The magician in the high hills
The hunter at the end of day
NSA Man
~3 poems~
by Jon Rappoport
December 4, 2013
Introduction:
First, I give you two somewhat fanciful poems about sudden effects on the consensus called the space-time Continuum…the poems are meant to reflect the fact that the Continuum itself is exceedingly fanciful.
The so-called laws that govern it are provisional at best. Even experiments in the sterile conditions of laboratories reveal that humans can exceed statistical probability, when attempting telepathy and telekinesis.
But this is merely a pale clue that dynamic consciousness and existence operate beyond physical cause and effect and beyond material interactions.
The third poem, NSA Man, indicates the lockdown strategies taken to enforce the Continuum, to tighten it, to embroil the population in insane events designed to limit perception, to narrow it down to “crimes and possible crimes and pre-crime surveillance and invented crimes…”
An extraordinary amount of human activity is calculated to create a society in which distractions are the Main Event, and therefore our hidden potential is buried, ignored, and forgotten.
The Hunter at the End of Day
slick string tie and dead rabbits over his shoulder
rifle by his side
diamond chips glittering in his fat pinky ring
he took
his time getting to the moon
a mile from his cottage
the layout of his body and mind
was a temporary cartoon in the dark afternoon
the sun and sky and forest were on loan from a local production company
a renegade crew lurking to catch footage of the assassination of the president
the colony was unstable
construction workers were en route to repair the fractures in space and time
the president had vowed to restore order
but had failed
and now the mining consortium had spotters and shooters in the gloom ready to go
as the hunter took a long step from the stage on to the moon itself he heard the dry whisper of limos moving across the white powder
he saw the first few black shapes rolling toward him
and then the open car with limp flags
and the president sitting in the back:
a triangular block of non-reflective gray
whose brain was percolating a hundred thousand miles away floating in space
the rabbit hunter held up his hand and the caravan ground to a halt
there was no force to stop him
in the woods, under brush, the spotters and shooters fell into a paralytic state
everyone knew the judgment:
the opening in space-time, the tearing of the fabric, the void behind it would be allowed to remain
there would be no repair
the immortal had decided
it was the moment for permitting the illusion to disintegrate on its own
down on earth the press were gibbering about meteors and comets and asteroids, presenting their cover stories
but this rip
would extend down in space all the way
all twenty billion minds on earth would rattle like dice
and universe2 would emerge titanic
the hunter grinned
and hummed a tune
he felt light on his feet
and green as spring
The Magician in the High Hills
the Tibetan sat in the high dirt at night
and tossed his old books on the fire
his lessons were done
he looked out at the black sky
and removed a piece of it
he shrank it to a small cloth
and held it in his hands
the wind picked up
he saw the vacuum begin to suck in torrential space
and he stopped it
tossing the cloth into the air
he saw it it fill out like a great and grateful sail
and take its old place in the firmament
he stood up
brushed off his pants
and trudged toward the trading post
where men told stories about demons and mindless stalking creatures of the mountains and the new priests with their baggage
setting up shop in the city
and their hundred thousand ceremonies designed to postpone the magic he adored
NSA Man
his wife doesn’t know it
but at night
when he tosses and turns in bed
he’s having a wet dream:
he’s been awarded an ocular implant
and thereafter
sees the world as naked
he sits in his office all day
and watches
the population
he has a burning desire to know
“who are all these people?”
what do they really want?
are they
like him
a certain species of pornographer?
does the answer lie in how they have sex?
once will he see a man rummaging around in his kitchen at midnight
suddenly walk through a wall?
will an ordinary janitor in an empty office building
shoot out the grin of an ancient predator?
do these humans share a secret code they flash in ordinary movements?
he wants to know before it’s too late
before they give in
before they surrender to him entirely
what happens when all human communication is swallowed up and interpreted within seconds
for each moving second
of every passing day
will the time come when there is nothing left to watch, when 20 billion people are so transparent one look is enough to penetrate them all?
there is only one solution:
generate, encourage, and stimulate enough crime
to keep the pot boiling
to create an ever-rolling froth of secrets
upon which to spy
Jon Rappoport
The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com
Years ago, while I was still in high school, I made a comic strip cartoon involving several different characters, each inhabiting their own “island” in a type of archipelago-style chain of “islands”. What made this unique was the setting. Each “island” was a chunk of suspended brain matter, frozen in time, just milliseconds after Kennedy received the final head shot. I named each chunk of floating brain, which each miniature character had built their own small hut upon, and each traveled between the islands via hot air balloons. All the while, in the background, a low-pitch, monotone, gutteral noise could always be heard, which was the president’s groan from having been shot, drawn out and frozen in time; kind of like the static background noise of the universe. At the time I made this, I thought I was just being morbid and weird-and I was- but it’s interesting now to consider such ideas and compare them with my current mindset. The first poem just reminded me of this cartoon and I thought I’d share it here. Pretty weird…but weird is always good.
Reblogged this on Ollamok's Uncommon Common Sense.
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