Poem on a riff on a reef and the fate of man

Poem on a riff on a reef and the fate of man

by Jon Rappoport

September 12, 2016

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

Here is a poem.  First, three quotes from my-work-in-progress, The Underground:

“When you know how to make sense, when you really know how, when you know logic and how one idea is supposed to flow from another and what it all adds up to, or doesn’t, then you don’t have to express yourself in that way if you don’t want to—you can take off, you can depart, you can invent other kinds of language, you can crack reality eggs…”

“Outrageous ideas that fly off at an angle from the general consensus?  Poetry is the medium.  Why can’t readers be subjected to thoughts that have no basis in ordinary reality?  Is that a crime?  Are people so embedded in ‘fact’ they can’t get out?  Are they so addicted they shut off any intrusions?  Is that why they learn language—so they can become trapped like flies in amber?”

“A positive virus would be a seed in the mind that results in you discovering inner worlds that are much more powerful than the outside one—and not merely discovery by speculation.  You unearth them, and there they are before you.”

I write polemics, and articles that examine research and come to an inevitable conclusion about medical research fraud.  I write political commentary and satire.  I write about all sorts of subjects in all sorts of ways.  But I suppose that, at the root of it, is poetry, because there you are unlimited.


power outside the matrix


Poem 439

A sentence asks for another sentence just like it to follow

They’re cousins

They have a tribe

But there are trumpets and basses that muscle in

And there are whole orchestras in the clouds

Rehearsing half-written pieces

There are rivers of silver and hidden megaliths tuned to the wind and garbage cans rattling on 12th Avenue at 3 in the morning and gongs going off in the Himalayas and old clotted church bells and pumps in electrical plants and (now I’m handing out instructions) REMEMBER: people were looking around at what happened last night: lost languages leaking from branches, the war in the sky, the hammers, the storms, the $20-an-hour night manager of the Milky Way who had taken an unauthorized break and supposedly caused the whole upheaval…the cops say they’re investigating…and REMEMBER you were playing cards at the end of the universe and there was NOTHING outside the edge and a little spring breeze was feeding you kings and queens, and REMEMBER when you fly the whole point is to go higher so things are farther and farther away and you can look down on them and you can move anywhere and later you can talk about it in a language no one ever heard before, you’ll need a language that turns inside and outside and you can walk around behind it and read it backwards and the sounds are from orchestras playing on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, one letter of the alphabet is desolate gray houses and glass lakes, and another letter was a cold courtyard execution at dawn, but now the soldiers are holding a giant piano in their gloves, and no theory is going to get you a poem but an idea you keep hidden from yourself for a hundred years might get you the first two lines with a wave that carries you over the edge of the world, and incidentally after I hung up the phone with a famous poet who bathes three times a day like clockwork I was sitting with a newspaper from 1948 and the Cleveland Indians had just won the World Series and I called back to ask him how I could get out of 1948 but the number was disconnected and I ran outside and he was standing next to a snowdrift under a streetlight talking to a few government officials and an immense cloud of boredom descended on me…

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.

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This entry was posted in Poems.

2 comments on “Poem on a riff on a reef and the fate of man

  1. Michael Burns says:

    POEM: WHAT NEXT!

    Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was…a good idea.

    These mayfly lives passing through and piling up one upon the other as sediments on the basement of the world. Build up in that wake of seconds upon seconds. Relent.

    Red cushion for a place to sit, amidst rancor. Nihilism for a heart and reluctance. And crazed mystics still keep pushing shopping carts up hills of abuse.

    And in a dream Denis said “Paint that woman there, for she is the queen of the world…and she is angered by all this…”, we were standing in water up to our knees.

    I use to fish here back then when the caretaker asked us to leave the garden. I was alone then, the only one. It was a good spot to fish. I had drifted in from the galaxy next door, with the horde not too far behind me. I had travelled so far and had slept for thousand years through that lightless drift. And something gained in a sleep. A measure of respect for infinity.

    They were lovers from the start, refugees from a war fought a million years ago. While the nit pickers searched for reasons to abolish joy. Players look you in the eye when they lie with such a bold face. Believing themselves as the truth. Those were the times that started that dull ache in the back of your head, that won’t ever leave.

    And prohets stand on every street corner and scream foul, and Buddha is now rebranded into a more colloquial type, and the slogan is “What we think we might become.”

    The mediteranean was a valley back then, filled with the most usual of wonders. Trees reached high, in what could make a city of wood. And burley men planted crops of rich food sown from sacks made of gold…on the bottom of that sea. And then the water came and sent them all to another paradise on the back of their God.

    The moon is full tonight, all dressed up and ready for the insane. I watch you put layers of pretense on yourself. One by one, in hope of covering the best. They told you lies and you believed them, and you cant’t break the habit now.

    Soon I will slip into the dark again, and hide away into the night. And fly the long voyage, and in that time forgetting that I am this. And wake up all fresh, and showered in new starlight, that will fall on me for the first time, and I will have been reborn.

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