The Invisible Empire

by Jon Rappoport

July 7, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

This article goes up against 50 thousand or a hundred thousand years of human conditioning. That means people will say, “I have no idea what you mean.” “You’re not saying THAT, are you?” “Everything about civilization contradicts what you’re suggesting.”

So be it.

“There is a living empire of The Poem. The Poem is what most people automatically reject as completely worthless and useless, pragmatically speaking—pragmatism being the only language they are pledged to speak, on pain of death. And yet there they are, in church, at funerals, reciting poems, when it counts. When they have to be MOVED.” (my notes for The Magician Awakes)

“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age…”

“Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams.”

“I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea, The circulation of unknown saps, And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!”

I know logic. And evidence. And investigation. I’ve been doing it for close to 40 years. But underneath it all, I’m doing it to expose the castle they, the insane ones, are building for us. The castle of their dead language and their tattered false logic and their iron bands of materialistic control; their newspeak and lab speak and germ speak and protection-racket speak and payoff speak and robot speak and techno-speak and data speak and modeling speak and squeeze-play speak and propaganda speak and mapping speak.

All the languages that are separate from LIFE.

When the printing press was invented, did people set about worshipping the little metal letters that allowed books to be published? When computers took hold, people DID set about worshipping them and the software and the processing capacity; and the mind-as-computer metaphors blossomed everywhere like cheap plastic flowers.

As social commentators never tire of pointing out, every new era creates its own story about how the universe works. These days, the story centers on “programs.” The planets and stars and galaxies must be responding to some set of instructions. And so are humans.

Taking this myth out to its conclusion, there is no room for LIFE. Or CONSCIOUSNESS.

The poets have always led the way. They burst through the layers of conditioned imprisonment and plant new seeds of time.

They take functional language, transform it, and shoot it up through the clouds.

They express what was inexpressible.

They destroy old crusted empires with a glance.

That centuries of education have failed to ignite billions of the young with poetry is no sign that this highest expression of consciousness is incomprehensible or an aberration.

Poetry isn’t a solution to a problem. It’s what the soul is always searching for. Searching for in a liquor store at 3AM, in an endless desert, in a brothel, drugged in front of a television set, at the moment two lovers pledge loyalty forever, when a coffin is lowered into a grave, when clouds of the mind suddenly clear away on the top of a mountain, when soldiers’ bodies arrive back on home soil, when boredom seems as if it has no end, when a firing squad points its guns, when a child comes out of the womb, when terrible circumstances rip away the foul rotting cover of smug indifference of the know-nothing who thinks he knows everything, when a father realizes what his child is seeing on the morning of a spring day in endless time, when a woman turns over in bed and looks at the man she loves.

Clamp down on The Poem, bury it, deny it, and the invention that supplants it is living death.

In this era, we call that invention Technocracy.

Every religion is frozen poetry. Somewhere, a poet was writing a ten-thousand-page poem, and the priests stepped in and took it and edited it, cut it, framed a piece of it, tore away the wild and free nature of it, and put it in a book—their book.

And this became a model for every large organization in the world: REDUCTION. Simplification. False maps. Making what is vitally electric into something that is dead.

Doctor: You know, I’ve failed you with all these pills. I’m trying to look into your SOUL. It’s like a block of stone. Let’s try something completely different. I’m going to give you a poem that can raise the dead. I want you to read it OUT LOUD six times a day for the next hundred days. Give it your all. Don’t hold back. Force it if you have to. If you feel shame and embarrassment, shove them aside. Read it as if you were the poet himself. Bring your voice to life! Here it is.

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
(Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill)

THE PATIENT RESPONDS: Doctor, I can’t do that. I can’t read that out loud. I don’t even know what it means.

DOCTOR: I understand. You’re looking for a mechanical solution to your problem. But the problem is, YOU’VE become mechanical. That’s what’s driving you into oblivion. So every solution of the type you want makes things worse. You’re dead inside. No pill is going to fix that. You’re going to have to make a grand leap.

A poem, greater than any system or map or portrait of consciousness.

The lost language. The invisible empire. Over and above a hundred thousand years of human conditioning.

The Matrix Revealed

(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 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

50 comments on “The Invisible Empire

  1. Mos Craciun says:

    Down my hat !

  2. Paul says:


    I believe, I’m, just, beginning, to, understand, Poetry.

    “But underneath it all…”

    A language,
    that brings one,
    TO LIFE…

    “…and plant new seeds of time.”

    This Lyceum, is no staid venture, nor ship-wrecked Enterprise.

