Walk with the devil, talk with the devil

Walk with the devil, talk with the devil

For K.

by Jon Rappoport

March 18, 2017

Walk with the devil, talk with the devil
He’s “charming”
And anyway, he’s not going anywhere
And you know you’re good
That’s not going to change
He may consider you’re trying to undermine him
But he doesn’t think you have a chance
Of course you do have a chance
And that’s the point

Time is long
And you’re not going anywhere either
He doesn’t know your kind of power
Never did

Walk with the devil, talk with the devil
He’s gathering evil people around him
He’s destroying them all by himself
He’s digging their graves
Of course they don’t know that

But he can’t dig your grave
You don’t want what he has
So talk with him
Let him spin his dreams

Walk with the devil, talk with the devil
He’ll think you can help him forward his plan
Because the plan is all he knows
And he believes he can fold the entire world and its contents
Into it

Time is very long
And he can’t understand
Your kind of power

Deep in his mind and soul
He wants to know what is evading him
What he can never discover
The secret that is parked beyond what he has

And the secret is you
It always was
But he can’t bring that fact up from his subconscious
This is why he has sleepless nights
And ends up returning to his flock

Walk with the devil, talk with the devil
He has a limited repertoire
He keeps coming back to the same plots
And he doesn’t know why
It’s a source of discomfort for him
As he pushes on

How much evil can he project
Until he feels the fatigue of boredom
Until he runs out of novel experiences
Until he can predict the details of his future wars
Until he comes back to where he started
And tries to remember why he began doing what he’s doing

He has very little imagination left

He’s a lonely figure on a dark street
Looking for excitement
After all this time
But he’s been through the same gamut over and over

In decay he has no equal
He has no equal with whom he can share his past

Walk with the devil, talk with the devil
Watch him scuttling his perverse thoughts
In bottom mud
Hoping for something new
That never shows up

It turns out his territory is quite limited
And for that he would wear his heart on his sleeve
If he could imagine a heart

Walk with the devil, talk with the devil
And knowing his primary
Number one
Prime-cut
Business
Is
Broadcasting
Subversion
Pass along a dream about a new good world
And watch him burn in his meditation
As he considers how he can parlay that future
He’ll take your hints, your dream
And gleefully release it to the world

Because he must
Because that’s what he does
Thinking his profits and advantages will obscure the message

But he has limited intelligence
And your thoughts reacquaint people
With something they laid aside
In the fountain of energy where they once lived

They’ll shake off a piece of the trance
And feel their blood coursing again…

Madness is a strange thing
And this preeminent madman
Eventually confesses his plans right out in the open
He can’t resist the opportunity
And he’ll even confess he knows The Good
It’ll come to that
More, he’ll urge people to do good
Believing he can forestall defeat at the last moment
IT’S THE ONLY CHALLENGE HE HAS LEFT

He’ll back up to the edge
And plead with the world to do good
And still think he has a chance

Take his hand
And shove him hard
Over and out
And down
Into the Void
The Nothing
The Great Nothing
Where for a day, a year
A thousand years
A million years
His fate will be in his hands

Not your concern
Not anyone’s concern

You’re good
And he never understood your power


power outside the matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside 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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Poem for somebody or nobody or anybody

A poem for somebody or nobody or anybody

by Jon Rappoport

October 14, 2016

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

perfect as rain and the night I fell in love with trees and buildings on an avenue in Chicago as I was heading out of the city toward a highway that led to 66 on my way to Amarillo and cows standing in faded yellow dawn rolling up like a fancy poster for milk and war, my memory now Amarillo is a city geared a center a radiating pulse broadcasting an invasion the little diner the motel the city hall were there olive trucks and soldiers 40 years ago passing by as I was standing with my thumb out on 66 I was rooted to one spot across from the motel the whole day and no one stopped and the poster of night snapped down like a shade and I reached up toward the yellow margarine moon in the middle of a cloud I was remembering songs dozens of songs I listened to on the radio in the make believe ballroom everyone knew Sinatra was the god but in the yearly poll they would bring in someone else eddie fisher or johnny ray crying like a lost kid on the railroad tracks his mind torn up you’re on a cement playground and a kid starts crying what are you going to do he just breaks down and ten years later he’s on the front lines with his gear we heard he was a junkie heroin disappeared and then a tall rangy guy stopped his car and I jumped in he took me all the way to Albuquerque middle of the afternoon February warm I told him about the kid he said it wasn’t right the father and mother should have looked after him he shook his head he was a retired oil man couldn’t have been more than 40 said he just drove around the country visiting his family he gave me a new pair of pants and a shirt out of his trunk


power outside the matrix


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.

