July 26, 2021

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there was no way to deny it or get around it
her little boy started screaming after the shot
and then 2 days later
the world shut down

he sat in a corner
he lay in his bed
he didn’t speak

the doctor huffed and puffed in back of his steady blank eyes
he assured her this had nothing to do with the shot
it was a predisposition or a genetic trait or a precondition

he smiled now and then
he said autism could have emerged on its own just after the shot was given
as if the universe rearranged itself
at that moment

she saw she was talking to a psychopath
he had been a machine for a long long time

she went into the darkness and pled her case before a government committee
they sat like ancient priests
and listened and glanced at documents
and when they had permitted her the allotted time they handed down their judgment:

no

she went home and took her boy in her arms
he was still
he didn’t look at her
he didn’t speak

she consulted a lawyer
who told her
the manufacturer was protected by an iron wall
he would continue to make the vaccine and sell it
and pocket billions

the long night was closing in
the storm was here
the silent boy was sitting in its eye

rage was burning in the middle of her chest

a rage the public would see as insanity

from a distance, the moon and the stars might know
what was going on
but people in their everyday straitjackets
would lash out at her
because they needed a target
they needed to ridicule a defector from their own slave-shuffle

they obeyed all the small print
they were neutered in their cores
paralytics

but she wields
the two-edged sword in the empire

that cuts away the web
and comes to the spider

no matter what defamation
the intermediary whores
lay at her door

liberty from the living death…Vaccine Woman

She and her family are pre-civilization, civilization, and

Post-civilization

And she will bare the innards of the crime

Her enemies will never know

What it means to have her mission

Vaccine Woman

Love in her breast for her own is one answer

Justice is another

She has a two-edged sword in the Empire

That cuts through the web

And comes to the spider

###

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, The Matrix Revealed, 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 29^th 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.

Copyright © 2021

July 23, 2021

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After money was sold down the river and resurrected on a cross of blood
After a cash-loaded God strolled into town
After the Universal Hospital drugged synapses and drove the wild horses of imagination down into underground canyons
and sculpted androids stepped out in the aftermath buying back their own memories

geologic wraiths spiraled up inside television sets—
their only ambition to stunt prayers for deliverance and kill raw desire—

we watched wildcats of Texas dripping sweat into their high hats pull black blood out of the ground and send it through tubes of night to porcupine refineries on the shores of the Body of Christ
   apostles were resurrected in knife-cutter fins of long Cadillacs running hot across the Kansas plains with blondes in the back seat drinking

New horizontal towns were multiplying on Long Island, stage flats of perfect geometry coddled in the breasts of hopeful mothers asking for redemption from pill-addled afternoons and hallucinatory music cooking in shining ovens
                             monthly budgets laid out neatly on Formica counters below the knives
          distant farm fields dead in the snow
         blank-eyed children walking in the snow
         cultivating nightmares they would one day visit on Reality

I flew over those fields and heard the crackerbox houses rot and rust as nothing ever rotted before

[…]

To read the poem in full, click here.

(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 29^th 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.

by Jon Rappoport

July 14, 2021

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“Aye, harpoons…stuck in him like so many corkscrews. Aye, his spout is big, like Nantucket wheat. Aye, by death and devils, the white whale is Moby-Dick, if Moby-Dick you see! It was Moby-Dick that dismantled me, that reaped off my leg like a mower, a blade of grass and left me with this dead stump I stand on…The prophecy was that I should be dismembered; and—Aye! I lost this leg. I now prophesy that I will dismember my dismemberer.” (Herman Melville, Moby Dick)

Scattered among my files, there are notes for a work called The Magician Awakes. Some notes I’ve already included in articles. Here is one passage I’ve never published. It’s narrated by a character who is wandering through a labyrinth:

“I’ve read everything, and I remember what I’ve read. I’m one of those people who eats books and authors. I’ve read philosophy and mysticism, physics, astronomy, biology and chemistry, mathematics, literature, poetry, history, and so on. And this was all by age 30.”

“After that, I found myself reading only one book, Moby Dick. Now I read it over and over, and the ideas and feelings swell up ever larger.”

“The whale, Ahab, Ishmael, the sea, the minor characters, they keep rising and swelling and increasing. Last year, they were at Saturn and Jupiter size; next year they’ll be consuming a quadrant of the Milky Way; then the whole galaxy; and finally, they’ll be out in indefinable space.”

“I had a dream about God. He, too, was reading Moby Dick over and over, and when I arrived in Heaven, he brought me to his table for a meal, and we sat down. He said, ‘I keep discovering new scenes I’d forgotten. Most people can’t understand I’m always exploring. After all, if I’m infinite, how could I be a finished product? I gave up reading the philosophers a long time ago. You need the sense of the poetic to GO FARTHER. No one seems to realize I didn’t make humans limited creatures. I gave them all doorways into the infinite, without me knowing the whole or even half of what that was’.”

“Where is Melville now?”

“’I gave him a cottage down the road, but he’s been gone from there for some time’.”

“You made the whales. You should know a great deal about them.”

“’I didn’t make Melville’s white whale. That’s his domain, and even he didn’t understand everything about it. How could he? You don’t explore with full knowledge of the map. By the way…look at the Earth. When the intrepid explorers die and rise above the planet, do you think they want to go back and incarnate again? Unlikely in most cases. Because the people in charge down there are obsessed with organizing and controlling the scene in all aspects. THAT means, little by little, Earth is drained of the most adventurous types. Do you see? An unintended consequence. A serious one’.”

“When you say ‘intrepid explorers’, you’re talking about imagination?”

“’How else are you going to navigate the uncreated spaces? In Moby Dick, it seems at first no one has it, but as you read the book over and over, it leaks out to you. Melville is the one with imagination. The course of the whale and Ahab and even Ishmael is set, but something else is there. An X factor. It’s the book above the book. It’s as if Melville wrote TWO. He wanted to. He wanted the inevitable tragedy. But something else in him couldn’t abide only that. It was his poetic sense. It shines through’.”

“Remember this Melville observation? ‘There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces’.”