    He exited, his jerry-rigged Jeep. Machine-gunned-mast. He slowly paced, the now-steaming battlefield. He stopped, he ventured a whisper…

    “Don’t ya just Love it.”
    ~ Old Blood ‘n Guts

    “Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long…”

    S T I L L E D S I L E N C E

    “…shove them aside. Read it as if…”

  3. TalkLikeAnEncryption says:

    I’ll just leave this link here…

    None so blind as those who choose to ignore.

  4. Eluard says:

    Jon, I don’t at all contest the beauty of what you’re writing and the glory of what you’re indicating. But tell me this: Why did Dylan Thomas, whose gorgeous poem you display here, drink himself to death in the White Horse Tavern when he was 39 years old? And this was a SUCCESSFUL writer, published books, plays on Broadway, films, etc. The man was celebrated and able to make a living at the work he loved. IOW, he was NOT living in a garret and washing dishes in a restaurant.

    And look at painters–take the abstract expressionists in NYC in the 40s and 50s. Most of them became alcoholics. Sure, some of it had to do with financial struggles, lack of recognition, etc. You are positing Art and poetry as the great healing and transforming force of humanity. And I tend to agree with you. But it’s very puzzling this self-destruction you see throughout history in these people. FAMOUS and LAUDED people too.

    You hear things like, “well their lives were so intense,” “they got too close to the fire.” B.S. like that. I’ve never heard a convincing explanation for why their work, often lovingly received by others–who will say, “It so improved my life!”–could not SAVE theirs. It’s a very strange paradox. People stand in front of Rothko’s work and weep, their hearts open. And yet look what happened to that genius.

    Some would say, people self-destruct, so do artists. It averages out. But this life-giving force you’re writing about here–why does it not sustain and deliver these poor souls?

    • Binx says:

      Walker Percy, in his book, Lost in the Cosmos, has a chapter called “Why Artists Drink,” or something like that. He posits that it is one of several methods of what he calls re-entry. While living in the world of artistic contemplation and production, the artist is in a sort of orbit, circling high above the mundane aspects of earthly life. But he can’t stay there perpetually in the realm of art; sometimes he has to re-enter everyday life and live it for a while. Alcohol soothes the attempt, but sometimes, or eventually, there is a crash landing.

      • Eluard says:

        That’s an interesting view of it. I would have thought it would be the opposite, to get IN to that world of artistic creation or rather to STAY in that world, as Encryption indicates below.

        It’s just strange how art works can help many who view/read/listen to them but the creators themselves are so often seemingly sacrificed by their own work–or how they go about it. The old boy who flew too close to the sun thing. Or maybe that’s a tired stupid old myth better off put to bed?

        • Binx says:

          When the artist uses alcohol (or other means–Percy lists several) to attempt to STAY in the artistic realm, then he is really just refusing to reenter. He’s just substituting an alcoholic orbit for an artistic orbit, refusing to come down. Works for a while. Then crash.

      • Morpheus says:

        I like Walker Percy’s idea of re-entry. What artists and poets do when they access that creative space is enter a dimension of consciousness outside the matrix. They feel the bliss of freedom and truth in the imaginal realm. It’s difficult to re-enter the matrix and deal with life in a rigged game of fear, separation, and slavery. They use alcohol and drugs to try and cope with life in the matrix. The key is to maintain a conscious connection to the deeper dimensions outside the matrix while treating daily life as a game inside the matrix. This really is the universal purpose of life. To unplug from the matrix, remember who we truly are and express the genius inside us.

    • TalkLikeAnEncryption says:

      Hi, I’m 39 years old. I would say I’m alcoholic (I usually am), but lately I’ve not had much alcohol due to restrictions.

      If you want to understand the thought process, I would recommend you check that link I posted.

      Essentially, what happens is that some people recognize this underworld is not worth existing in!

    • Juliet Martin says:

      In reference to the subsequent comments on the [gorgeous, I agree!] poem by Dylan thomas – I heard once that artistic people are prone to depression, not just tending to be, really, but that they are simply DESTINED for melancholy/suicide/hopelessness…. and I think that is correct! Being that there’s not an artistic bone in my body – even I am often numbed beyond words this past year, so I can only imagine what an artistic genius would feel like in situations such as what we are experencing now!Alot of them had annorexia nervosa in the Victorian Era,I read alot of literature that said so…fiction of course, but fiction isn’t as strange as reality!They called it “Artistic Temperament”- often alongside left-handedness and electromagnetc sensitivity.

    • julian says:


      One word. ISOLATION. People have different sensitivity levels. Meyers Briggs is just one, out of many ways of framing it- INFJ’s / INFP’s are not understood by many other types. Often they are Right brain dominant in a very Left brain dominant world. The extrodinary insensitivity of others and of the system we live in, makes no sense to many artists and it’s tremendously wearing and isolating. Access to their fragility is what makes them able to offer their poetry or art- but it doesn’t make them any less isolated. Your words-“SUCCESSFUL, FAMOUS, LAUDED” IS the false program within the system. If you’ve ever been in this position, you would know that. After basic food and shelter, human beings just want to be loved. That has nothing to do with public recognition.