4 quick dreams

4 Quick Dreams in a Row

by Jon Rappoport

October 11, 2016

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

Note: These quick hitters are for fun. A certain kind of elevated fun, perhaps. But they are for energy, too. Large wide ranging energy against all old worn out consensus. They start with the surreal, and then go somewhere else….

 

green cloister

silent St. Francis

 

I’m on an open highway descending from cloudbanks and mountebanks and federal banks and banks of propaganda—you travel these highways on skis and giant soda cracker wheels and jets and steam—you pass through tiny kitchens of boiled ravioli and beans and pink boneless fish from the vents of chug-chug Atlantis

 

I’ve got gods and demi-gods and prophets and shoe salesmen inside trees and radios, I’ve got murky dogs circling in the night, I’ve got gods inside hammers and screwdrivers and old garages and silk farms…

 

my uncle’s on the porch inside a giant bowl of champagne goldfish, cleaning his .38


Exit From the Matrix


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.

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.

If a poem can loosen up molecular forces

If a poem can loosen up molecular forces

by Jon Rappoport

September 7, 2016

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

I begin with a quote from The Magician Awakes:

“Nothing is engraved in stone. The old Tibetan magicians proved that. The forces that hold things together in this universe aren’t traditional in any sense of the word. They’re just another long con. I propose that, at one time, the bonds were a lot looser.”

Here are several untitled poems—

ONE

behind a fence, curbside service for ice cream, hot dogs, and a stand where a crone hawks pink angels

 

A thirteen-year-old girl walks up and down

 

 

The fruit orchards received new blood.

Flying citizens were seen above the city.

 

I crossed the street and walked into an OTB office and laid down a chunk on Narcosis in the third at Gulfstream

 

I took a cab to JFK and ran to the counter for the Virgin flight to Mars and got the last seat

 

Strapped in

I heard the flight attendant say

we wouldn’t be coming back

 

No problem

Things were getting too heavy on Earth

 

If I had to live inside a bubble on Mars for the rest of my life I could catch up on my reading

I wanted another shot at Proust

and Joyce wherein he “puts language to sleep”

 

I’d read Arjuna’s conversation with Krishna 48 times, and 24 times I’d come down on the side of Krishna and 24 times I’d been for Arjuna

so maybe now I could decide the issue once and for all

 

when we were out in space though

and had passed the pull of Earth’s gravity

 

 

I saw stitched seams in the sky

where it had obviously been put together

 

and that’s when the co-pilot came down the aisle

he was waving a big gun

 

 

TWO

…I saw her once before

 

She was bending over picking up a brown cat

 

 

She’d looked up at me and nodded

she had green eyes

she sized me up

 

 

and now all these years later here she is again

tending bar at a CIA costume party

 

 

THREE

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 drowned men.

 

They shake off the rime

And stagger up from their trench,

Without a city.

 

 

FOUR

Summer nights I sat on the porch

 

rhododendrons were thrashed by slow comets of rain

 

 

FIVE

Physicists will soon say the universe is one giant atom

 

and they will say it with a straight face

 

they will march into a room and submit to the one atom

 

they will fall on their knees and ask for special dispensation

 

a papacy will be established at Los Alamos

 

and finally the environs will be granted status as an independent nation

 

diplomats with portfolio and immunity will populate embassies and vases of flowers will sit on many polished tables

 

 

the giant atom will reveal

 

five billion languages he has been hiding

 

 

SIX

astral locale

little island in a sea of blur

 

I was going from one apartment to another

and there were people talking and drinking

people I’d never met before

 

I wore a black cloak with a gold insignia on the shoulder

I had no idea what it was

 

I found myself alone in a room

with an important man who asked me questions

 

pretty soon I realized I was a spy

I had been somewhere else where I’d gathered information

 

I went to my car and drove to the ocean

on the way it started raining and when I got there

a cafe was on fire

it was sizzling and smoking

and fire trucks were pulled up all around it

 

 

the fire chief came up to me and said

 

 

I know you’re in this thing up to your neck

 

 

he strode away like a big shot and started giving orders to his men

 

 

they turned the hoses on him and drove him into the sea


power outside the matrix


SEVEN

…in my Broadway suit and short black winter coat with the belt

 

I’m walking up 6th Avenue on a snowy December afternoon

 

 

nothing to do

 

 

I wander into

a massive granite building

art class

naked model

 

I tell the teacher I studied with Phil Guston and Phil suggested this class

thought it would be good for me to draw the figure

the teacher scrambles and brings me a pad and pencil and I sit there looking at the naked woman

she’s about 40

frozen on a wooden chair

gray eyes

 

After a while, the teacher comes back, looks over my shoulder, and timidly asks, “Would you like my comments?”