“’That eagle-soul. Did I make it that way? Yes and no. I gave it an abundance of courage, but the soul decided he could range and roam in those extreme places. It’s freedom. Without it I would have created nothing more than a puppet show. People start out believing in a closed system. They think everything they want they can find inside that system. They can make magic from the inside. But they can’t. They never have. They have to get OUTSIDE, and then they have the ability. Sometimes what starts out as freedom turns into a system. Because they want to organize the parts. They’re rabid finishers and polishers. So then they’re INSIDE again. I’ve been writing a poem for some time. It’s about 100,000 pages now. I’m just getting warmed up. If you, the soul, were a physical form, which you’re not, MAGIC would live in the muscles and ligaments and arteries and nerves and heart and spleen and brain and liver and fingers and toes and ears and of course the eyes—it can’t be contained. It’s everything that exists outside systems. If my image is put inside a system, drop it off at the side of the road. It’s lost any value it might once have had. Infinite means INFINITE. I’m not messing around. The obsession with the little stuff is an affectation. That doesn’t mean you go with vague dead-leaf generalities. You throw every single thing you can think of into the mix. Cars, old tires, trinkets, gold shoes, bullets, road signs, rivers…I like to assume every person is writing an endless poem, whether he knows it or not, and there are plenty of bad ones, believe me. That’s because people are hypnotized by empty ideas. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll catch on sooner or later. Because again, INFINITE is REAL. There, two birds on every branch. The first one is a piece of the white picket fence and the white clouds and the horse and buggy moving along on the familiar street in the middle of town, but that bird is also one thing and creature in the mix of an endless poem that has lines as long as you want to make them…old Walt Whitman knew that. Read one of his eruptions. There are some truly terrible lines in there I would have edited out, but they have to be there, because he’s working up a head of steam, he’s moving toward a few immortal and unpredictable and unfathomable words strung together, and when you read them you’re stunned in your tracks, you can’t move for a few moments. I see you’ve been wandering in a labyrinth for a long time. You’re trying to figure out how to escape. This is a joke. There is no escape, which means there is no exit. That place where you came in? It’s closed now. You’re in a system, lad. Don’t fret. Just keep writing the poem. Look around you. What’s there? Throw it all into the mix. The old socks and the kitchen sink. And pretty soon you’ll be outside. Not by finding the exit. By magic. Come back around in a year or so and see me. I do readings now and then. We sit around and tell stories. There’s music. A few pals of mine, Ravi, Bird, Bud, Sonny, Igor. Bust the system, kiddo. That’s what it’s all about. The system in the mind. Just go the other way. The long shot turns out to be the favorite every time. It’s magic…’”

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, The Matrix Revealed, 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 29^th 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.

March 25, 2019

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—recounted as a dialogue—

“Well, Jim, we found a few interesting things when we went into your brain.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A whole lot of poems, in fact.”

“What?! Impossible. That has to be a mistake. I’m just an ordinary guy. I go to work, have a few beers, take the train home, eat dinner, read the paper, do a little note-writing on experiments at the lab, go to bed around midnight…”

“Jim, I’m not asking for your biography—”

“I know, Doc, but what you’re telling me is crazy. I like a limerick now and then, but the weird stuff…Shakespeare and Milton…that’s for the dome heads. I’m just…”

“You’re a regular guy. Got that, Jim. However, I can show you X-rays. Scans. There’s poetry in your brain, and it’s threatening to take over your cerebral cortex unless we go in and do a second surgery.”

“Take over? You’re joking.”

“You have to face up to a few things, Jimbo. You’re actually posing as just another Joe, and it’s a good impression, I’m sure, but inside you there are poems waiting to come out. And if they do, it’s going to get ugly, believe me. For one thing, you’ll see more.”

“See more what?”

“More of what existence can be.”

“THERE ISN’T ANYTHING MORE. There’s what I do every day. My work. My family. My salary. Beers with the boys. Football. I love football.”

“Yes, we all love football, Jim. It’s mandatory. But you…let me read one of the poems we found in your brain.”

“HELL NO.”

“It won’t hurt that much.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Now as I was young and easy, under the apple boughs, about the lilting house, and happy as the grass was green—”

“STOP!”

“Okay, Jim, take it easy, it’s in your head, don’t blame me. We’ve discovered that…how I can put this…on some level you’re always thinking in poetry. Your whole consciousness is involved, and if we were to take the poems away, you’d go into a deep sleep, a kind of amnesia, perhaps a coma, and you’d never wake up. So we can’t surgically remove the poems. At best we can bury them deeper.”

“Do it. Bury them. Bury them all.”

“Yes, Jim, but hear me out. If we do that, you’ll lose something.”

“You mean I won’t like football anymore?”

“No, Jim. You’ll still have football. But you might not have beer. Just kidding. Ha-ha. What you might lose is your interest in life.”

“What do you mean?”

“You may not feel alive in the same way. You could become very dull.”

“How’s that possible, Doc. You’re just getting rid of poems. Who cares?”

“Well, Jim, apparently you do. As much as you’d like to deny it, your existence, your feeling about what it means to be alive—even though you’re trying to emphasize how ordinary you are—is wrapped up in a certain poetic consciousness. I know, it’s strange. But again, don’t blame me.”

“Look, Doc, you went into my skull to remove some kind of little blockage. And then you came up with these poems. And now you want to bury them. But you say if you do, I might turn into a zombie.”

“In the surgery, Jim, there was a leakage. Poems started to come through. We put in a plug, but it’s just temporary. It’s a delicate situation. Going back in a second time, we either let out all the poems, or we build a thicker wall.”

“Let me ask you a question, Doc. This thing, consciousness. What is it?”

“It’s two things, Jim. It’s what makes you know you’re alive, and it’s also how you’re alive. That second part is tricky. You’re alive, Jim, through connecting with the rhythm and sound of certain thoughts, certain energies. And these energies would NEVER come through to you if it weren’t for language, and that language is poetic. It’s much greater than the reality we see around us. You dampen down that language, Jim, because you want to appear normal. It’s your goal in life, to pretend not to understand anything about this. Do you see? You want to come off like a regular guy, who’s smart and good at his job, and who knows what’s happening in the world. But you don’t want to admit you’re connected to…that thing you’re afraid of.”

“But LOOK. I AM a regular guy. All right, so I read the newspaper and I can look behind the stories and I can see a lot of the con games the government is playing on people. I can see crimes and conspiracies. I know something about who’s running the show, who’s behind the curtain. I take pride in that. But this poetry thing. It’s crazy.”

