(Copyright 2021)

Febuary 7, 2023

For the full poem, click here.

Excerpt 007:

knowing the past was dead
I walked out of the house of melting shadows

I bathed in clear water

I sat down by an old stream and waited for the fish to speak
I sat inside a reflection of lunar decay for thirty incarnations
and nothing happened

I walked out of the house of melting shadows

not a closed night or a fearful night or a weeping night or a
money night or a political night or an atomic night

the herds of stars are breaking out of their corral

I’m sitting at a cafe
on the beach in Cardiff
blue January afternoon
my mind unwrinkles
the restaurant’s empty
a huge whitewashed gull with a red beak
stands on a rock a few feet away
he waits, he looks

mouthless cash/samurai governments in twinkling skyscrapers

I try on soft hats in a phantasmagorical haberdasher on 5th Avenue
in a jar the size of Des Moines I pickle brains of ancient Sinatras

sand in the engine, empty canteens, thirsty in the desert, I climb the
next set of dunes and stagger down into a level-B resort, artificial
lake restaurants women in bikinis fat men children sliding into blue
pools waiters delivering drinks, robot Adam&Eve standing under a
palm tree eating a bowl of fruit, Machine God sitting at a huge
poolside table with a few cronies, he waves me over, the sun sets and
the moon comes up, I watch old skulls of mob defectors rolling like
tumbleweed in the desert….

hollow planets ring like gongs, shepherds bring in their animals,
ghosts in the arbor pick the grapes and feel the warm wind, we’re
walking through a forest, the yellow-horned flowers are weeping
with fog, chrome-edged clouds are dropping sheets of loneliness

the universe said goodbye
the universe was going away
there was no JFK assassination
it was a mirage in Texas
Allen Dulles was sitting in the back of the limo
his brains were splashed all over an unknown woman
she was fighting to breathe and squirming
she was wearing a little pillbox hat and a polkadot dress
she jumped out of the car and ran up the street
and no one ever saw her again

the Virgin Mary
the Virgin Mary of Texas

the lilies of the valley are growing in the back yard again
splashed in the Buick majesty of steady spring rain
and the snow is gone
the branches of crystalline ice are giving out little green buds
and worms are crawling in the mud around the porch sniffing roses

Caravaggio talks to Raphael and Raphael talks to Piero and a leg
takes shape
Michelangelo talks to Titian and half a face emerges
Durer talks to Velasquez and Goya walks out of a cave ready to go to
work

we return to the Bronx and visit my grandmother sitting in her
pudding chair in the middle of the living room, she slowly moves her
head and trembles and mumbles something in Yiddish and I kiss her
on the cheek, the mirror sits on the heavy bureau above candles
flickering for the dead in the middle of the afternoon, someone is
always dying, they were dying in Russia and they are dying in the
Bronx, there was a daughter who died a few weeks after she was
born and my grandfather died when I was three, and the candy store
across the street died when bubble gum was outlawed during WW2,
and my father’s father is dead, he owned a clothing store and his
partner ran off with the cash and now the partner is dead too, and the
books on the shelves in my grandmother’s house are dead, and the
plates behind glass are dead, the forks and knives and spoons are
dead, the rugs in the living room are dead, and my father’s mother
will soon be dead in the dining room on the floor at our house late in
the afternoon in January, but no one is supposed to make a move to
stop the dying in the way the dying is happening, we are all
supposed to stand by, centurions at a gateless city, the rivers shallow
and frozen, kiss your grandmother, stand back, smile, go over to the
table, sit down, play cards, eat honey cake, listen, listen, listen

Hermes is circling the brick house and tearing tiles off the roof, he’s
coming down into the living room and breaking into the glass cases
and stealing the silverware, he’s crawling under the piano and
ripping out the pedals, he’s moving the laundry room between the
living room and the kitchen, he’s going next door to the psychiatrist’s
house and laying down the names of 297 mental disorders that will
be invented out of wholecloth in the next 50 years

