a carpet of park in Beverly Hills, old poolroom on Broadway downtown, bus to San Francisco, a bum holding out his hand and saying On Venus Jesus will show you machines of love

 

 

Standing up on a hill past Albuquerque on 66, I caught a ride into into a no-name Arizona town, walked in the foggy morning along an empty road to a snow-filled cliff and stared out at a spring valley a thousand feet below

—this was before television—

 

 

In blinding rain I stood on the Indiana Turnpike outside Chicago pointed east and wound up in the Pennsylvania countryside driving the car of a half-crippled man with a Bible I met in a Howard Johnson

our headlights went dead on a curve and a cop pulled in behind us and stopped us

he led us to a fat judge’s house in the middle of the night where we paid thirty bucks

then parked on a quiet lane and slept until dawn

early spring in March

flowering magnolia trees

he dropped two Thorazine and told me to drive

and his babbling about Heaven slowed down and he slept

and when we pulled into Manhattan he had me park in midtown

he looked at me with glazed doe’s eyes and said

I’m crooked, son, I’ve reached the end of the line, this is it, I’ll kill myself within a month

 

 

Wall Street towers in astral cloisters of Fat Zero

rabid missionaries shooting their cuffs

loopholes

Fly through steel walls into the psychotic fandango of the international money Surge

 

 

We walked through fields of cactus east of Tijuana, into caverns of mass graves, sacrificed Aztec skeletons still stank in creek of toothless hobo Ziggurat

 

 

faded blue Florida lagoons

lizards crawled in the sunlight between leaves on rumbling death-grip paragon trees spreading out their brass knuckles

 

 

In Arlington, graves of the missing

who had been torn in the bellows of the blood wind and later their children scattered and beached on winter islands

haggard lighthouse

foothill driftwood

shuttered herds of sheep turned away from the water

 

 

in the prehistoric hills of Western Massachusetts

a woman tiger struggles to her feet and stands

LILITH!  The exiled one!  LILITH! The charmed of the lonely!  LILITH! The warm heart and the cold mind!  She stands and breathes torrents of fragrant heat

she remembers

she remembers she was born without prior cause, without permission

she remembers

that

she redeposited the extracted sluice of language back into the river

and the petrified river ran again

she saw vividly what lay between things

she sprang the active force

she pushed over the tower

she stood the baby up on two legs

she performed acts reserved by the Sky Lunatic for himself

she said anyone could do these things

she sat in gutters with the lowest of men and broke bread

she said “whose blood is in my blood runs the risk of igniting the sun”

she stood on the white field

turned the dials of the sun, brought down the curtain of night, unhinged the canopy of stars, blew the scent of wild apples into the wasteland, held the moon in a cup of sand, tore away the trance

LILITH!

 

 

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…

 

 

In Elmsford, I watched a sleek black car pull up to a house down the block where an old man who grew apple trees was screaming and three men got out of the car and grabbed his arms and put him on a stretcher and took him away to the Foundation, a place where they kept the insane

he had spent every Sunday morning polishing his red car

he had once been a judge

he retired and built department stores

he kept a dog in his garage and fed it there

his son wore gray suits and drove a foreign car

owned a brewery

 

on the stretcher, the old man looked at his wristwatch and held up one finger

and there was an explosion in the distance

a new war had begun

 

 

In a long, long Los Angeles bar on a slow Tuesday afternoon I counted six Hindu gods sitting on stools drinking rotgut and transmitting sign language to their Boston banker lolling outside the men’s room

 

 

Malibu…in the oceanographic mythic giants all the capillaries have gone dry

the moon is setting on page one

tides of political sing-song are swaying in the intestinal tract of a beached octopus suctioned to a sidewalk

 

 

be of good cheer, son, never fear the end, there is no end  THERE IS NO END

abide by the central directive–

when you’re lying on a slab in the mortuary

STAND UP

 

tell them they’ve made a minor miscalculation

recite a few lines from scripture

and stride quickly to the exit

 

confess to the guards

you’re just a pathetic figure

a minor functionary

in a bureau of functionaries

all the way up

 

tip your hat, grin, drop a few coins in the basket, move on

 

 

(Hermes) the great thief said

 

I have given you

 

Everything you need

 

And so it was

 

Another message

 

A column of fire

 

Rising out of the sea

 

 