“Yes, I understand, Jim. But that’s not going to cut it in this case. We’re at a serious crossroad. We have to do something. You’re playing with fire, trying to deny your connection. On some level, you’re participating in a greater reality. You’re thinking on a different plane, and that thinking is what we call poetry. We could call it Budweiser, but it wouldn’t make any difference. It’s thought with higher force. It’s great and grand ideas. And they’re coming from you, from your mind. You want to say you’re living in a pond, but you’re living in the ocean. Let me put it this way. If you weren’t accessing oceanic consciousness, you couldn’t step it all down and appear to be a normal very smart guy. It wouldn’t work. You’d have nothing to dampen down.”

“What would I be?”

“A broccoli. A head of lettuce.”

“You’re serious?”

“As serious as an aneurism, Jim.”

“Geez, Doc, this is bad. My whole reputation, my whole rep with MYSELF is riding on the fact that I’m a hardheaded realist. Do you get what’s at stake here?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m being so forthcoming. I could have put you under without you knowing it and just cut into your skull again. But I wanted to explain the whole thing to you and give you a choice. You see, Jim, the truth is we’re all living in a charade. We’re all faking it. We’re pretending we don’t have these fantastic energies in us. We’re all stepping it down to average and normal and smart.

It just so happens that, by the luck of the draw, my assistant in the OR nicked a little piece of your brain and opened up a portal into what we’re all trying to avoid. We’re all hooked up to our own poetic centers. We all see life in much wider and deeper terms. I don’t mean little stupid rhymes. I mean great language that vaults us up into atmospheres and spaces that…well, I can’t really do it justice sitting here talking to you. But this is mind control here, Jim. The most profound kind. Self-induced. We do it to ourselves. We cut off access. We keep ourselves ignorant about the language we have…the genuine language that comes out of imagination. If I operate on you again, there’s a chance the wall we build will be too thick, and you’ll wake up with very little awareness. You’ll be regular and normal and average for real. And trust me, Jim, that’s a nightmare. I’ve seen it. The person is, to put it kindly, at an enormous disadvantage.”

“What should I do, Doc?”

“Take a chance, Jim. Let us clear away any scar tissue and just leave an open portal. Let the language and the energies come through. From one faker to another, go for it. Go for the great adventure. Who knows what’ll it be? One thing’s for sure. You won’t be sitting here whining to me. You’ll be you. Dealing with that won’t be easy, but with enough guts, you could make it through. You could show us what we don’t want to see.”

“Doesn’t sound very appealing.”

“That won’t be your problem, Jim. I guarantee it. The problem is, it’ll be too appealing.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. Being who you are is what you’ve sacrificed your whole life. You’re going to retract that sacrifice. Think of it that way. You’re going to pull away the sacrifice like an old coat and burn it in the fire of a thousand new suns…”

“Or else come back as a carrot.”

“Pretty much. People around you will still think you’re Jim, but inside you won’t be anybody or anything. You’ll be a robot with no real consciousness.”

“I hate poetry, Doc.”

“Why do you think that is, Jim?”

“I don’t know. I want things to be simple and clear. Like a story. Beginning, middle, end.”

“Wrapped up like a nice neat package.”

“That’s right.”

“Like your life.”

“Why not?”

“You tell me.”

“I hate poetry.”

“We all do, Jim. It reminds us of something we’d rather forget.”

“So help me forget it, Doc.”

“You want to be a zombie.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Imagine a world full of zombies, Jim. Everybody cut off from their oceanic consciousness. No poetry ever again.”

“Sounds good. Sounds like realism. No more conflict. No more demons.”

“Demons? Is that what you think I’m talking about, Jim? Your greatest thoughts and energies expressed with their greatest force, with raw beauty and—”

“They’re not RATIONAL, Doc. They’re meaningless. I don’t understand those thoughts. They don’t make any sense.”

“If we build that wall in your brain, Jim, what’s left of you will be a machine. Do you get that?”

“That’s what I want. I want to be a machine. I’ll be fine.”

“Well…okay, kid. Your choice. Your destiny. We’ll prep you for surgery. We’ll make those trillion watts of energy shrink down to a ten-watt bulb.”

“This thing you call poetic consciousness, Doc? It’s just a delusion. And I want to get rid of it.”

“Okay, Jim, I’ll put the genie back in the bottle.”

“Nice talking to you, Doc.”

“I wish that were true, Jim. TYGER, TYGER, BURNING BRIGHT, IN THE FORESTS OF THE NIGHT, WHAT IMMORTAL HAND OR EYE COULD FRAME THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY?”

“See, Doc. That’s just what I mean. What the hell kind of talk is that? I don’t understand it! Get rid of it!”

“Sorry, kid, it just slipped out. I’ll go get ready. Relax. The nurse’ll be in in a minute. Piece of cake.”

“Poetry. Ridiculous. It’s for idiots.”

“Sure, kid.”

“We don’t need poets.”

“Of course not. One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is
myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or
ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can
wait.

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are
with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I
translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

…I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

Press close bare-bosom’d night — press close magnetic
nourishing night!
Night of south winds — night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night — mad naked summer night.

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath’d earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset — earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow’d earth — rich apple-blossom’d earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.

Prodigal, you have given me love — therefore I to you give
love!”

(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 29^th 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.