I’m lying back in a leather chair in Grand Central Station and an old
man is cutting my hair
he puts a hot white towel on my face

I enter St. Pat’s, it’s a huge bookie joint, crowds standing in the
aisles, betting on anti-Lucifer
I take a seat at the end of a long pew and fold my hands in prayer to
Piero della Francesca, silver painter of Solomon & Sheba
and Henry Miller of the Rosy Crucifixion and Kenneth Patchen in
his bed of pain and Gregory Corso roaming the streets of Rotterdam
blessings of wine and bread and skeletons growing new flesh and
father Walt sitting in the middle of Times Square his voice a violet
thunder

the President is on television and the Pope is drunk on ceremonial
wine cursing the Church fathers as he floats naked near the Sistine
ceiling

O dream garden of the ancient flower…

/END

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(Episode 35 of Rappoport Podcasts—“Organic Meat and Vaccines; Government rules; Culling herds; Corruption of the food supply; Nanoparticles in meat; Smoking guns”—is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)

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Jon Rappoport

(Copyright 2021)

January 12, 2023

For the full poem, click here.

Excerpt 006:

a painted hand on a canvas disappears down into the mouth of a
virgin

a factory in Cinncinati plunges into the production of synthetic
thighs

the cage of the tiger is very clean
attendants come in once a day and
scoop up the feces and remove them
they hose down the floor
when they’re done the tiger is let back into the cage
and picks up his pacing

Huge sums in bank accounts disappear
Wearing a webbed helmet, you’re running across a lake in Liberia
with an M-16

an orange bird
walks down
to a small fountain pouring into the eye of an exploded
centurion

Disembodied skulls are talking to each other in a Times Square
liquor store
what was the greatest war?
in whose name did we lay down our flesh
was the uranium really depleted
how many roadside bombs did you see before the last one
did we guarantee the oil
did we plant the poppies

freedom is standing in a bar on university place and ordering a beer
at six o’clock and listening to the voices

freedom is taking a shirt of infinite sadness and folding it up

freedom is sitting in a bus station in a small town and counting the
money in your pocket and watching the door as a wolf trots in and
stares at you

freedom is being as sad as the animals

freedom is falling down on your knees in the street

freedom is a beautiful drunken woman tearing off her clothes and
taking the elevator down to the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel in San
Francisco

Raphael’s curls
Are wired
From cliffs domed with chimes.

The NY Times
Is a mosquito
On a plum.

In halls of marble
Heralds open the door
Spring
At last

The gold-seated apparatus
Spits out souls,
Tourniquet
Of the faded sea.

South of Los Angeles…dancers arrive early in a giant room above
the ocean.
In forest halls, dryads run like crystal.
CON FRER Tito Puente strides into the endless Balboa ballroom.
Timbales, rolling cymbals, chingachcook congas, brass section put
in harness from the ceiling. Tito is sitting in a blue mist. The slow
vibraphone turns over and over and Silver runners flash around
corners.

In the New York harbor
Turbines with numerical rivets
Are driven into light.
Shoreline hardworking men rest on the
Kneecap of a colossal Buddha
Coming into port

when I was a boy
a road among trees
magnolia, oak, maple…
squirrels with great healthy bushy tails ran up trunks
jumped on to roofs
sniffed smoke coming out of chimneys
and in the dark
there were horse chestnut trees dropping polished mahogany
along the little lanes leading off the road…

After the Cross of money burned and rotted
we walked to the shore
we walked into the ocean
we walked on the ocean floor
we discovered the oceanic mind
we swam on the towering waves
we came back to ourselves

we smelled towers of the city
we floated into the city
we rolled out on to the highways of America

we broke veins of golden paralysis in the clock of the galaxy

we rose with our swords and decapitated the Holy Worm

we planted gardens around the wreck of the Babel Tower and
invented new languages that would spread like morning glories

---

(Episode 32 of Rappoport Podcasts — “The Transgender and Transhumanist Agenda; I connect MANY dots in ways they’ve never been (but should be) connected” — is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)

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Jon Rappoport

(Copyright 2021)

December 29, 2022

For the full poem, click here.