    • Andrew says:

      Look at Robin Williams. I still laugh at his work and enjoy many of his movies. It is sad that Robin Williams could not seem to find his own happiness. But, it doesn’t diminish what he did as a comedian and actor. A founding member of the band Chicago blew his brains out with his own handgun (he thought it wasn’t loaded), the band kept on successfully writing songs and performing (collectively and individually). How they ended their lives is most likely their own fault. Like the old movie, get busy living or get busy dying. So hey, enjoy your prison cell you’ve earned it. I’d rather run down the rivers of the windfall light or die trying.

    • Andrew says:

      Obviously I cannot answer your question. But, I would tell you not to focus on the mechanics of life. Focus on making your own life a poetic masterpiece, daily. I wish I could do that every day–it might not save my life. But, it would directly impact the quality of my life. In a way that playing it safe never will.

    • ReluctantWarrior says:

      Well perhaps you are looking at the dark side…the glass half empty side. What about Johann Wolfgang von Goethe whose life was a work of art? Goethe said once that:

      “We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe.”

      And yet he went on to live a splendid life an exemplary life as if to say that the individual can actually create his own better world and that, indeed, is what he did. The individual has the power to do this with his or her imagination.

      I could site many other poets and artists who led beautiful lives to varying degrees. It is a very good question that you raise. Poets and Artists are subject to the same pressures that the rest of us are. As human beings they are subject to fear, lust, greed, anger, hate, love, jealousy etc. The tortured soul is one that is alive with potential.

      .Writing poetry or creating art involve being able to look at and harness he demons of one’s soul. It can be a rough ride. These poets and artists are on a Heroes journey and as Gordon Lightfoot once sang:

      “If I could read your mind, love
      What a tale your thoughts could tell
      Just like a paperback novel
      The kind the drugstore sells
      When you reach the part where the heartaches come
      The hero would be me
      But heroes often fail
      And you won’t read that book again
      Because the ending’s just too hard to take”

      To make a living as a poet is very tough. A true poet is someone who feels no need for recognition. He simply loves to sing the song of his soul. The joy of being able to share his gift with the world even if no one gets it…and when someone does get it that is truly wonderful, stupendous event. It is heart to heart, ship to ship communication. It is about planting soul memes or fermenting soul wine. How many people in life really get to sing the song of their soul? Writing poetry is a cleansing of the soul, it is making wine from the grapes of wrath. It is our gift to the human endeavor. What could be greater than that and it does not require one second of “success.” I have written for years and have never even bothered myself with publication. To sing my song is enough.

    • ReluctantWarrior says:

      The gift of poetry often comes at a very high price.

    • Craig D Ernst says:

      Edna may have put it best:

      “My candle burns at both ends;
      It will not last the night;
      But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
      It gives a lovely light!”

      It is not possible to maintain the enthralling green of beautiful creation indefinitely or even for many hours on end. Therefore incredible bursts of beauty are followed by periods of blank suffering for the artist; in wood, in word, in pigment…

      “Nature’s first green is gold,
      Her hardest hue to hold.
      Her early leaf’s a flower;
      But only so an hour.
      Then leaf subsides to leaf.
      So Eden sank to grief,
      So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.” — Frost.

      Birthing magic from the unseen empire is costly and hurtful business for the artist…

      Especially considering how few ever choose to benefit from their labor through awakening for even a short while.

      So, we do what we can, while we can:

      “someday I will succumb, entangled, to move no more, but today I have spans to build and spires to raise, much like the May morning, in her glory,
      Before I lie — food for the hungry forest floor.” — CDE May 5th, of the Morning.

  5. Thank you for demonstrating so wondrously effectively the power of poetry! I had never encountered before “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas! I won’t forget.

  6. Paul says:


    True Account: Twice removed.

    I was told of this account, by A. A, is well-known to me, & impeccable.

    A was told account by B. Years later I met B, & with short witness, I’d testify also impeccable.

    B was told of account by C.

    It occurred in the 1980’s, in England.

    C was driving in lone countryside with youngish daughter. C, for whatever reason, slammed trunk against hand. Hand bones likely fractured.

    C spied small old house upon a hill. Went for assistance. Woman-of-house answered knocking-upon-door, opened door & saw C cradling hand-in-hand.

    Woman said “How did you find me?”

    C was confused & simply relayed story-of-injury.

    Woman said “I will help you, if you vow to tell no one.