February 16, 2017

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Introductory remarks:

Members of the press, it’s an honor to be here among you today, especially since I’ve been told that, in this room, where press conferences are held often, people read poems. Is this not correct? I have also been told that journalists gobble up and spread far and wide these poems, and are overjoyed to hear them. No? Have I been misinformed? Well, regardless, I’m going to read a poem I wrote now, and I sincerely hope you listen to it; because it is listening to you:

Vaccine Woman

there was no way to deny it or get around it
her little boy started screaming after the shot
and then 2 days later
the world shut down

he sat in a corner
he lay in his bed
he didn’t speak

the doctor huffed and puffed and tap danced in back of his steady blank eyes
he assured her this had nothing to do with the shot
it was a predisposition or a genetic trait or a precondition

he smiled now and then
he said autism could have emerged on its own just after the shot was given
as if the universe rearranged itself
at that moment

she saw she was talking to a psychopath trained in the art of knowing everything there was to know
he had been a machine for a long long time

she went into the darkness and pleaded her case before a government committee
they sat like ancient high priests
and listened and glanced at documents
and when they had permitted her the allotted time they handed down their judgment:

no

she went home and took her boy in her arms
he was still
he didn’t look at her
he didn’t speak

she consulted a lawyer
who told her
the manufacturer was protected by an iron wall
they would continue to make the vaccine and sell it
and pocket billions

the long night was closing in
the storm was here
the silent boy was sitting in its eye

rage was burning in the middle of her chest

a rage the public would see as insanity

from their distance, the moon and the stars might know
what was going on
but people in their everyday straitjackets
would lash out at her
because they needed a target
they needed to ridicule a defector from their own slave-shuffle

they were “good,” they obeyed all the small print
they were neutered in their cores
paralytics

but she wields
the two-edged sword in the empire

that cuts away the web
and comes to the spider

no matter what defamation
the intermediary whores
lay at her door

lady liberty

liberty
from living death…

Vaccine Woman

She and her family are pre-civilization, civilization, and

Post-civilization

And she will go to the ends of the earth

To lay bare the innards of the crime

Her enemies will never know

What it means to have a mission that is eternal

But she knows

Vaccine Woman

Love in her breast is one answer

But justice is the other

She has a two-edged sword in the Empire

That cuts through the web

And comes to the spider

Vaccine Woman

###

(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 29^th 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.

April 6, 2015

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there was no way to deny it or get around it
her little boy started screaming after the shot
and then 2 days later
the world shut down

he sat in a corner
he lay in his bed
he didn’t talk

the doctor huffed and puffed and tap danced in back of his steady blank eyes
he assured her this had nothing to do with the shot
it was a predisposition or a genetic trait or a precondition

he smiled now and then
he said autism could have emerged just after the shot was given
the universe rearranged itself
at that moment

there was no getting around it
she saw she was talking to a psychopath trained in the art of knowing everything there was to know
he had been a machine for a long long time

she went into the darkness and pleaded her case before a government committee
they sat like ancient high priests
and listened and glanced at documents
and when they had permitted her the allotted time they handed down their judgment:

no

she went home and took her boy in her arms
he was still
he didn’t look at her
he didn’t speak

she consulted a lawyer
who told her
the company was protected by an iron wall
they would continue to make the vaccine and sell it
and pocket billions

the long night was closing in
the storm was here
the silent boy was sitting in the eye

rage was burning in the middle of her chest

a rage the public would see as insanity

from their distance, the moon and the stars might know
what was going on
but people in their everyday straitjackets
would lash out at her
because they needed a target,
they needed a defector from their own slave shuffle to ridicule

they were good, they obeyed all the small print
they were neutered in their cores
paralytics

but she is not alone
there are other mothers
and there is a strange

two-edged sword in the empire

that cuts away the web
and comes to the spider

no matter what defamation
the intermediary whores
of the press
lay at her door

Vaccine Woman

###

(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 29^th 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.

March 22, 2014

(To join our email list, click here.)

~recounted as a dialogue~

“Well, Jim, we found a few interesting things when we went into your brain.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A whole lot of poems, in fact.”

“What?! Impossible. That has to be a mistake. I’m just an ordinary guy. I go to work, have a few beers, take the train home, eat dinner, read the paper, do a little note-writing on experiments at the lab, go to bed around midnight…”

“Jim, I’m not asking for your biography—”

“I know, Doc, but what you’re telling me is crazy. I like a limerick now and then, but the weird stuff…Shakespeare and Milton…that’s for the dome heads. I’m just…”

“You’re a regular guy. Got that, Jim. However, I can show you X-rays. Scans. There’s poetry in your brain, and it’s threatening to take over your cerebral cortex unless we go in and do a second surgery.”

“Take over? You’re joking.”

“You have to face up to a few things, Jimbo. You’re actually posing as just another Joe, and it’s a good impression, I’m sure, but inside you there are poems waiting to come out. And if they do, it’s going to get ugly, believe me. For one thing, you’ll see more.”

“See more what?”

“More of what existence can be.”

“THERE ISN’T ANYTHING MORE. There’s what I do every day. My work. My family. My salary. Beers with the boys. Football. I love football.”

“Yes, we all love football, Jim. It’s mandatory. But you…let me read one of the poems we found in your brain.”

“HELL NO.”

“It won’t hurt that much.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Now as I was young and easy, under the apple boughs, about the lilting house, and happy as the grass was green—”

“STOP!”

“Okay, Jim, take it easy, it’s in your head, don’t blame me. We’ve discovered that…how I can put this…on some level you’re always thinking in poetry. Your whole consciousness is involved, and if we were to take the poems away, you’d go into a deep sleep, a kind of amnesia, perhaps a coma, and you’d never wake up. So we can’t surgically remove the poems. At best we can bury them deeper.”

“Do it. Bury them. Bury them all.”

“Yes, Jim, but hear me out. If we do that, you’ll lose something.”

“You mean I won’t like football anymore?”

“No, Jim. You’ll still have football. But you might not have beer. Just kidding. Ha-ha. What you might lose is your interest in life.”

“What do you mean?”

“You may not feel alive in the same way. You could become very dull.”

“How’s that possible, Doc. You’re just getting rid of poems. Who cares?”

“Well, Jim, apparently you do. As much as you’d like to deny it, your existence, your feeling about what it means to be alive—even though you’re trying to emphasize how ordinary you are—is wrapped up in a certain poetic consciousness. I know, it’s strange. But again, don’t blame me.”

“Look, Doc, you went into my skull to remove some kind of little blockage. And then you came up with these poems. And now you want to bury them. But you say if you do, I might turn into a zombie.”

“In the surgery, Jim, there was a leakage. Poems started to come through. We put in a plug, but it’s just temporary. It’s a delicate situation. Going back in a second time, we either let out all the poems, or we build a thicker wall.”

“Let me ask you a question, Doc. This thing, consciousness. What is it?”