Excerpt 005:

midtown Manhattan…my father walks from the haberdasher to the
barber shop with a new hat in a box
he sits in the chair and the barber winds it back and shaves him
with a straight razor that was lolling in a tall glass of alcohol
the barber wipes off the blade with a white linen towel and
moves the razor back and forth on his strop and shaves my father
and cuts his hair

the pool room on 14th Street, old men playing three-cushion slowly
with long tapered fingers, under a hanging lamp one face peeks in
and then it’s ripped away as the floor sweeper lifts the shades and the
sun comes streaming through the dust
ever deepening beauty,
there is a little garden behind our house
where vines grow over a wood shed

and purple bougainvillea and morning glory

in this idyll I can rest
I can dream of her while I hold her hand
we set the kettle boiling
and pour the steaming water
and drink a tea of the world

you sold me an empty room
I moved in and found you there

you waited in the rain for me
And I came to you

The home we built at the end of a street
Is becoming larger every day

The poet picks the street on which he will starve
and grow rich

I am painting on a sheet of sturdy paper
A small garden
The sky is on the bottom
The flowers are on top
There are window boxes

I am making the same proposal to you, my darling

I pray to prayer
I deliver myself to you
I say the night and I say down the stairs we go again

never the garden

ever the garden

we are always in between everything we thought

always

my darling,
I’ll go with you
into the garden
into the bedroom
into the living room
into the kitchen

on to the rust-colored couch after the sandstorm
when the evening is quiet
the stove is ticking

my dead father is again sitting in a metal chair playing pinochle with
his friends

my dead mother bounds down the stairs
she’s suddenly thirty again
grinning with the August of the Black Sea

my sister is holding a feral dog in her arms and he is wrapping his
mouth around her wrist and slowly quieting down

Not one god
not fewer gods
give me a proliferation of gods
gods in plantains and mangoes
gods in broken chairs in vague Arizona motels
gods in piles of gray wood at the back of a barn in Mississippi
gods in statues on broad plazas in Chicago
gods in lagoons festering with green mold in San Diego
gods on the foggy windows of diners in Western Massachusetts
gods on the graves of Vikings and accountants in New Jersey
gods in silverware and white napkins

one version of what the old Tibetans
called the Great Void:

everybody looks around and tries to figure out what to
do
because the long hustle of discovery is over
and all the explorers have been paid off

There is nothing left
except a few magicians
living in cold mountains
punching holes in the universe at will

In Lhasa they were faced with that Nothing
and they turned to it in the eastern sky hanging like a lamp in a long
vacated whorehouse
and bowed

that was the only ceremony in the original book
which they later
in quiet rooms
burned in wood bowls

before starting their exercises

Worship?
Decay?
Never heard of it.

And now think of something else, perfect automobiles
streaming down a tropical planet toward the
a mirror lake on which stands a demigod in green pantaloons
who holds all data everywhere in his outstretched arms

and freeze THAT in memory like a sword for sixteen hours
without moving
and finally see universe
is a product
of mind

this is what they were doing
before they wrote the books and ordered the prayer wheels from
sears catalog
and jingle jangled their way into a theocracy on a cold saturday
morning

they were the dim sum masters
never ordered the same breakfast twice in the holy rivers of
energy
took apart the river and the energy
too
down to Nothing
sat in Void for
indeterminate length of no-time
stopping all creating
because they could
and then emerged
those few
magicians in the cold wasted hills and

and said WELL
if you folks want to elect a billion reincarnated hopalong
cassidys
as your head chief go ahead it doesn’t matter
we’re out here on the edge
inventing and destroying dimensions

---

(Episode 32 of Rappoport Podcasts — “The Transgender and Transhumanist Agenda; I connect MANY dots in ways they’ve never been (but should be) connected” — is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)

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Jon Rappoport

(Copyright 2021)

December 13, 2022

For the full poem, click here.