    C agreed. Entered home. Woman held C’s hand within both her hands.

    In-short-order, the hand was healed.

    Upon exiting home, Woman said “Remember what I asked of you.”

    This story WAS told, but Woman’s name & location were kept secret.


  7. Mate says:

    This piece inspires a sense of both hope and despair, as well as truth and mystery, which is essentially the aim of all poetry.

    My heart aches for all of the other free spirits, poets, artists and creators out there—those who understand what this broad, multi-faceted campaign against human consciousness, and, as such, humanity itself, has truly cost us: among many other things, the loss of dignified and decent human interaction, and the replacement of it with, as you point out, “data-speak” and “news speak” and the constant fear-based regurgitation of imbecilic platitudes and propaganda bullet points. Especially in those settings featuring people who feel that they have skin in the game (such as high-paying jobs, advanced degrees, reputations.)

    My spouse and I have not been out with people in our age group (we’re in our late 30s), aside from a few of our neighbors, in what feels like aeons. We made a restaurant reservations for next week at a big city restaurant with a couple from out of town who we’ve dined with a handful of times, but haven’t seen since November 2019.

    And frankly, I am not looking forward to it. I dread it. I don’t want to interact with millennials at all anymore. What in the hell are we supposed to talk about? “Hey, sport! How’s mass imprisonment of the innocent and the dissolution of civilization been on your end?”

    I’m contemplating tastefully humorous responses when the hot, sexy new question comes up: “So, have you guys been vaccinated?” But I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I’m having difficulty finding the humor in the situation that a sane, individualist spirit now finds himself in when it comes to social settings.

    And notice, the question is not “so what are your thoughts on the vaccine?” Or, “Did you guys end up deciding to get the vaccine?” No, no, no. No, sir. The question is: “HAVE. YOU. BEEN. VACCINATED?” It’s not posed as a philosophical question at all. It’s to ask: “Did you complete your schoolwork?” “Are you down with the scam?” “Have you been safely brainwashed the way that I have?” “You’re not one of those virus deniers, are you?”

    It’s just amazing. When I was growing up, I was told: “Do not ever ask about someone’s religion or political affiliation. That’s none of your business.” Wise teachings. And yet, here we are. Aren’t medical choices supposed to be even *more* personal?

    The well has truly been poisoned. Mass mental illness is the elephant in the room. All norms of decency and common sense have gone out the window, but I would argue that this is most acute among the so-called “educated” urbanite realm of society. How can I gather the calm and composure to address this effectively, one moron at a time? It seems the alternative is, as you state, living death.

    • TalkLikeAnEncryption says:

      I use growdiaries to exhibit vehemence beyond human compression! As an added bonus, it happens to be a very trendy area, thanks to the association with marijuana, and you can use it to comfortably post all kinds of stuff that wouldn’t be allowed on social media!

      If you want to, you can even post dick pics there.

    • Kate says:

      Well said

    • Mike B says:

      My thoughts exactly, better stated. +10 Thank you. Unfortunately, I don’t have a great answer except to say goodbye to the old and hello to the new – friends, that is.

    • ReluctantWarrior says:

      I understand the feeling. We, the unvaxxed, unwashed are being shunned by old friends, family members and neighbors. I had one old friend accuse me of murder because I was not wearing a mask. Wow! This virus is about driving a wedge between people at the most intimate level. How would you like to wear a mask during lovemaking? “How can I gather the calm and composure to address this effectively, one moron at a time?” A collective illness seems to be sweeping the land turning people into mad masked morons. Don’t try to reason with them. I am using my poetry as one way to escape this insanity. The road to freedom is within.

    • ReluctantWarrior says:

      “Not to know one’s true identity is to be a mad, disensouled thing — a golem. And, indeed, this image, sick-eningly Orwellian, applies to the mass of human beings now living in the high-tech industrial democracies. Their authenticity lies in their ability to obey and follow mass style changes that are conveyed through the media. Immersed in junk food, trash media, and cryp-tofascist politics, they are condemned to toxic lives of low awareness. Sedated by the prescripted daily television fix, they are a living dead, lost to all but the act of consuming.”
      ― Terence McKenna,

  8. Opie Poik says:

    “You differ from a great man in only one respect: the great man was once a very little man, but he developed one important quality: he recognized the smallness and narrowness of his thoughts and actions. Under the pressure of some task that meant a great deal to him, he learned to see how his smallness, his pettiness endangered his happiness. In other words, a great man knows when and in what way he is a little man. A little man does not know he is little and is afraid to know. He hides his pettiness and narrowness behind illusions of strength and greatness, someone else’s strength and greatness. He’s proud of his great generals but not of himself. He admires an idea he has not had, not one he has had. The less he understands something, the more firmly he believes in it. And the better he understands an idea, the less he believes in it.”
    ― Wilhelm Reich, Listen, Little Man!