“It’s two things, Jim. It’s what makes you know you’re alive, and it’s also how you’re alive. That second part is tricky. You’re connecting with the rhythm and sound of certain thoughts, certain energies. And these energies would NEVER come through to you if it weren’t for language, and that language is poetic. It’s much greater than the reality we see around us. You dampen down that language, Jim, because you want to appear normal. It’s your goal in life, to pretend not to understand anything about this. Do you see? You want to come off like a regular guy, who’s smart and good at his job, and who knows what’s happening in the world. But you don’t want to admit you’re connected to…that thing you’re afraid of.”

“But LOOK. I AM a regular guy. All right, so I read the newspaper and I can look behind the stories and I can see a lot of the con games the government is playing on people. I know something about who’s running the show, who’s behind the curtain. I take pride in that. But this poetry thing. It’s crazy.”

“Yes, I understand, Jim. But that’s not going to cut it in this case. We’re at a serious crossroad. We have to do something. You’re playing with fire, trying to deny your connection. Because on some level, you’re participating in a greater reality. You’re thinking on a different plane, and that thinking is what we call poetry. We could call it Budweiser, but it wouldn’t make any difference. It’s thought with higher force. And it’s coming from you, from your mind. You want to say you’re living in a pond, but you’re living in the ocean. Let me put it this way. If you weren’t accessing oceanic consciousness, you couldn’t step it all down and appear to be a normal very smart guy. It wouldn’t work. You’d have nothing to step down from.”

“What would I be?”

“A broccoli. A head of lettuce.”

“You’re serious?”

“As serious as an aneurism, Jim.”

“Geez, Doc, this is bad. My whole reputation, my whole rep with MYSELF is riding on the fact that I’m a hardheaded realist. Do you get what’s at stake here?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m being so forthcoming. I could have put you under without you knowing it and just cut into your skull again. But I wanted to explain the whole thing to you and give you a choice. You see, Jim, the truth is we’re all living in a charade. We’re all faking it. We’re pretending we don’t have these fantastic energies in us. We’re all stepping it down to average and normal and smart.

It just so happens that, by the luck of the draw, my assistant in the OR nicked a little piece of your brain and opened up a portal into what we’re all trying to avoid. We’re all hooked up to our own poetic centers. I don’t mean little stupid rhymes. I mean great language that vaults us up into atmospheres and spaces that…well, I can’t really do it justice sitting here talking to you. But this is mind control here, Jim. The most profound kind. Self-induced. We do it to ourselves. We cut off access. We keep ourselves ignorant about the language we have…the genuine language that comes out of imagination. If I operate on you again, there’s a chance the wall we build will be too thick, and you’ll wake up with very little awareness. You’ll be regular and normal and average for REAL. And trust me, Jim, that’s a nightmare. I’ve seen it.

“What should I do, Doc?”

“Take a chance, Jim. Let us clear away any scar tissue and just leave an open portal. Let the language and the energies come through. From one faker to another, go for it. Go for the great adventure. Who knows what’ll it be? One thing’s for sure. You won’t be sitting here whining to me. You’ll be you. Dealing with that won’t be easy, but with enough guts, you could make it through. You could show us what we don’t want to see.”

“Doesn’t sound very appealing.”

“That won’t be your problem, Jim. I guarantee it. The problem is, it’ll be too appealing.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. Being who you are is what you’ve sacrificed your whole life. You’re going to retract that sacrifice. Think of it that way. You’re going to pull away the sacrifice like an old coat and burn it in the fire of a thousand new suns…”

“Or else come back as a carrot.”

“In which case, people around you will still think you’re Jim, but inside you won’t be anybody or anything. You’ll be a robot with no real consciousness.”

“I hate poetry, Doc.”

“Why do you think that is, Jim?”

“I don’t know. I want things to be simple and clear. Like a story. Beginning, middle, end.”

“Wrapped up like a nice neat package.”

“That’s right.”

“Like your life.”

“Why not?”

“You tell me.”

“I hate poetry.”

“We all do, Jim. It reminds us of something we’d rather forget.”

“So help me forget it, Doc.”

“You want to be a zombie.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Imagine a world full of zombies, Jim. Everybody cut off from their oceanic consciousness.”

“Sounds good. Sounds like realism. No more conflict. No more demons.”

“Demons? Is that what you think I’m talking about, Jim? Your greatest thoughts and energies expressed with their greatest force, with—”

“They’re not RATIONAL, Doc. They’re meaningless. I don’t understand those thoughts. They don’t make any sense.”

“If we build that wall in your brain, Jim, what’s left of you will be a machine. Do you get that?”

“That’s what I want. I want to be a machine. I’ll be fine.”

“Well…okay, kid. Your choice. Your destiny. We’ll prep you for surgery. We’ll make those trillion watts of energy shrink down to a ten-watt bulb.”

“This thing you call poetic consciousness, Doc? It’s just a delusion. And I want to get rid of it.”

“Okay, Jim, I’ll put the genie back in the bottle.”

“Nice talking to you, Doc.”

“I wish that were true, Jim. TYGER, TYGER, BURNING BRIGHT, IN THE FORESTS OF THE NIGHT, WHAT IMMORTAL HAND OR EYE COULD FRAME THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY?”

“See, Doc. That’s just what I mean. What the hell kind of talk is that? I don’t understand it! Get rid of it!”

“Sorry, kid, it just slipped out. I’ll go get ready. Relax. The nurse’ll be in in a minute. Piece of cake.”

“Poetry. Ridiculous. It’s for idiots.”

“Sure, kid.”

“We don’t need poets.”

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

“Of course not. One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is
myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or
ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can
wait.

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset…Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon!…

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 29^th 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.