Excerpt 004:

I watched a sleek black car pull up to a house down the block where
an old man who grew apple trees was screaming and three men got
out of the car and grabbed his arms and put him on a stretcher and
took him away to the Foundation, a place where they kept the insane
he had spent every Sunday morning polishing his red car
he had once been a judge
he retired and built department stores
he kept a bulldog in his garage and fed it there
his son who wore gray suits and drove a foreign car
owned a brewery

i dreamed the father was sitting on the back of a white swan who
had a leash around his neck
I woke up and went into the kitchen and sat down at the table
I looked out the window and under a streetlight I saw the old man’s
son putting something into the trunk of his car
his movements were frail
he had aged overnight

I fled through the oily swamps of New Jersey into the bright green
plastic of Delaware and through the Carolinas and woke up in a pink
sand motel in Miami under tropic rain

I hitchhiked down the old 66 from East St. Louis out to Joplin in the
back of a vegetable truck and floated into a diner in Oklahoma City

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

I walked along the death harbors of New York
I saw ships gleaming
I watched swarms of seagulls bend this way in the air and flap their
white wings and gray wings in the dark morning
I’m walking the cemetery lawns of Los Angeles
now and then a plastic face looms up out of the fog

Boston…in the ocean mythic giants
all their capillaries have gone dry
the moon is setting on page one
intestinal tract of a beached octopus suctioned to a sidewalk

in a small café I look at the faces and know there was universally
accepted time and it’s ended

We saw old iron ore carriers moving slowly on Lake Erie
frost clinging to their torn-painted sides
pulling along hills of hidden Nevada gold

GM monitor lizards sway down Main St. USA like garbage
machines on the move, guzzling and chewing tin cans, bottles, bags
of medical waste, wrappers, assaulting bins

you’re in the reality tunnel again
where predators finger like worry-beads cocoons of demolished
light

limbic vacuum cleaners
suck up embers of war

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

abide by the central directive—
when you’re lying on a slab in the
mortuary
STAND UP

tell them they’ve made a minor miscalculation
recite a few lines from scripture
and stride quickly to the exit

confess to the guards
you’re just a pathetic figure
a minor functionary
in a bureau of functionaries
all the way up

tip your hat, grin, drop a few coins in the basket, move on
this universe is
a hell of a vacation
thrills and chills
buy the ticket
if you can’t get out
call me

The cosmos is a forgery of the individual

They say the dark arts are fine things
They lie below the gold rings
That surround every living cell
OR you can
Strip naked from the stirrups
Of gravity
Sit with clouds banked over the ocean
And burn in the dish your own name

The great thief said
I have given you
Everything you need
And so it was
Another message
A column of fire
Rising out of the sea

you can lift twelve Persephones out of a Swiss watch
and push an orange train at top speed to Mongolia

each thought on the ruined wreck of sands
is a poet
driving a Cadillac into a living room

(pretending to understand a foreign language
they invented a hundred more)

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(Episode 32 of Rappoport Podcasts — “The Transgender and Transhumanist Agenda; I connect MANY dots in ways they’ve never been (but should be) connected” — is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)

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Jon Rappoport

(Copyright 2021)

November 21, 2022

For the full poem, click here.

Excerpt 003:

Fifty million video cameras record the washed out moment-tomoment
ballet in streets and offices

people stop for a moment in a bulging tableau
light peers in through immobile troughs of fury
complaints are frozen

all the children of America with their endless needs are frozen

We slashed our way through faded blue Virginia mountain ranges
ruled by subhuman priests
lizards crawled through the sunlight between leaves on rumbling
trees spreading out their knuckles above ground

Through dream gardens of the starlit Sagittarius, coral horses,
amber-fed lichen
we walked the Cherokee Trail glittering with bodies frozen in the
silver fog

We flew over steaming cities and freezing cities and came to the
Asia plain of tropical magic where the walls of enduring space were
cracked and broken and the false curtain of the sky lay at half-mast
torn and stained

Here the empire had shriveled and small mobs wandered under
saturated space broken off from the Maypole of trance

We still hear a voice of freedom
in the
aether

now freedom barks like a dog
it weeps over stones
it demands cash
it lies in the mud and croaks
flees a burning church

On a parapet at the center of an unknown city, we hear a bovine
preacher of the sub-brain announce:

Adore! Adore!