    “At the end of that class Demian said to me thoughtfully: “There’s something I don’t like about this story, Sinclair. Why don’t you read it once more and give it the acid test? There’s something about it that doesn’t taste right. I mean the business with the two thieves. The three crosses standing next to each other on the hill are almost impressive, to be sure. But now comes this sentimental little treatise about the good thief. At first he was a thorough scoundrel, had committed all those awful things and God knows what else, and now he dissolves in tears and celebrates such a tearful feast of self-improvement and remorse! What’s the sense of repenting if you’re two steps from the grave? I ask you. Once again, it’s nothing but a priest’s fairy tale, saccharine and dishonest, touched up with sentimentality and given a high edifying background. If you had to pick a friend from between the two thieves or decide which one you’d rather trust, you most certainly wouldn’t choose the sniveling convert. No, the other fellow, he’s a man of character. He doesn’t give a hoot for ‘conversion’, which to a man in his position can’t be anything but a pretty speech. He follows his destiny to it’s appointed end and does not turn coward and forswear the devil, who has aided and abetted him until then. He has character, and people with character tend to receive the short end of the stick in biblical stories. Perhaps he’s even a descendant of Cain. Don’t you agree?”

    I was dismayed. Until now I had felt completely at home in the story of the Crucifixion. Now I saw for the first time with how little individuality, with how little power of imagination I had listened to it and read it. Still, Demian’s new concept seemed vaguely sinister and threatened to topple beliefs on whose continued existence I felt I simply had to insist. No, one could not make light of everything, especially not of the most Sacred matters.

    As usual he noticed my resistance even before I had said anything.

    “I know,” he said in a resigned tone of voice, “it’s the same old story: don’t take these stories seriously! But I have to tell you something: this is one of the very places that reveals the poverty of this religion most distinctly. The point is that this God of both Old and New Testaments is certainly an extraordinary figure but not what he purports to represent. He is all that is good, noble, fatherly, beautiful, elevated, sentimental—true! But the world consists of something else besides. And what is left over is ascribed to the devil, this entire slice of world, this entire half is hushed up. In exactly the same way they praise God as the father of all life but simply refuse to say a word about our sexual life on which it’s all based, describing it whenever possible as sinful, the work of the devil. I have no objection to worshiping this God Jehovah, far from it. But I mean we ought to consider everything sacred, the entire world, not merely this artificially separated half! Thus alongside the divine service we should also have a service for the devil. I feel that would be right. Otherwise you must create for yourself a God that contains the devil too and in front of which you needn’t close your eyes when the most natural things in the world take place.”
    ― Hermann Hesse, Demian: Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend
    ” . . . the key to all ages is – Imbecility; imbecility in the vast majority of men, at all times, and, even in heroes, in all but certain eminent moments; victims of gravity, custom, and fear.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

  9. Jim S Smith says:

    I guess most people have also been conditioned to ignore some of the most heart-wrenching examples of moral decay, too?

    The above-linked article is nearly too painful for me to read on. Guess THAT “social-conditioning” has not worked very well on me? ? ?

  10. Opie Poik says:

    There is no political solution
    To our troubled evolution
    Have no faith in constitution
    There is no bloody revolution

    Our so called leaders speak
    With words they try to jail ya
    They subjugate the meek
    But it’s the rhetoric of failure

    Where does the answer lie?
    Living from day to day
    If it’s something we can’t buy
    There must be another way

    ~ The Police, “Spirits In The Material World”
    Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
    If your cup is full, may it be again
    Let it be known there is a fountain
    That was not made by the hands of men

    There is a road, no simple highway
    Between the dawn and the dark of night
    And if you go, no one may follow
    That path is for your steps alone

    Ripple in still water
    When there is no pebble tossed
    Nor wind to blow

    You who choose to lead must follow
    But if you fall, you fall alone
    If you should stand, then who’s to guide you?
    If I knew the way I would take you home

    ~ Robert Hunter (Grateful Dead), “Ripple”

  11. Rick in Phoenix says:

    Jon, can you comment on the now-breaking graphene-oxide-in-vax story? Thanks.

    [Ed. Note: on the schedule for sometime next week]

  12. Luther Norman says:

    This article seems a noteworthy matter of course in explaining the likely ways the US, and possibly other nations are to be divided as a result of these ‘variants’ of (coronavirus) COVID. These strange policies are already y being introduced in subtle ways.

  13. Clara A. says:

    Most grateful to you Jon.