November 27, 2013

(To join our email list, click here.)

there was no way to deny it or get around it

her little boy started screaming after the shot

and then 2 days later

the world shut down

he sat in a corner

he lay in his bed

he didn’t talk

the doctor huffed and puffed and tap danced in front of his steady blank eyes

he assured her this had nothing to do with the shot

it was a predisposition or a genetic trait or a precondition

he smiled now and then

he said autism could have emerged just after the shot was given

the universe rearranged itself

at that moment

there was no getting around it

she saw she was talking to a psychopath trained in the art of knowing everything there was to know

he had been a machine for a long, long time

she went into the darkness and pleaded her case before a government committee

they sat like ancient high priests

and listened and glanced at documents

and when they had permitted her the allotted time they handed down their judgment:

no

she went home and took her boy in her arms

he was still

he didn’t look at her

he didn’t speak

she consulted a lawyer

who told her there was a regulation that prevented her from suing the vaccine manufacturer

the company was protected by an iron wall

they would continue to make the vaccine and sell it

and pocket hundreds of millions of dollars

the long night was closing in

the storm was here

the silent boy was sitting in the eye

rage was burning in the middle of her chest

a rage the public would see as insanity

from their distance, the moon and the stars might know

what was going on

but people in their everyday straitjackets

would lash out at her

because they needed a target,

they needed a defector from their own slave shuffle to ridicule

they were “good,” they obeyed all the small print

they were neutered in their cores

paralytics

they all knew there was big money at stake

and when that was on the table

official killers won

but she is not alone

there are other mothers

and there is a strange

two-edged sword in the empire

anyone can pick it up

and use it

cutting away the web

and coming to the spider

she and her companions

will never put down the sword

no matter what defamation

the intermediary whores

of the press

lay at her door

Vaccine Woman

###

(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 29^th 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.

August 20, 2013

(To join our email list, click here.)

—recounted as a dialogue—

“Well, Jim, we found a few interesting things when we went into your brain.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A whole lot of poems, in fact.”

“What?! Impossible. That has to be a mistake. I’m just an ordinary guy. I go to work, have a few beers, take the train home, eat dinner, read the paper, do a little note-writing on experiments at the lab, go to bed around midnight…”

“Jim, I’m not asking for your biography—”

“I know, Doc, but what you’re telling me is crazy. I like a limerick now and then, but the weird stuff…Shakespeare and Milton…that’s for the dome heads. I’m just…”

“You’re a regular guy. Got that, Jim. However, I can show you X-rays. Scans. There’s poetry in your brain, and it’s threatening to take over your cerebral cortex unless we go in and do a second surgery.”

“Take over? You’re joking.”

“You have to face up to a few things, Jimbo. You’re actually posing as just another Joe, and it’s a good impression, I’m sure, but inside you there are poems waiting to come out. And if they do, it’s going to get ugly, believe me. For one thing, you’ll see more.”

“See more what?”

“More of what existence can be.”

“THERE ISN’T ANYTHING MORE. There’s what I do every day. My work. My family. My salary. Beers with the boys. Football. I love football.”

“Yes, we all love football, Jim. It’s mandatory. But you…let me read one of the poems we found in your brain.”

“HELL NO.”

“It won’t hurt that much.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Now as I was young and easy, under the apple boughs, about the lilting house, and happy as the grass was green—”

“STOP!”

“Okay, Jim, take it easy, it’s in your head, don’t blame me. We’ve discovered that…how I can put this…on some level you’re always thinking in poetry. Your whole consciousness is involved, and if we were to take the poems away, you’d go into a deep sleep, a kind of amnesia, perhaps a coma, and you’d never wake up. So we can’t surgically remove the poems. At best we can bury them deeper.”

“Do it. Bury them. Bury them all.”

“Yes, Jim, but hear me out. If we do that, you’ll lose something.”

“You mean I won’t like football anymore?”

“No, Jim. You’ll still have football. But you might not have beer. Just kidding. Ha-ha. What you might lose is your interest in life.”

“What do you mean?”

“You may not feel alive in the same way. You could become very dull.”

“How’s that possible, Doc. You’re just getting rid of poems. Who cares?”

“Well, Jim, apparently you do. As much as you’d like to deny it, your existence, your feeling about what it means to be alive—even though you’re trying to emphasize how ordinary you are—is wrapped up in a certain poetic consciousness. I know, it’s strange. But again, don’t blame me.”

“Look, Doc, you went into my skull to remove some kind of little blockage. And then you came up with these poems. And now you want to bury them. But you say if you do, I might turn into a zombie.”

“In the surgery, Jim, there was a leakage. Poems started to come through. We put in a plug, but it’s just temporary. It’s a delicate situation. Going back in a second time, we either let out all the poems, or we build a thicker wall.”

“Let me ask you a question, Doc. This thing, consciousness. What is it?”

“It’s two things, Jim. It’s what makes you know you’re alive, and it’s also how you’re alive. That second part is tricky. You’re alive, Jim, through connecting with the rhythm and sound of certain thoughts, certain energies. And these energies would NEVER come through to you if it weren’t for language, and that language is poetic. It’s much greater than the reality we see around us. You dampen down that language, Jim, because you want to appear normal. It’s your goal in life, to pretend not to understand anything about this. Do you see? You want to come off like a regular guy, who’s smart and good at his job, and who knows what’s happening in the world. But you don’t want to admit you’re connected to…that thing you’re afraid of.”

“But LOOK. I AM a regular guy. All right, so I read the newspaper and I can look behind the stories and I can see a lot of the con games the government is playing on people. I can see crimes and conspiracies. I know something about who’s running the show, who’s behind the curtain. I take pride in that. But this poetry thing. It’s crazy.”

“Yes, I understand, Jim. But that’s not going to cut it in this case. We’re at a serious crossroad. We have to do something. You’re playing with fire, trying to deny your connection. On some level, you’re participating in a greater reality. You’re thinking on a different plane, and that thinking is what we call poetry. We could call it Budweiser, but it wouldn’t make any difference. It’s thought with higher force. It’s great and grand ideas. And they’re coming from you, from your mind. You want to say you’re living in a pond, but you’re living in the ocean. Let me put it this way. If you weren’t accessing oceanic consciousness, you couldn’t step it all down and appear to be a normal very smart guy. It wouldn’t work. You’d have nothing to dampen down.”

“What would I be?”

“A broccoli. A head of lettuce.”

“You’re serious?”

“As serious as an aneurism, Jim.”

“Geez, Doc, this is bad. My whole reputation, my whole rep with MYSELF is riding on the fact that I’m a hardheaded realist. Do you get what’s at stake here?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m being so forthcoming. I could have put you under without you knowing it and just cut into your skull again. But I wanted to explain the whole thing to you and give you a choice. You see, Jim, the truth is we’re all living in a charade. We’re all faking it. We’re pretending we don’t have these fantastic energies in us. We’re all stepping it down to average and normal and smart.