We have

A

New

God

And

Time

Is

Peeling off

Around him.

Adore! Adore!

Your life

Is being

Mapped out

In steel-banded

Central Planning

Operating

From

The Temple

Of the Just

A gram of license

For every ton of compliance

This is the new energy equation

One

Glittering

Breath

Of

Spontaneously inhaled

Stolen

Money

leveled like an exploding shell

o leader

your only remaining job

is the calculation

of the religious component

how to mountaintop

and sell that vacation view

theocratic meteors

whirling around the crown

what testament

and scripture

will you

invent

for the made-holy parade

of intercellular

electronic

money laundering

(left hand to the right)

how will you

market

the ark

of androids

what murders

will you

recast

as

sacrifices

made

on behalf of

the

rising

membership

in the

temple

of

those

seeking

justice

a node

of memoryless

cold blue light

shining on

citizens

entranced

in trust

Adore! Adore!

The rebellion is over!

Everything

We hoped for

Granted!

Now

By the blessed

Eye

Capture and Love are the same!

Their

Separation

Was

Our

Sin

We

Surrender

To

The Egoless

Cage

Adore! Adore!

All

Objections

Are

Swept away

This

Is

Our

Day

Our

Hope

Has Been

Justified

In the

Temperament

Of

The Wise

Who

Unleash

A hurricane

To catapult us

Into

The new world

Adore! Adore!

One shapeless limp impulse

Desperately shared by nine billion people

Dissolves

The threshold

Of mystery

And opens at last

The door

To

The everlasting

Life

This is the apotheosis of

What

We have all

Been unconsciously seeking

I see populations surge through golden avenues wrapped around the
upper stories of Orphic ships waiting for solar winds

I open books in a shining arboretum, ten-thousand-foot wells pour
from the sky down into stratified layers of rock…

Summer night on an old porch, rhododendrons are thrashed by slow
comets of rain

there is a sleep so pervasive numbing the chest and shoulders, a
despair so charming as to be final, a titanic loss of mobility

there were buildings in the old World War 2 Paris that looked like
beautiful rotting vegetables propped on the ark of the River
windows scalloped stone sacred mucosal choirs

in a nostalgic vortex
death is a protocol
a virginal reopening of the wound
insignia piping gardens from its royal wax
into the dark
old pleasures run in familiar magnetic channels

Ah, this is old-world death, the happiness of remembering time, a
thing of wonder in the thrall of dying autumn
and then we knew what could be lost, and then we knew we were
seeing each other fading on sheets of papyrus
and we dropped through the earth

flaming
into the legend of the unconscious
and
struggled back and emerged up into the lights of the city

We move through the halls of this summertime life
the meridians of gills breathing in and out, in and out
and cross the bridges of memory
and are New

We punch through the wax of space-time into the warm rain

we unplug the money presses

we abandon the long steel trading tables and the slaughtering floor

we defect

we drink the root turning into the bud
the bud turning to grain

we brush away the choking filaments of narcosis and finally admit
our immortality

we walk in the canopy of clouds
in the canal where time and space are bolted, cloth to cloth

We ride tigers across the Styx into the mud houses of Hades and
blow sacks of north wind to clean the ruined stables of broadcast
memory

We race up the canyons of the Rockies, we float on the Salt Lake in
mirrors of gold

We walk out of the house in the middle of the night and watch the
magnolia tree in the little grassy island open white flowers of joy!

Sing now!
Speak now!

Tear away the seal on the tomb!