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 alcohol with a white linen towel and moves the razor back and forth on his strop

and then he shaves my father

then he cuts his hair

 

 

purple shadows on 7th Avenue, dark pool room, old men playing three-cushion slowly, with long tapered fingers, Daumier Hals faces, and then those faces are ripped away as the floor sweeper lifts the shades and the sun comes streaming through the dust

 

 

San Diego…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 storm

when the evening is quiet

the stove is ticking

the cats are roaming the lawns

 

 

it doesn’t   matter    if you…

walking in a park in a city…

in the summer

in the middle of the afternoon    are thinking of

what you want

as long as what you want

 

could be in the park

 

and then you only have to walk with the chance

 

of it happening in the next few minutes

and       if it happens

you’ll be ready   and this is the egg cracking

you’re therefore in a foreign city

A FOREIGN CITY

where you always wanted to be

 

 

of all the sliding cities

New York

there you are

Lilith

you refused to sign a pact with the sky manager and be born as half of the Adamic prince

 

You took the flood and made it into a tree

you walk through buildings on cold nights and turn toward the window and pour logic from a pitcher

I wander out of the bedroom half-asleep and sit down and wait for your call

You’re in Chicago talking to a group of salesmen about time

and a secret television station beyond reproach


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South of Los Angeles…dancers arrive early in a giant room above the ocean.

In forest halls, dryads run like crystal.

CON FRER Tito Puente strides into the endless Balboa ballroom.

Timbales, rolling cymbals, chingachcook congas.  Brass section put in harness from the ceiling.  Tito is sitting in a blue mist.  The slow vibraphone turns over and over.

Silver runners flash around corners.

 

 

White Plains…

road among trees

magnolia, oak, maple…

squirrels with great healthy bushy tails run up trunks

jump on to roofs

sniff smoke coming out of chimneys

grab mahogany from horse chestnut trees

 

we walked to the shore

we walked into the ocean

we walked on the ocean floor

we discovered the oceanic mind

we swam on the towering waves

we came back to ourselves

 

we smelled towers of the city

we floated into the city

we rolled out on to the highways of America

 

 

we walked out of the house of melting shadows

 

we saw the invisible bright April open road that runs across morbid rusting highways…

 

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.

Necessary poems

Because poems

by Jon Rappoport

August 12, 2016

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

I’ve been entranced by one kind of poetry or another since I was 11.  I started writing it when I was 17.  Poems can’t be classified.  If you want to say there are types, they are infinite, which defeats the whole idea of cataloging them.

Poems SUGGEST.  They refer to what isn’t there.  But now it is.  That’s the underlying point, and it quite startling to know a poem can do that.

But of course, you have to be willing to receive suggestions of what isn’t but then is.  You have to shake off the predisposition to want language to do certain things but then stop at the boundary.  That is a fixation, a form of hypnosis, the limitation-complex.

Reality is a fraud.  It’s what is left over after all other options have been exhausted.  I’m not only talking about the content of reality, but also the position of it, the front-and-center of it.  Yes, you need to deal with it, and cleverly, but hypnotic attachment to it is religious.  If it weren’t, why would you keep dreaming of extraordinary things while you’re asleep?  Why wouldn’t you dream of walking down to the corner to buy a cup of coffee and a newspaper?

Here I’m publishing three poems.  The first one was published by The Massachusetts Review in 1966. It was written after an intense period of reading William Blake’s short poems.  The second one I wrote today.  The third one is a brief excerpt from a very long poem, Visions of the Empire, which I finished in 2013.  I’m currently revising it.

First poem:

Burned flowers of the field

My noon is over, growing old

Everything I have is finally sold

Sewed designs for men with money

Thinking it was duty

To watch them lead the world to war

From my little field of beauty

 

Second poem:

Because night has no name in caverns of sky plantations of stars…

This is what Hermes said in a loud wand voice over and over

As he walked the length of a broken down bar

In Times Square

And the drunks in their stools lifted their heads

As if they were poets

 

Waiting to join an army

Of long sword

The army they’d deserted a thousand years ago

On a spring morning when they stopped shining with green lanterns of diamond-throated Merlin birds in the high clouds


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Third poem:

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 indeed 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

      mirror lake on which stands a demigod in green pantaloons

who holds All Data 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 like porcelain plates

 

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.