It just so happens that, by the luck of the draw, my assistant in the OR nicked a little piece of your brain and opened up a portal into what we’re all trying to avoid. We’re all hooked up to our own poetic centers. We all see life in much wider and deeper terms. I don’t mean little stupid rhymes. I mean great language that vaults us up into atmospheres and spaces that…well, I can’t really do it justice sitting here talking to you. But this is mind control here, Jim. The most profound kind. Self-induced. We do it to ourselves. We cut off access. We keep ourselves ignorant about the language we have…the genuine language that comes out of imagination. If I operate on you again, there’s a chance the wall we build will be too thick, and you’ll wake up with very little awareness. You’ll be regular and normal and average for real. And trust me, Jim, that’s a nightmare. I’ve seen it. The person is, to put it kindly, at an enormous disadvantage.”

“What should I do, Doc?”

“Take a chance, Jim. Let us clear away any scar tissue and just leave an open portal. Let the language and the energies come through. From one faker to another, go for it. Go for the great adventure. Who knows what’ll it be? One thing’s for sure. You won’t be sitting here whining to me. You’ll be you. Dealing with that won’t be easy, but with enough guts, you could make it through. You could show us what we don’t want to see.”

“Doesn’t sound very appealing.”

“That won’t be your problem, Jim. I guarantee it. The problem is, it’ll be too appealing.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. Being who you are is what you’ve sacrificed your whole life. You’re going to retract that sacrifice. Think of it that way. You’re going to pull away the sacrifice like an old coat and burn it in the fire of a thousand new suns…”

“Or else come back as a carrot.”

“Pretty much. People around you will still think you’re Jim, but inside you won’t be anybody or anything. You’ll be a robot with no real consciousness.”

“I hate poetry, Doc.”

“Why do you think that is, Jim?”

“I don’t know. I want things to be simple and clear. Like a story. Beginning, middle, end.”

“Wrapped up like a nice neat package.”

“That’s right.”

“Like your life.”

“Why not?”

“You tell me.”

“I hate poetry.”

“We all do, Jim. It reminds us of something we’d rather forget.”

“So help me forget it, Doc.”

“You want to be a zombie.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Imagine a world full of zombies, Jim. Everybody cut off from their oceanic consciousness. No poetry ever again.”

“Sounds good. Sounds like realism. No more conflict. No more demons.”

“Demons? Is that what you think I’m talking about, Jim? Your greatest thoughts and energies expressed with their greatest force, with raw beauty and—”

“They’re not RATIONAL, Doc. They’re meaningless. I don’t understand those thoughts. They don’t make any sense.”

“If we build that wall in your brain, Jim, what’s left of you will be a machine. Do you get that?”

“That’s what I want. I want to be a machine. I’ll be fine.”

“Well…okay, kid. Your choice. Your destiny. We’ll prep you for surgery. We’ll make those trillion watts of energy shrink down to a ten-watt bulb.”

“This thing you call poetic consciousness, Doc? It’s just a delusion. And I want to get rid of it.”

“Okay, Jim, I’ll put the genie back in the bottle.”

“Nice talking to you, Doc.”

“I wish that were true, Jim. TYGER, TYGER, BURNING BRIGHT, IN THE FORESTS OF THE NIGHT, WHAT IMMORTAL HAND OR EYE COULD FRAME THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY?”

“See, Doc. That’s just what I mean. What the hell kind of talk is that? I don’t understand it! Get rid of it!”

“Sorry, kid, it just slipped out. I’ll go get ready. Relax. The nurse’ll be in in a minute. Piece of cake.”

“Poetry. Ridiculous. It’s for idiots.”

“Sure, kid.”

“We don’t need poets.”

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

“Of course not. One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is
myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or
ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can
wait.

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are
with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I
translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

…I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

Press close bare-bosom’d night — press close magnetic
nourishing night!
Night of south winds — night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night — mad naked summer night.

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath’d earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset — earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow’d earth — rich apple-blossom’d earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.

Prodigal, you have given me love — therefore I to you give
love!”

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 29^th 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.

July 19, 2013

(To join our email list, click here.)

Democracy is rule by “everybody.” Rule by the mob.

But these are fictions. There is no such thing as rule by everybody or by “the voice of every citizen.”

Politicians and their cronies, of course, know this. So one of their jobs is to present illusions of “togetherness.” These illusions are crafted. They are long-term covert ops.

PR people and propagandists and educators and media pundits are deployed for the purpose of painting pictures of “free democracy,” whatever that means. (Note: it doesn’t refer to the Bill of Rights, because that was part of designing a constitutional Republic.)

In a democracy, organizations of citizens are put together. These groups then reach out to government with their agendas. Each group becomes a faux individual seeking…what? Key symbols and phrases are deployed to answer that question—and one of the most potent is JUSTICE.

Groups are going to government to find justice.

This action becomes part of the mythology of what democracy is.

Hundreds, thousands of groups in the democracy seek justice, which simply means: favorable treatment. I’m talking about every kind of favor, from government-funded gender-changing surgery all the way to massive corporate tax breaks…and everything in between.

If you add up all the long-term effects and outcomes of this seeking, you discover that much of what the groups win for themselves doesn’t last. It deteriorates over time. Planned obsolescence is built into the system.

The quality of individual, free, independent, responsible, ethical life, for example, certainly doesn’t improve. Instead, we get politically correct life, in which people are expected to talk and act in ways that reflect “care, concern, mutual admiration, acceptance, passivity.”

This charade is promoted as progress. It’s really a program. It’s a script. It’s a stage play. It’s called democracy.

It supports small, medium, large, and jumbo crimes. Paid for by taxes.

What’s actually happening in democracy is consolidation of power at the top. The top includes both corporations and governments. But what’s out front is share and care. That’s the flag rippling with all its stars to obscure the true operation.

If a constitutional republic, with severely limited government, can exist at all, it requires eyeballs looking at each other close up. It requires small populations, educated and dynamically charged with living ideals, not dead ones.

The covert op called democracy, on the other hand, requires groups seeking so-called justice to be pitted against each other to fight over a limited pie.

Here is a cameo. In the early 1980s, I interviewed a dean of students at UCLA about the mood and attitude on campus, in the wake of the Vietnam war.

He told me that, during the late 60s and early 70s, students were united in their protests against the war, but once the forced military draft was called off, the students broke up into groups seeking justice (money) from the University.