MAGICIANS!
MASTERS OF TIME!
in any weather, any season
long forgotten and hidden in hard flesh
they are there!
all the fires are out
all the wars of the bankrupt versus the bankrupt are over

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(Episode 30 of Rappoport Podcasts — “The War against the Woke Mob: Assessing their battle plan, their strengths and weaknesses; the economy is the key; what’s their business model; what’s our business model; how can money be turned into a revolution that Your Highest Principles wouldn’t mind?” — is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)

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Jon Rappoport

(Copyright 2021)

October 27, 2022

For the full poem, click here.

Excerpt 002:

I saw politicians jumping out of floating windows
their briefcases cracking open
spilling secrets like lazy snowflakes
dazzling in the sun
trillion dollar thefts
naked amazons stashed in condos and yachts
banks sucking money from the vacuum of the heavens
dead agents

in a rock pasture outside Des Moines hitchhiking to New York
glimpses of prehistoric time
before the beginning before the beginning of sacred money
before the first idols were built, before sacrifice was thought of, sly
prophets were trying on robes and combing out their long hair and
rehearsing their future executions

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

In blinding rain I stood on the Indiana Turnpike outside Chicago
pointed east and wound up in the Pennsylvania countryside driving
the car of a half-crippled man with a Bible I met in a Howard
Johnson
our headlights went dead on a curve and a cop pulled in behind us
and stopped us
he led us to a fat judge’s house in the middle of the night where we
paid thirty bucks
then parked on a quiet lane and slept until dawn
early spring in March
flowering magnolia trees
he dropped two Thorazine and told me to drive
and his babbling about Heaven slowed down and he slept
and when we pulled into Manhattan he had me park in midtown
he looked at me with glazed doe’s eyes and said
son, I’ve reached the end of the line, this is it, within a month I’ll kill
myself

I walked along the astral cloisters of Wall Street among crowds
lapping at honey loopholes in a web of proprietary secrets and I flew
through steel walls into the psychotic fandango of the international
electronic invented money Surge

I recorded architects laying out blueprints for the perfect human in
bunkers of Virginia where silent factories printed minds whose
memories could be selectively erased
technicians built new bodies from tendons and ligaments of cougars
and predatory owls and membranes from soldier ants and feral dogs

I walked through fields of cactus east of Tijuana
into caverns of mass graves where sacrificed Aztec skeletons still
stank in pulsing blood rhymes of a toothless hobo Ziggurat

I sat in the courtroom where the two-hundred-year trial of America
labored like a wounded beast, witness after witness screaming
accusations at captains of production and dark iron-masked
prosecutors hammered their fists on tables and smooth Rockefeller
men sat in the witness box and advocated drugging the population

One Sunday night I walked out of a small bookstore on 3rd Avenue
and a drunken Ben Franklin, wearing his waistcoat and slippers, his
spectacles halfway down his crooked nose, pulled me over to the
doorway of a paint store, and whispered:
“I should prefer, to an ordinary death, being immersed
with a few friends in a cask of Madeira, until that time,
then to be recalled to life by the solar warmth of my
dear country!”

he patted me on the cheek and grinned

What about the weathered Declaration on which you staked your
honor, your future, your fortune, your life, I ask him

His face turns sour
Oh that, he says
They sold it for a war, and it fetched a handsome price
They sold it for a bank, and rated it a fair exchange
They sold it for a choking nightmare called the greater good, and it
drained their living blood
They sold it for a legend of heaven under a burning copper sky and it
vaporized in the whirlwind

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(Episode 28 of Rappoport Podcasts — “Why Do I Spend My Time Fighting All This Bullshit? Or, Have We Reached Paradise Yet with the Rainbows and Marshmallows?” — is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)

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Jon Rappoport

(Copyright 2021)

October 20, 2022

For the full poem, click here.

