When poems destroy the reality machine

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,

Rolling prisoners,

Foam falling from their bodies…

 

Summer nights

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.

 

glittering garbage

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

I’m there

 

to

 

 

expose

shatter

 

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

a memory:

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

 

flaming

 

into the legend of the unconscious

 

 

and

 

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 defect

 

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!

 

Sing now!

Speak now!

 

Tear away the seal on the tomb!

 

MAGICIANS!

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…


Exit From the Matrix

(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.

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3 comments on “When poems destroy the reality machine

  1. Sunshine2 says:

    No comments yet?

    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.

    • Michael Burns says:

      Are you still waiting?

      Do you need food, a blanket?
      Water?

      I’m worried, you been here ten days or so and not a sound
      I can’t hear any breathing…

      Are you sleeping?

      Ah…
      Meditation
      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 understand
      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.

  2. Michael Burns says:

    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

    WHITE DOG

    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

    Forever
    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.

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