  14. Arthur Danu says:

    Poetry is the journey of a person’s travels to other worlds not commonly known of, or visited, by man.

    Here is my account of a foray into the Blessed Faery Realms:


  15. ReluctantWarrior says:

    Quantum Enchantment

    A wonderland rising
    From the quantum mists
    Enchanting all matter
    Singing sentient songs
    What a miracle it is!
    Every particle pulsing
    Photons coyly winking at us
    Teasing us
    Seducing our imagination,
    Cosmic waves of wonder
    Phantasm of all probabilities
    Particles preening unseen
    Vibrations singing in the void
    Such joyful lamentations,
    Yearning to be
    Searching for your neurons
    Implanting great mystical visions
    Chrysalis dreams,
    Seeds of new possibilities
    That only you can imagine
    Sprout your butterfly wings
    Fly away!
    Escape History’s nightmare,
    This bloody wasteland of the ‘free’
    Always seeking its pound of flesh
    Wake up! Wake up!
    My rising angel friends
    A greater destiny awaits thee,
    Riding the wings of broken love
    Beyond the end of time
    This grand universe
    Is your fig tree
    Womb of all creativity
    Sing your song,
    Paint your picture,
    Sculpt your being,
    Recite the poem of yourself,
    Gem of your madness
    To share with friends
    Like jewels in Indra’s Net
    Sparkling in the night
    Reflecting each other’s joy
    In the grand mystery sublime
    What is it?
    Don’t tell anybody
    What cannot be told
    What must never be told
    It is too good for that!
    A romance with the emptiness
    We are all lost poets
    Brooding in the darkness
    Mere shadows of eternity
    Creating new worlds
    New tracks of love
    Beyond the broken heart
    Let’s get to it.

  16. Juliet Martin says:

    I too, am finding the covid-19 scamdemic too painful to read these days, as more and more ridiculous restrictions are heaped on sleeping nations and civil liberties and God-given birthrights continue to be eroded on a daily basis — it’s simply too much to bear.

    I have to wonder if I’m the only person in my town who feels so terribly upset by all this…utter nonsense!

    Thank you Jon for that beautiful poem — it reminds me of the very important need to be heard by someone, anyone, who shares my pain! Needless to say, I look forward to your postings and I NEVER watch the [mainstream] news!!

  17. Stef says:

    Such poetical philosophical meanderings….
    I say let’s keep it simple.

    “Why don’t we get drunk and screw?”

    ~Jimmy Buffet

  18. Roundball Shaman says:

    “Poetry isn’t a solution to a problem. It’s what the soul is always searching for… Clamp down on The Poem, bury it, deny it, and the invention that supplants it is living death.”

    Joseph Campbell made reference to the above idea: ‘People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive…’.

    “Every religion is frozen poetry. Somewhere, a poet was writing a ten-thousand-page poem, and the priests stepped in and took it and edited it, cut it, framed a piece of it, tore away the wild and free nature of it, and put it in a book—their book.”

    The minute you ‘freeze’ poetry, it becomes dead. Poetry must not… can not… be frozen and still be poetry. Poetry must remain alive and fluid to simulate thoughts and energies and new meanings and interpretations by people reading and re-reading it and finding new messages and feelings within it. That’s why organized religion lacks passion and feeling. It is ritual and repetition and conformity which drains all the vitality out of it. It is just REMEMBERING a time when it was poetry alive, instead of BEING alive in the Now.

    “… a hundred thousand years of human conditioning.”

    It is truly astounding that we are made of nothing but energy and quantum ‘potential’. And we use all that to turn ourselves into dead machines walking around in a lifeless fog and conforming to dead philosophies. There is nothing more insane in the World than that.

  19. hyden says:

    “Few realize that political action offers little solution to the world’s major problems. Few understand that the elite have created political parties in order to prevent real change from ever taking place. The political arena is merely the “sty” in which two or more mutually hostile agencies, created by the same hidden hand, get the chance to pummel one another. As alternative researcher Juri Lina so brilliantly put it: When the left wing Freemason is finished, the right-wing Freemason takes over The point has been emphasized by many an insider: The elementary principle of all deception is to attract the enemy’s attention to what you wish him to see and to distract his attention from what you so not wish him to see – General Sir Archibald Wavel The world’s power structures have always ‘divided to conquer’ and have always ‘kept divided to keep conquered.’ As a consequence the power structure has so divided humanity – not only into special function categories but into religious and language and color categories – that individual humans are now helplessly inarticulate in the face of the present crisis. They consider their political representation to be completely corrupted, therefore, they feel almost utterly helpless”
    ― R. Buckminster Fuller, Critical Path