Excerpt 001:

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

We tamed the wolf and the copperhead
we broke a pond of ice and sent Promethean serpents to force a
tunnel all the way down to the volcanic hats of ancient Chinese poets
We tracked mobs and gangs and politicians and drowned them in
thunderous secret rivers under the Southwest deserts
we launched charges against the bosses and carried our prosecutions
into courtrooms of fish eye and coral and waving undersea weeds
and dragged paid-off judges from their galleon-wrecked thrones

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

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

We draped curtains of night in the upper hills of Los Angeles where
the mountain lion and the coyote and the melted mythical Greek
beast roamed like vagabonds free of the Wheel

Under poles of yellow lights, gasping midnight locomotives clamped
on to lines of freight cars in the backyards of Chicago

Plastic lilies grew in the pastures of St. Louis haberdashers and
department stores

In White Plains we carved a diamond on cracked asphalt and
climbed a decaying elm and walked along the iron railing of the
fence holding rotting branches and threw marbles down on to Davis
Avenue and watched them bounce into the muddy stream of World
War Two newspapers and swollen milk cartons and broken whiskey
bottles and torn black jackets of old soldiers who had died in snow
drifts over the winter and mysteriously disappeared

I ran under trees filled with light green inchworms hanging from
long threads until I was invisible
and glimpsed smiling robots sitting in cafes in the next
platinum century

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

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(Episode 27 of Rappoport Podcasts — “The War in the Ukraine; How It Came to This; Tracing the death of PEACE” — is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)

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Jon Rappoport

August 25, 2022

You can change it.

You can walk into your studio, look at a painting you finished yesterday, and paint over it.

There’s no rule.

You could look at a line you wrote, “I had three trees in my yard,” and change it to, “I had three yards in my tree.”

If you like the change, you don’t have to explain it to anyone.

On the other hand, if you want to explain it, you might end up writing an 800-page book about changing one line. It could be an interesting book.

A film director once told me he read a script an agent sent him, and told the agent the story didn’t really work, but if the whole thing took place in an insane asylum, and the characters were inmates, he would considering taking it on.

Change.

I did that with an article. I read the piece, didn’t like it—then decided to make it a document that provoked a criminal trial in the future, in which the author was accused of a crime—and voila, I was all set.

You write a story. If the locale doesn’t work, change it. Put it on another planet. Now you have six new ideas, and the story becomes a novel.

You can plan out a novel meticulously, or you can make it up as you write it.

The greatest film comedy I’ve ever seen, His Girl Friday, was based on a stage play, but one of the two lead characters was changed from a man to a woman—and suddenly the romance that blossomed in the film gave rise to fabulous dialogue between Roz Russell and Cary Grant.

I would argue that some of the staunchest supporters of independence from England in Colonial America started out with profit motives. They wanted to enrich themselves by breaking with the Crown. But eventually, they saw the far wider principle of individual freedom come into view. And they shifted gears into a higher purpose.

Change.

It loosens and cuts chains.

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(Episode 20 of Rappoport Podcasts — “Crisis at the Southern Border Exploding Now: The Black Lives Matter Connection and How George Soros, Mexico, and China Are Engineering This Crisis to Destroy America” — is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)

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Jon Rappoport

August 11, 2022

Sometimes I think the land is taking over.

It’s going to bite back. It’s had enough of human activity.

I’m not talking about any human concerns or groups with their agendas. I’m talking about something apart from all that.

Of course, I’m just speculating. I might be wrong. Maybe the march of technology will go on for a few hundred years. If so, I’m not sure any of us would want to be around for that life.

At any rate, the land can deal with anything we put on it or in it. Maybe not right away, but eventually. And it doesn’t need our help. The idea that it does is a fatuous human pretension.

At one time, I lived in a place that was filled with trees. Maples and oaks. I imagined running along narrow roads—so fast, I could turn invisible.

I’m sure many of those trees are still there. I don’t know whether they remember. It’s possible they do.

In that place, the houses had lawns and trees and bushes and small gardens. In early April, when the snow and the ground were starting to melt into mud, an old man named Jim would come trudging up the road with his bag of tools. He was a gardener. He took care of the lawns and the hedges and the gardens. He’d been doing it for a long time. Nobody asked him to anymore. It was a given. Jim worked, and people paid him. He would work all the way into the late fall, and then he would go away. Maybe his spirit is still there. Who knows? He might be waiting and watching like a tree.

Once I lived in a small annex next to a house at the bottom of a steep hill. I looked at it and remembered I’d painted a hill several years earlier that looked very much like it. I thought or imagined or realized some spirit might be hovering above the trees.

Land and sky and water can do that to you.

When we rain blows against a great giant, he stands there and lets us. He isn’t affected. He understands why we’re doing it. He waits. Eventually, when he takes over, he does it with ease.

From the human point of view, it might seem we’ve lost. But he doesn’t see it that way.

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(Episode 18 of Rappoport Podcasts — “Busting Fake Reality: The Job of the Century; The Knight’s Journey” — is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)

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(For my “For Writers: My Instructions” series, click here — for Part 1)

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Jon Rappoport

July 6, 2022

What’s your view on disinformation?

I’m convinced I can spot it.

Are you tolerant when you do?

Of course not.

So you’re just as bad as the government.

Wrong. I’m not setting up a Board to censor disinformation.

You’re intolerant, yet tolerant.

Exactly.

You’re convinced you’re right, but you want to allow other people to be wrong.

Correct.

Suppose you’re wrong about a piece of information?

Then I’m wrong. That doesn’t mean I want to be censored.

Why not? Suppose you have 9 million readers and all but one of them want you to be censored?

Then I’m writing to that one reader.

And you’d be satisfied with that?

Of course not.

And if the government wants to censor you?

I resist. We see what happens.

So you’re in favor of radical free speech?

Free speech isn’t radical. It’s free.

But you don’t highlight other people’s views in your writing.

Sure I do. I quote them.

But you rely on yourself.

Who else am I supposed to rely on?

Experts?

If you mean people with degrees and official standing, then no. Unless they can prove their case.

Why doesn’t the New York Times quote you?

They don’t want to.

Why not?

You know, I’m friends with the managing editor of the Times.

You are?

Just the other day, we were having drinks together and he told me, “If we quoted you, Jon, our whole operation here would collapse.”

He said that?

He’s mentioned it more than once. I’ve suggested that the collapse of the Times would be a good thing. I would help him build from the ashes. He doesn’t seem to be interested.

Does he want to censor you?

He and his pals are censoring me right now.

What? What do you mean?

You’re only reading part of what I’m writing. Huge chunks disappear as I set them down on the page.

What do the chunks say?

If I rewrite them, they’ll vanish before you read them.

Are the chunks important?

They’re vital.

Maybe they should be censored.

Why?

If they think the chunks shouldn’t see the light of day…

You’ll never get a chance to decide.

Maybe I don’t care.

Or maybe you’re just lazy or scared.

I’m cautious about digesting information.

Information isn’t a pill, you know. You can look it over, read it, come to a conclusion yourself.

Right now, are you writing chunks that are disappearing?

Between my last two answers, three hours elapsed. I wrote 16 pages, and they vanished.

They were important?

Very.

Are you troubled by that?

I press on, regardless. Are you troubled?

Maybe a little. The idea of disappearing text—instantly disappearing—

That’s what censorship is.

I never get a chance to see it?

That’s what I’m telling you.

OK. I want the chance to see it.

You and millions of people want that chance to see and read what thousands of other people are writing and saying.

This is eerie. I don’t like it.

Why should you like it?

I have to go.

Where?

Back to my job.

What do you do?

I work for a company that wouldn’t like it if they knew I were talking to you.

What company is that?

I censor that chunk of information.

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(Episode 14 of Rappoport Podcasts — “The Real President, Part 2; This is bigger than you know. This is bigger than any of us knows” — is now posted on my substack. It’s a blockbuster. To listen, click here. To learn more about This Episode of Rappoport Podcasts, click here.)

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(For my “For Writers: My Instructions” series, click here — for Part 1)

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Jon Rappoport