 

“Excuse me? What’s that? No, I don’t need any help, I know I’m drawing the model with a very small head and the body of a giantess but I’m looking at the chair and platform too and the street outside and I think it fits because the Great Wheel grinds us down but we always come back..”

 

 

“And,” I say, “suppose the model sitting on the platform knows all this…

 

“I like her leg sticking out over the East River, she’s dangling it above ships and garbage and then do you see how her right shoulder is obscuring New Jersey…

 

 

 

“Do you see how her shoulder is turned to the left of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and the hip loosens the Chelsea District, and one foot, is it a third foot, is entering the 42nd St. Library from the park, and her eyebrow is rattling the George Washington Bridge…”

 

He backs away

 

I take apart the model’s ribs. They’re open books in a shining arboretum.

 

I’m sitting on a bench. Next to me is a ghostly something.

 

“You’ve concealed yourself,” he says. “But you know we permit no visitors. There are penalties.”

 

I nod and look out at hills. Beyond them are immense decks of stone and clouds.

 

“I’m willing to risk it,” I say.

 

“Here, where we live, the paradoxes have all been resolved.”

 

The creature smiles.

 

We sit quietly for a few minutes. The sun sets, and it’s dark all around us.

 

“Go home, stranger,” he says. “This isn’t for you.”

 

“Look,” I say, “I smell a phony deal. You haven’t resolved anything. This is a top-down operation. I’ve seen a lot of them.”

 

I stand up.

 

Then I’m back in the old candy store on Post Road. I buy a Mounds bar, walk to the little space next to the magazine rack, sit on the floor, and count my change. I think about the new church on the hill, the big parking lot, the polished cars on Sunday mornings. The fathers who stand there, looking around, waiting for Marvin or one of his pals to come over and slip them an envelope. I wonder where the money comes from. Miraculously, here’s Marvin now, walking into the store. He sees me. I stare at his shoes. I look up into his eyes and I see an image of God. God is swimming in a sea of money. Heaven is a machine that prints the bills. The candy store is a small-time relay. A toilet flushes. The store owner comes out of his bathroom. He’s a little fat guy with a long face. The molecules of the store are loosening…

 

With a little push I could tip it over and it would fall into the school playground.

 

Marvin bends down and hands me a five-dollar bill. “This is for you, kid,” he says.

 

“My father’s the DA,” I say.

 

“I know.”

 

“It could be construed as a bribe.”

 

Marvin jerks back.

 

“God is printing money,” I say.

 

“You’ll never prove it, kid.”

 

But I could see the pipeline all the way up, and the massive tribes of adrenaline that were supporting the operation. The whole thing had a synthetic feel…

 

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.

Notes on poetry and language: flying farther

Notes on poetry and language: flying farther

by Jon Rappoport

September 4, 2016

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

“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, tongue-tied, 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, but contains an idea or two that seems interesting.  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, they balk.  They wanted to go in orbit around the Earth, all the time looking down on it, and you took them to the next galaxy over.”

“Logic isn’t poetry, and poetry isn’t logic, although each could contain elements of the other.”

“Poetry doesn’t need a story line.  It can consist of a series of fragments or episodes.  Eliot’s The Wasteland is a primary modern example.  But critics don’t want to think about an extension of that approach.  It’s too adventurous.”

“Making the usual kind of sense isn’t the job of poetry.  If you float as you read one line and then fall off a cliff on the next one, so what?  If you have to make a great leap to get from one line to the next, why not?”

“Poetry SUGGESTS.  It gives you image wrapped in sound and sound wrapped in language on the page.  It isn’t a recipe for a cake.  It might be a recipe for seven different kinds of soup at once, and the bowls are all falling off the table.  And as you’re reading the lines and claiming you don’t understand them, they’re bleeding into you and you’re launched into a dream, or the dream you were already in before you read the poem splits apart and you walk through the far wall of it and come out the other side into a future city.  That could happen, too.  To which some people say, “I don’t want that.”  Why not?  Why don’t you want it?  Why don’t you want something that takes you out of your life, out of your state of mind?  The idea of ending up in an unknown place where impossible things are right in front of you ought to be desirable.”