The competition among groups, he said, was quite nasty and vicious. It involved character attacks, wild accusations, and threats.

This might seem like a vindication of the unity that had prevailed during Vietnam, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that the military industrial complex made out quite well during that war; and various wars and police actions since Vietnam—Iraq and Afghanistan the most extensive—have continued to line the pockets of military-industrial mongers.

Here is the elite psyop formula:

endlessly promote democracy;

create and empower groups that will seek justice from government;

grant some groups favors, reject others;

set these groups against each other;

in the ensuing conflict, pretend to appeal for unity;

grab more and more power at the top.

By osmosis, the individual learns what works in a democracy. He must have a cause, and that cause must reflect an unjust and disadvantaged status. He needs to seek redress and help from government. He needs to chisel and cheat and game the system.

He also needs to vote. He needs to vote for the side most likely to give him favors and breaks and loopholes and $$.

Many individuals will conclude that, in this hustle, the superior choice is to work for the government. A few years ago, I compiled a very rough tally of numbers of Americans who work for some form of the State. The total was 1 out of every 9 people.

In a small nation, that might be shocking. In a large country like America, it’s disastrous.

During a recent radio interview out of Norway, I was told that nearly 50% of Norwegians work for the government. We’re not there yet, but we’re moving in that direction.

The concept of democracy, once you peel back the layers on the covert op, is a scam. But the even greater problem comes when overwhelmingly numbers of people organize their own minds to match that scam.

They assemble and coordinate their own mental processes for the job of living and winning inside a massive crime-bubble.

Obama, like every president, operates as a PR front man for the op called democracy. The difference is, he’s made the PR into a religion. He’s taken it to a new level.

It may seem strange, but a person living out of an Obama-welfare cell phone, and a Wall Street investment banker dealing from an office high in Manhattan, are both working from the same basic mental playbook.

Their situations are vastly different, but they’re making moves inside the crime-bubble.

And if, by some miracle, they could sit down and talk long enough and honestly enough, they would see, emerging out of the fog, familiar game plans.

Yes, Virginia, there is true injustice in this country. It comes from the power grab at the top, and it leaks down to every person. But you won’t find that injustice revealed in the ubiquitous PR-op. There you’ll only find lies and groups toiling to push the rock to the top of the hill, while fighting a war of attrition against each other.

There you’ll only find the great hustle, the con, short and long, and layers of operators telling us “we’re all in this together” to remedy wrongs.

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

One of the keys to breaking out of mass mind control is being able to see and make the distinction between the real thing and a fake copy.

To survive and meet scheduled payoffs and bribes and deliver calculated favors and demean the independent individual, a democracy must fly the highest flags of ideals. The songs must be sung by pros. Every drop of sympathy must be wrung out of that rag-flag. Every soap opera story must be elevated to tragic heights.

And every mind must confuse this with the real thing.

Which takes us to education of the young, and the preparatory mind-control programs for living as an adult in a democracy.

I won’t bother to run down the various teaching tools for this job. I’ll simply remind you of how willing and open the young mind is.

When I was 12 or 13, my parents took (dragged) me to a lecture. The speaker was Minnesota Senator Hubert Humphrey. I dreaded the all-too-predictable pain I was in for. I would rather have been eating a casserole of spinach, broccoli, liver, and cockroaches.

On this night, in a jammed hall with a few hundred people, I listened to the Senator for two hours. He spoke about progress and humanity and hope and share and care.

I was riveted. Nailed to my chair. In a contest, that version of Humphrey would put Obama away cold and turn him upside down.

I saw visions of a new world. I saw humanity rise as one and conquer all obstacles. I saw liberalism and all it stood for as a god on Earth.

Those were the days when the Humph was at the absolute top of his game. He was on fire. He ascended one mountain range after another. He stood on a troubled sea and opened up the sky.

It took me a decade to realize I’d been conned by a master.

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

The op works. It taps into oceanic impulses in every mind and diverts them along channels that turn poetry into fake religion. It freezes poetry and sculpts it into idols and symbols of a labyrinth that eventually dumps you out into an alley at midnight with empty pockets.

You’re chewing on a dream of stale bread and figuring out how to get home.

People say that in a modern society, poetry no longer has meaning or force. This is one of the titanic jokes of the age. Poetry always strikes the deepest chords. It always parts the sea of the mind.

The only issue is, to what ends is it put? Does it rest there on the page and on the tongue and ear with its own fierce beauty, to be absorbed and re-imagined by the reader and the listener? Or is it run along channels where wardens of the State patrol, catching souls in their nets?

This is an MKULTRA rarely spoken of. It has stood the test of time.

It feeds on rubes and yokels and sleepwalkers and the desperate, from freezing caves in prehistoric Asia, down to the deserts of ancient Egypt, over to dank cathedral vaults of Europe, across to the streamlined consumer paradise of America.

It winds up as: Democracy. Progress. Enlightenment. Equality. Sharing.

Neon signs in the bought and paid for sky.

The great civil rights movement of the 1950s and 60s, the marches, the rallies, the protests, the suffering, the pain, the violence, the legislation—all based on a simple premise: equal protection and opportunity under the law.

Groups sought redress and justice from the government.

The movement celebrated victories. And then it was taken and twisted down other train tracks and turned into a slow-motion crash the likes of which we’re seeing splattered across television screens and the pages of newspapers around the world today.

How did that happen? How did the civil rights movement come to Trayvon Martin-George Zimmerman?

Through careful planning. Through manipulation of people and ideas, to transform honor into great misery.

The Statist machine gives, and the machine takes away. True justice is never its goal.

It preys on the worst human instincts and praises them as legitimate. It sets the agenda for democracy and gives the mob the drug of hope based on, yes, poetics.

Understanding the frequencies along which that hope is broadcast to the populace, and how the populace sponges up those transmissions, is a step out of the maze.

When you hear the particular strains of music that convey widely held sentiments, and you know the music is made for tin ears, because your ears aren’t tin, you’re regaining a species of true hope most people can’t understand.

You get a piece of the immortal joke that has traveled through eons and dipped into countless places, ever since the universe was dreamed up as a holographic blueprint on somebody’s notepad.

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 29^th 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.