  20. Dr. W! says:

    Greetings, folks! Since Opie P. has brought up the great Doctor and Scientist’s name. The urge to add more of the history arises within me. Most likely Opie P. knows most of what I will offer and perhaps Jon R. also knows about Wilhelm Reich. For those who do know little or nothing about him please keep reading. Dr. Reich was yet another person whose research came into contention with the ‘invisible empire.’ W. Reich was born in Europe during the late 1800’s. After volunteering and serving during WWI he went to Vienna, Austria to attend Medical School. The truly Big Head then and there was none other than Sigmund Freud – the MD who created the branch of medicine called Psychiatry – named after the mythologic character ‘Psyche.’ So, both Psychiatry and its little cousin Psychology are names which derive from Mythology. Ponder that for a while if you did not already do so. Freud organized a bi-annual conference with all of his top students and other well known MD’s to gather and share information and Reich was an attendee. In one of the conferences Reich brought forth a research project based on his research. Freud was disgruntled with his student Reich and did not really like the research project. Two years later, perhaps in 1926, Reich had continued and extended upon his earlier research. Reich wrote up a long paper which later became added to and published as a book titled “Character Analysis.” He brought the paper to the conference with Freud, and the other Doctors. Dr. Reich had arrived early and brought the information for Freud to review, hoping Freud would approve. If readers here genuinely get the following point and this one point alone, my purpose in typing all of this will have been served nicely.

    Psychology is based on Freud’s concepts, and experience. The name, ‘Psychology’ comes directly from Mythology.

    Character Analysis is based upon research done with living people and is founded on REALITY!

    I hope readers can grasp and appreciate the message I hope to convey here. Which of them do you want to help you to sort out your troubles? Continuing on – there were many concepts deveoped by Reich which did not ‘fit the narrative’ very well. Also several, of Reich’s choices and actions ran afoul of the ‘Established Establishment.’ Because typing is not my strong suit, (I’m a slow and untrained old guy) I may not go on much longer. Even so, I want to share a bit more.

    In case any of you reading this ever saw an old movie in which dozens of people came and threw books on a great big mal-fire,* well that actually happened, here in the (not so entirely) good ol’ USA. Would you guess whose books were burned? (* It is not possible for me to call that one a ‘bonfire’ since the word ‘bon’ means ‘good’ and the word ‘mal’ means ‘Bad’ in the French language.) Dr. W. Reich also did dozens of experiments with both plants and animals which led to the creation of his ‘Orgone Accumulator.’ Reich’s later experiments demonstrated that his ‘Accumulators’ could Effectively and Safely be used to help people with a variety of health conditions. He found that some persons with certain conditions ought to avoid the experience. Thus, there are some guidelines for those ‘Accumulators’ and a few ‘contra-indications.’ Also, Dr. Reich extended on and further developed his research to create the “Cloudbuster.” Those devices can also be ‘turned around’ so to speak, and they become ‘Cloud-Makers.’ Reich’s technology does interact with the atmosphere and influences the weather. Zero chemicals are ‘sprayed’ into the air – no toxic crap is added to rain down on people, plants, animals, lands, seas or oceans! Therefor, there is one totally non-toxic form of weather modification. There is much more to his story, however … . As a final note, currently one can find various ‘Orgone – pendants, crystals’ etc., being proffered for sale. This commenter very strongly recommends that interested persons do some reading or find a genuine Doctor who knows what they are talking about. A few good places to begin would be Dr. Reich’s facility in Rangely, Maine or by seeking out Dr. James DeMeo, PhD – located in Oregon. Dr. DeMeo holds conferences and has some books for sale. Please support Dr. DeMeo however you can. Dr. DeMeo was very generous with his time when I decided to construct an Orgone Acumulator.
    Evidently, there is (or was) also a group of Doctors doing both research and possibly also offering treatments somewhere in Pennsylvania.
    Soon, I plan to follow up with more details and some references, references, … (probably tomorrow or the next day.)

    “Love, work and knowledge are the wellsprings of our life. They should also govern it.” – Dr. Wilhelm Reich

    • john-oranje says:

      Thanks for that Dr. W. I had heard of and read some about Reich. He was involved with treating ‘shell shock’ victims during the first world war. I think that was very important in his keeping anchored to reality.

      One point; ‘bonfire’ as I have understood it, is a contraction of bone fire; referring to sacrificial fires and nothing to do with French ‘bon’.