“A poem can crack familiar reality right down the middle and then rearrange it.  Or not.  It can leave that crack right there.”

“When the lines of a poem connect to one another in mysterious non-discursive ways, obviously no language is going to be able to lay out what those connections are.”

Here is a poem that is a series of fragments, which doesn’t mean they’re entirely unconnected.  They aren’t connected in usual ways.  That ought to be a relief.  A relief from how ordinary reality fits together:

 

On the Antediluvian Shores of a Breastfed Paradise

 

Towers pierce the sky,

Unknown millions on the move,

Maroon faces in churches.

 

…hidden columns of air

Words are torn to pieces

By lions on plazas of sandstone

 

 

Driving across the river to a Massachusetts town where textile factories are rotting in the sun, I watch old women putting the wash up on clotheslines

 

The Army pushed Buck out to pasture after

the war he was a mess bad dreams

 

where’s the pasture, Buck said

 

well kid, it’s out in West Virginia

there’s another one in Iowa

very quiet

very

slow motion

 

the nurses carry Glocks

 

 

 

 

 

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists

but who knows maybe we can work something out”

 

 

 

 

“I could have been a prince of one-liners in a soft city of television”

 

 

 

(shining ancestors of Hart Crane and Gregory Corso

 

looked forward to luminous planets

bending

 

down and listening

 

with shell-like ears to horses of the Foam)

 

 

 

 

 

I have no arduous duty in the

the library at Alexandria

I’m there

 

to saturate cities with poets who were once lost

 

 

expose

shatter

 

the amino acid architecture of eternity

 

 

 

I left the city on a train out of Grand Central Station.

 

The train never stopped.

 

It started burning.

 

The fire spread.

 

We were out in the country, and the whole train was burning.

 

We were drinking and singing

 

Finally, the train ran into a lake.

 

We jumped off and stood there and watched it spew cakes of fire into the water.

 

 

 

 

glittering garbage

of fantastic dream

 

 

on its way to a factory

 

on the antediluvian shores of a breastfed paradise

 

 

 

 

 

by his window the patient

 

reads an old newspaper

 

 

 

a newsboy on a bicycle

 

smells apple trees in the dusk

 

and peddles over wet leaves

 

 

Jones Beach in the summer

 

the wind swallows up voices

 

a face stares from a blanket

 

 

eight levels below the sidewalk

 

a forklift wheels gold bars

 

from the NY Federal Reserve to the Chase Morgan vault

 

 

 

you next to me

midnight

 

 

 

the first song, always the first

song

 

 

Child of beauty, child of worry,

this world was made for you

 

 

 

but we pass

 

we pass

 

we pass

 

we pass

 

 

across all those bridges of nostalgia

and are new


power outside the matrix


FURTHER NOTES:

“You can listen to a piece of music and encounter notes and chords which, though very specific (how could they be otherwise?), are unfamiliar.  They don’t correspond to harmonies with which you ‘agree.’  You have no easy reference with which to compare the notes and chords.  What do you do?  What do you conclude?  And more importantly, why do you ‘disagree’ with the notes and chords?  Is it simply because you’ve been educated or somehow trained, as a child, to accept some chords and reject others?  I don’t think so.  I don’t think so at all.”

“There is something about human beings, in the physical sense, which ‘prepares’ them for a certain part of the sound spectrum.  This part is easily accepted.  Other parts are rejected.  But on another level, which isn’t entirely physical, it’s possible to listen to combinations that are ‘objectionable’ and develop an appreciation for them.  Thus, a pattern is broken.”

“When I was young, there were foods I couldn’t eat.  Chinese hot and sour soup, for example.  Or sauerkraut.  But later, with a little work, I began to understand them and their echoes, as it were.”

“Look at the paintings of Soutine.  Everything is out of balance.  Trees and houses are bending and falling over.  These paintings are ‘outside the pattern.’  But you can step beyond the normal ideas of harmony and symmetry and balance.  You can enter his world and find something there.”

“If you stop objecting to Stravinsky, if you put aside your reflex- reaction to the Rite of Spring, you can find something there.  You can become caught up in the storm.  You can embrace the multiple dissonances.  It’s possible.”

“At one time, the gorgeous café scenes of Renoir and the breakfast rooms of Bonnard were looked at as inexcusably primitive.  Now, they’re hearth and home and sumptuously sensuous.”

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.

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.