    • Dr. W! says:

      Greetings again. My post above is at best imperfect and I apologize for any ommisions and errors as yet un-identified. Since I was operating from memory and did not have any books or notes within reach at the time a few details were a bit jumbled, incorrect or what have you. Regarding john-orange’s comments, firstly – Yes as I recall the stories, Reich was indeed working with WWI ‘shell shock’ victims during his early years as a clinician. Those people were “victims” of the sequelae of war. Dr. Reich became very strongly opposed to war as far as I recall. Reich was able to view the rise of A. Hitler and understand the implications. So he left Austria and went to one of the Scandanavian countries before making his way to the US. Next, thank you for your note about “Bonfires.” That is ‘news’ to me. Admittedly, I did not look into the origin of the word bonfire. Ahh, we live and learn. Thanks again john-oranje.

      “Character Analysis” was first published in 1933.
      ISBN is 0-374-50980-8 (for the version which I found.)

      Another different yet related book was written by “Orson Bean” and is titled “Me and the Orgone.” Orson Bean was aged 91 and in February, 2020 he was in Los Angeles, Ca. when he was struck by a car and killed. Some readers may remember him as an actor on the TV show Desparate Housewives.

      Finally, there were several tragic events which occurred surrounding Dr. Reich, including even Dr. Reich’s early demise at age 60. He definitively challenged the established order and did so with science available to him in those times. Personally, I neither fully condone nor condemn Dr. Reich. By pure chance I came across the above-mentioned book by Orson Bean in a college library. There have been several ways in which Dr. Reich was denigrated and castigated. His work appears to have been rather seriously mis-represented, yet I was not there so I cannot really comment much on him as a person. Considering that Dr. Reich came along on the heels of the Victorian era, how can one be surprised? In case anyone is curious, The Orgone Accumulator* does indeed do some of the things, including deep breathing and overall relaxation, that have been described in the various books. * Many, many thanks to Dr. DeMeo and a small thank you to one Mr. Larry Smith who very ably assisted me with the construction of the one I built.

  21. george says:

    Great. As usual.

    As a software programmer, I always asked myself: is there a lower level language? are words, images directly stored/ executed by brain? or are they translated into a primary language like in computers?

    In computers a program is translated into assembly language than into zeroes and ones. Is there a similar mechanism in humans? I doubt that English, French, Japanese… is embedded into DNA.. there must be something more primary than language..

    I am not sure that poetic language is more profound than normal language. What I think it happens with poetry and art in general, is that it activates the logic and feelings, emotions at the same time. This can be done with normal language also if you create a situation that activates emotions or if you have music, sounds, lights…

  22. Mac says:

    The article today, so core is one to keep, on paper, myself put good ones in ziploc otherwise gets crispy or yellow. As Jon says against fifty or hundred thousand years, too much of lower instincts, and being steered, but people didn’t have to, and now really have to change. Couple thoughts meant to get to and a visual, sort of occured the more I came by Jon’s site. Had come by now and then over a decade ago, though then mostly focused elsewhere in own effort thrashing away at snakes. Then few years ago came back around, and after while realized had been missing a perspectie should have been more focused, on more creative aspect communicating. Late but good critical to recognize.

    And, over time coming by, have sort of come to see Jon and this spot as if we’re in ancient times, and as if Jon is always walking the fields, with a stone tablet, writing things, searcher, poet, warrior, and others come to the fields in similar sense, and go to where Jon is walking, in our sack cloth robes and leather strap sandals, as Jon shares his markings and we walk together a ways, looking at his marks, maybe putting on a few of ours, then after while split off and share markings other places. I guess could be said of anyone who tries, few in the long press of time as Jon, though everyone should strive, and anyway Jon in his creating, and others who come and go, or share a few markings, just made a sort of vision over time.

    Hay, you know, Jon must be hungry with all the markings lately, and others also, how about we stay around a bit, just a few more lines across the sundial, some of us grind some grain and someone set a fire, and we can all share in some flatbread


  23. Tara Dillard says:

    Followed orders, read the poem aloud.

    Made it a little over half way, then the tears. Warm on my cheeks.

    Continued to the end, oh my the tears.

    Anyone else, same?

    • Alison Cline says:

      For the last few days I have been in quite a bit of physical pain and during such bouts I am reading a lot. Jon’s writing is in my inbox almost daily and I look forward to it. As I read the poem, my breathing became easier and has had a healing effect. I don’t ususally take the time to read comments after one of his pieces, but this time I felt compelled. It helps to hear the voices of others, far more eloquent than I, describing so much of what I also have been experiencing in the most bizarre period of history I have ever witnessed. I wish there was a place we could all go and put our lives back together. If it weren’t for the internet I don’t know where I would put the words.

    • Sean says:

      Read it out loud this morning.

  24. ReluctantWarrior says:

    “The artist’s task is to save the soul of mankind; and anything less is a dithering while Rome burns. Because of the artists, who are self-selected, for being able to journey into the Other, if the artists cannot find the way, then the way cannot be found.”
    ― Terence McKenna

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *