by Jon Rappoport

Copyright © 2012, 2018 by Jon Rappoport

July 2, 2018

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Over the course of the past 10-15 years, I wrote a 5000-word poem, VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE. You could say that proves I believe in poetry. I do believe in it.

Here, for the first time, I’m publishing the whole poem in its final version.

Poetry in the grand tradition of, say, Walt Whitman may seem to be dead—and who cares about poetry anyway? But poems are life blood on the page.

I cast this one out like a wind across the landscape, with full knowledge that reading anything, much less poetry, is a dying art in many quarters. Frankly, that doesn’t stop me. I know, from 17 years of writing at nomorefakenews, that there are untold numbers of people who can still read and want to read. My articles have found them.

Going against the grain doesn’t bother me. It motivates me. Every day. The seemingly absurd proposition that a poem can have a life-bearing effect—I hold that view and always will.

The unbound, wide-ranging, free and electric spirit within us is THERE. We can step on it and bury it and forget it, but it doesn’t die. With that knowledge, and without apprehension, I freely give you this. Do with it what you will. As with everything else I write, I stand on the words.

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VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE

By Jon Rappoport

This poem is not a warning
This is poem is not an alert
This poem is not a shopping cart in a supermarket
This poem is not my uncle talking about America with a cigar in his mouth
This poem is not about the H-bomb
This poem is not my grandmother speaking Russian in the Bronx a hundred years ago
This poem is not a microwave
This poem is not
This poem is not a robot car on the highway
This poem is not a power outage
This poem is not
This poem is not a peace treaty
This poem is not a shadow across your eyes
This poem is not Karl Marx or Mussolini
This poem is not a molecule invented in a laboratory
This poem is not a political philosophy manufactured in a secret bank
This poem is not a machine
This poem is not a system
This poem is not asking for an answer
This poem is not people dying in hospitals even though people are dying in hospitals
This poem is not bread or the fountain of youth
This poem is not a doctor
This poem is not a professor on a pension
This poem is not a union
This poem is not a dollar
This poem is not a major or a colonel
This poem is America and not-America
The dream America

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

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

Fifty million video cameras record the washed out moment-to- moment 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 paragon trees spreading out their knuckles above ground

Through dream gardens of the starlit Sagittarius, coral horses, amber-fed lichen
we walked the Colorado 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

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)

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

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

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…

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

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(More posts like this — primarily on my other blog OUTSIDE THE REALITY MACHINE. Email list subscribe to it here.

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Jon Rappoport

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

Rappoport on Coast to Coast AM: the Hawaii volcano

Why isn’t the press connecting fracking and the Hawaii volcano eruption?

by Jon Rappoport

June 21, 2018

Last night, I was on Coast to Coast AM with George Noory, and I reported on fracking and the eruption of the Hawaii volcano.

Since very few journalists are looking into this, I’m reprinting my recent article on the subject. Obviously, if fracking were found to be the reason for the eruption, the process would be exposed as a great danger for all the world to see—

On the Big Island of Hawaii, where the Kilauea volcano has explosively erupted, there is a geothermal energy plant. It is the Puna Geothermal Venture (PGV) Plant, in Puna.

There is a long-running debate about whether PGV is fracking. The debate is a matter of terminology, because in the geothermal process, as hawaiifracking.com reports, “…the drilling and the injection of cold water into hot rocks used in geothermal energy plants does fracture the rocks, which can induce earthquakes and through contamination of the atmosphere and water tables can affect our health and safety.”

Whether deep injection of fluid aims to capture oil, gas, or heat (geothermal), the beginning stage of the process is the same.

Earthquakes induced by this water-injection could obviously trigger a volcano.

For example, here is an alarming article about a geothermal project in Switzerland. Swissinfo.ch, December 10, 2009: “The authorities in canton Basel City say they will cancel a geothermal energy project, which three years ago caused minor tremors that damaged many buildings.”

“A risk analysis study published on Thursday found that the danger of setting off more earthquakes was too great if drilling at the site resumed.”

“The project was put on hold three years ago after thousands of claims for damage were filed with insurers. Total costs for the damage were around SFr9 million ($8.78 million).”

“The study, commissioned by the canton, concluded that Basel was ‘unfavourable’ for geothermal power generation.”

“It said the resumption of Deep Heat Mining project and its operation over a 30-year period could set off around 200 tremors with a strength of up to 4.5 on the Richter Scale – in 2006, the quakes were about 3.4.”

“This would result in damages up to SFr40 million.”

“The Basel facility drilled five kilometres into the earth. The borehole was designed to be injected with water to capture the extreme heat. Back at the surface, the hot water – at a temperature of around 160° Celsius – would run a steam turbine coupled with a generator.”

This Swiss article outlines the risks, and also confirms that deep water-injection is used in the geothermal process—which can and does trigger earthquakes.

Here is another reference—The Guardian, July 11, 2013: “Pumping water underground at geothermal power plants can lead to dangerous earthquakes even in regions not prone to tremors, according to scientists.”

“Prof Emily Brodsky, who led a study of earthquakes at a geothermal power plant in California, said: ‘For scientists to make themselves useful in this field we need to be able to tell operators how many gallons of water they can pump into the ground in a particular location and how many earthquakes that will produce’.”

“It is already known that pumping large quantities of water underground can induce minor earthquakes near to geothermal power generation and fracking sites. However, the new evidence reveals the potential for much larger earthquakes, of magnitude 4 or 5, related to the weakening of pre-existing underground faults through increased fluid pressure.”

“The water injection appears to prime cracks in the rock, making them vulnerable to triggering by tremors from earthquakes thousands of miles away. Nicholas van der Elst, the lead author on one of three studies published on Thursday in the journal Science, said: ‘These [injected] fluids are driving [earthquake] faults to their tipping point’.”

“The analysis of the Californian site showed that for a net injection of 500m gallons of water into the ground per month, there is an earthquake on average every 11 days.”

“Heather Savage, a co-author on the same study said: ‘It is already accepted that when we have very large earthquakes seismic waves travel all over the globe, but even though the waves are small when they reach the other side of the world, they still shake faults [such as the faults induced by geothermal water-injection]. This can trigger seismicity in seismically active areas SUCH AS VOLCANOES where there is already a high fluid pressure.” (emphasis added)

So, on the Big Island of Hawaii, where there is a massive volcanic eruption underway, there is a geothermal plant, PGV. How close to the volcano is PGV?

The Washington Post, May 12: “Long a concern for residents and the target of lawsuits challenging its placement ON AN ACTIVE VOLCANO, the Puna Geothermal Venture (PGV) is a major safety issue [i.e., chemicals stored at PGV] in the wake of the eruptions and earthquakes that have shaken the Big Island for days, government officials say.” (emphasis added)

I see. PGV is ON the volcano.

Who owns PGV? Ormat Technologies. Through internal merger and stock swapping, Ormat appears to be a jointly owned Israeli and US company now.

Ormat is no stranger to scandals. At blog.heartland.org, H Sterling Burnett writes (4/1/15): One scandal that could haunt [Harry] Reid for his remaining time in the Senate (and possibly beyond) was reported on recently in the Washington Free Beacon and Courthouse News. It seems the Reid helped the green energy company, Ormat Technologies, a firm that owns and manages geothermal plants in California and Hawaii, secure nearly $136 million in economic stimulus funding from the 2009 American Recovery and Reinvestment Act.”

“Two former employees are suing the firm, claiming Ormat executives defrauded the United States of more than $130 million by reporting false information about two projects to get government grants, a federal judge ruled Tuesday.”

“Reid’s ties to Ormat are deep. The company runs geothermal plants in Nevada and Reid has been a big booster of the company in D.C. As reported in the Free Beacon, ‘Reid bragged about securing Ormat a $350 million loan guarantee from the Department of Energy (DOE) and took credit for expanding the Treasury program that the former employees say illicitly provided Ormat with millions more in taxpayer funds’.”

“It is also worth noting that Ormat’s DOE award came a year after investors sued the company for allegedly inflating its stock price through ‘fraudulent accounting and overstated financial results.’ Ormat settled the allegations in 2012 for $3.1 million.”

Ormat potentially faces a much larger scandal now.

A massive volcanic eruption on the Island of Hawaii.

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

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Jon Rappoport

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

London: elderly man charged on suspicion of murder for defending home against thieves

by Jon Rappoport

April 5, 2018

In the midst of London’s rising crime wave, a 78-year-old man, Richard Osborn-Brooks, has been arrested on suspicion of murder, after defending his home against two thieves.

The Daily Mail offers this statement from Scotland Yard: “At 00:45hrs on Wednesday, 4 April, police were called by a homeowner to reports of a burglary in progress at an address in South Park Crescent, Hither Green SE6, and a man injured.”

“The 78-year-old resident found two males inside the address. A struggle ensued between one of the males and the homeowner. The man, aged 38, sustained a stab wound to the upper body.”

“London Ambulance Service took the injured male, who was found collapsed in Further Green Road, SE8, to a central London hospital. He was pronounced dead at 03:37hrs.”

The Telegraph states: “Police arrested him [the homeowner, Osborn-Brooks] on suspicion of grievous bodily harm before then arresting him on suspicion of murder.”

Arresting Osborn-Brooks on what grounds? Defending his home? Defending his life? Defending his wife, who was sleeping upstairs?

Since when is it murder, when a person fights off a thief? Was Osborn-Brooks supposed to sit quietly in a chair, tell the thieves (one of whom ran away) to take everything they wanted, and ask them not to harm him or his wife? Is that proper behavior? Is that what the government demands of its citizens?

If the facts of the story are what Scotland Yard reports to the press, for what possible reason is Osborn-Brooks sitting in a jail cell?

Why aren’t the police thanking him for defending his home and family?

The Daily Mail: “British law allows homeowners to use ‘reasonable force’ against intruders to protect themselves or others in their home.”

“Guidelines introduced in 2005 allow people to protect themselves ‘in the heat of the moment’ – including using an object as a weapon. They can also stop an intruder running off, for example by tackling them to the ground.”

“There is no specific definition of ‘reasonable force’ and it is said to depend on the circumstances.”

So a person is permitted to defend his home with force “in the heat of the moment.” But not if he uses force in a calm, cool, and rational state of mind?

The government presumption is biased against a citizen’s right to self-defense. Thieves’ motives are clear and easily understood, but targets of thieves have ambiguous motives that must be sorted out before a decision is made about whether to prosecute them or release them. In the meantime, lock them up.

This is backwards.

But many people would call it “progressive.”

You see, the thief is really the victim, and the victim is the perpetrator. Once you digest that formula, you’re ready to enter the New Society.

Any person who owns property is automatically suspected of having committed a crime. Property IS theft. A thief would never steal unless he had been “oppressed.”

Got that?

Congratulations. You’re now a card-carrying liberal.

A word of caution: when you see some of your liberal LEADERS moving about with armed security teams, don’t fret or ask questions. They have special rights. Because they’re in the vanguard, flying the banner of new revolutionary values. They need whatever they say they need. It’s all in The Memo.

Which you didn’t receive.

Because you’re an unknowing dupe. The rich and privileged people you think you’re fighting against are the rich and privileged people who are leading you.

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

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Jon Rappoport

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

What happened to love letters?

by Jon Rappoport

February 19, 2018

Going back thousands of years, wherever there has been a civilization with written language, there have been love letters.

—Passion, joy, and longing unbound—

—Letters that ignite and cleanse the soul, surpassing the energies of every-day life—

Today, in our highly technological society, the love letter has been a waning moon. My wife, Laura Thompson, has wisely decided to resurrect the form and breathe life back into it. Anyone can contribute to the renaissance:

https://www.facebook.com/vitaminlovewellness/

https://www.vitaminloveinc.com/love-letter-challenge

Laura Thompson: “Why write a love letter? Oh, the power of a love letter! Something you can hold in your hand. Something so real…”

“When you write one, your cells are vibrating…Your body, with all its magnificent division of labor…like an orchestra or chorus during a glorious performance.”

“Is it a lost art form or can we keep it alive?”

“We, as a society, don’t write love letters much anymore. We use cute emojis to express love and admiration. We text phrases. We hint and beat around the bush with the quick forms of communication at our fingertips.”

“…if everyone wrote a love letter to the ones they love… good things would happen that would spur on more good. I wonder how high we could go? Is the sky the limit – or beyond?”

Laura invites your participation.

Why not dive in? You have nothing to lose, except the Ordinary and the Mundane.

Jon Rappoport

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

Top ten things progressive politicians should do to prove they’re progressive

by Jon Rappoport

January 29, 2018

It’s a simple premise: since so-called progressive politicians are incessantly meddling in other people’s business, telling them what they should and shouldn’t do, these progressives should demonstrate their own values by exemplifying them in their own lives.

Why not? If the values are virtuous, what harm could result? Only good could come of it.

One: To improve your life, to make it better, bring at least three single-male illegal immigrants, between 18 and 25 years of age, into your home to live. Provide a sanctuary. If you own several homes, settle several of these immigrants into each, as full-time residents.

Two: Give up all your guns. Fire your armed security personnel.

Three: Immediately receive all vaccinations listed on the CDC expanded schedule. Don’t worry about the aluminum, the formaldehyde, and other toxic chemicals in the shots. Ignore the fact that no proper studies have been done assessing the effects of multiple vaccinations given in combination. Just keep quiet and take the shots.

Four: Those politicians who voted for the infamous Dark Act, which effectively banned Americans from knowing whether their foods contain GMOs: eat only GMO food with its increased load of pesticides. No worries.

Five: Go to war on any battlefield when war is declared. Join the infantry. Pick up a gun. Position yourself on the front lines. Kill or be killed.

Six: Take your children out of elite private schools and send them to public schools.

Seven: No more private jets. You believe in manmade global warming. Use only public transport. Have a deep analysis done of every wasteful CO2 practice you engage in, and eliminate it. Reduce your carbon footprint. Get rid of extra homes.

Eight: Participate fully in Obamacare. Cancel any other health insurance policy you have.

Nine: Sell the home you live in, and move to a neighborhood where illegal immigrants have been newly resettled.

Ten: Divest yourself of all monies inherited or gained through investments, since these are signs of Privilege. If you’re still in the top tax bracket, pay 90% of you annual income to the federal government.

There is more—for example, since you support Antifa, refuse the help of the police under any and all circumstances—and since you champion the DOJ and the FBI, warmly accept full government surveillance of your conversations stemming from FISA court warrants—but those above ten actions will start you off in the right direction. I’m sure you’ll feel better, knowing you’re personally living the improved life you want everyone else to live.

It’s a win-win, isn’t it?

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

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Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29^th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

And it’s a perfect “bait and switch”

by Jon Rappoport

October 16, 2017

(To join our email list, click here.)

It’s still labeled a proposal, but it has widespread support among Australia’s political leaders.

The BBC: “…proposals that could see children as young as 10 held for two weeks without charge under new terror legislation.”

“State and territorial leaders approved the plans with Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull at a Coalition of Australian Governments (COAG) meeting…”

The public hasn’t seen any details of the plan.

It’s obviously aimed at children who are suspected of preparing to commit terrorist acts, or children who are suspected of already committing those acts. Evidence would be lacking, formal charges wouldn’t be filed, but the children would still be arrested and held.

Let’s cut to the bottom lines. There are already laws which cover arresting children-terrorists. Yes, there needs to be evidence of some kind, but why is that a problem? For example, if federal police found a compound where children were being trained to handle weapons, and it was clear the intention was terrorism, those children could be taken into custody and investigated.

To understand the deeper point, however, you need to recognize that a new law restricting freedom for one reason can and will be expanded to include more reasons—all in the name of public safety and protection, of course. What creeps along the ground today stands up and runs wild tomorrow.

In this case, simply refer to the merciless Australian crackdown on parents and doctors who question the wisdom of vaccination and offer proof that vaccines are harmful, who are willing the buck the tide of official liars who insist that vaccines are miracles.

A year from now, two years from now, someone in government circles will come up with the bright idea that unvaccinated children, innocent victims of their parents’ madness, should be taken in, quarantined, held, because they are little walking time-bombs of contagion—and they must receive treatment. Which will be vaccination. Which will be “psychological intervention,” to “liberate them” from their parents’ delusions.

“Well you see, when we arrest little children on suspicion of being terrorists, we’re not really blaming the children. They’re victims. We need to sequester them away from the general population and find a way to re-educate them. In a similar fashion, when unvaccinated children are allowed to roam the streets and shops and schools, they too must be sequestered by the government…”

What’s that? You say children suspected of being terrorists and children suspected of being unvaccinated are not equivalent? So what? What leads you to believe the government is operating on a rational or logical basis?

The overriding issue here is control. That is the motive. The government feels a permanent need for more control over the citizenry.

It will seek it out and find it wherever it can, no matter how thin its justification.

“We do this for the children” can eventually mean anything the government wants it to mean.

Right now, Australia’s political leaders are worried about the people they call the “anti-vaxxers.” Why? Because the anti-vaxxers’ message is resonating with the public. Mothers whose babies’ lives have been destroyed by vaccinations are speaking up. Mothers who have raised happy and healthy children without vaccinations are speaking up. The fake medical cover story about the wonders of vaccination is being blown wide open.

What can be done? Whatever will shift control of children from parents to the State.

This new proposal to detain children suspected of terrorism is the planting of a seed that can and will sprout poisonous fruit. Today, terrorism. Tomorrow, vaccination.

To cite an egregious example: in the wake of the 9/11/01 attacks against the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, President Bush declared a new and improved War on Terror. He said America would seek out and destroy terrorists wherever they could be found; and states who refused to cooperate while they harbored terrorists would be considered enemies. Then…

What country did Bush choose to attack, for one? Iraq. There was no evidence Iraq was a center of terrorism. But that didn’t matter. American neocons wanted a war and they got one, along with a rationale: “Look what happened on 9/11.”

What started as a “reasonable” proclamation led to sheer insanity.

Wake up and smell the bait-and-switch and the con job. It’s coming up over the horizon.

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

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Jon Rappoport

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

Meet the Grand Magician of Is

by Jon Rappoport

September 18, 2017

This Wizard is one of my favorite inventions for explaining “life in this reality.”

The Wizard is always busy pointing out What Is. “This is, and then over there, that is, too. Don’t ignore this other thing that is…”

On and on and on.

The Wizard of Is surveys the world and the universe and says, “Here it all is. This is what will eliminate the need for you to invent your own world.”

Translation: “It will keep you in a beautiful prison forever, because all roads lead through a maze that takes you back to the beginning, where you started.”

The Wizard of Is does everything he can to convince you that What Already Is is your best option, your destiny, your home of homes.

After that, you only have to find your place in it. The Wizard is very good at cooking up mumbo-jumbo about you needing a particular place and how, when you find it, things fall together and click together for you.

“We’re making this endless TV series called Reality and there are many roles available. If we can find your best role, you’ll fit it like a glove, and then you’ll be happy.”

The Wizard then makes sure to indicate that challenging What Is is a very difficult road. It opens you up to all sorts of dangers, he says. The Wizard has lots of experience in wielding the stick and the carrot.

What are some of the characteristics of What Is? It’s always there. You can always see it and look at it and get involved with it. It’s like a vast painting in a museum—except you walk into it and live there. It’s made for you. It’s apparently seamless—once you’re inside it. It doesn’t break down and reveal rips in its fabric. It endures.

You can approach it from many angles—political, economic, social, medical, military, scientific. But above all, What Is is a Continuum, which is to say it’s an interlock of space-time-energy. It all fits together. Each aspect enforces and confirms every other aspect.

The idea of exiting from it seems absurd. You’re there, and there you will stay. Your job is to fit in, to find your place, your role, your destiny.

A great deal of Wizard-of-Is propaganda surrounds it. For example, you have no capacity to exceed its parameters. You can make use of technology to explore and manipulate certain pieces of What Is, but without technology you’re lost. Therefore, those who supply you with technology are your masters.

The Wizard states that he is your guide. He’ll help you navigate What Is to your advantage. This is your best option. Your only option.

All of this is a highly sophisticated form of hypnosis.

The Wizard says, “You don’t want to think too much about What Is. It’ll lead to disillusionment. You’ll feel depressed. You won’t know what to do. You need to accept What Already Is. All happiness stems from that.”

But acceptance is half a meal. It’s unstable. It breaks down. In time, the devotee finds himself at sea, cut off from his own creative power, unwilling to exercise it, for fear that he’ll overstep his mandate as a human being.

This makes the Wizard rejoice. It’s his device, his con.

Some years ago, I was interviewed by a host who urged me to talk about the Matrix. But with every step I took, I could see in his rushed agreement all the signs that he was becoming more and more uncomfortable.

He was looking for a conclusion, a wrap-up that would confirm his hypnotized belief in What Is.

It was, all in all, quite amusing. He was saying yes, yes, while he was thinking no, no. He wanted the Wizard of Is, that’s all.

So I introduced the idea of the Wizard. Then, I really saw him go into internal paroxysms. He looked like he was about to fall off his perch.

He was dedicated to systems all the way down. He wanted to be surrounded and comforted by a structure that would eliminate the need for him to do anything—while he pretended that was not the case.

I said, “Look, if you really like systems, invent your own. You don’t have to be living under the umbrella of someone else’s.”

I saw a small light go on in his eyes.

“That’s interesting,” he said slowly.

After the interview, he took me aside and told me, “You know, I rarely think about a new idea on these shows. I’m pretty much up to speed on everything. But maybe I can dump that Wizard you talked about…”

The Wizard isn’t forever. He just acts as if he is:

“DON’T IMAGINE. DON’T CREATE REALITY. JUST KEEP LOOKING AT WHAT ALREADY IS. THIS IS AND THAT IS. JUST KEEP LOOKING AT WHAT IS…KEEP LOOKING…”

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

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Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29^th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

How elite problem-solving works

by Jon Rappoport

August 16, 2017

(To join our email list, click here.)

Here is a formula for you: “smaller problem, bigger solution.”

It’s quite an elite formula, and I’ll explain it as I go along.

“Some even believe we are part of a secret cabal working against the best interests of the United States, characterizing my family and me as ‘internationalists’ and of conspiring with others around the world to build a more integrated global political and economic structure—one world, if you will. If that is the charge, I stand guilty, and I am proud of it.” (David Rockefeller, Memoirs 2003)

In a future sea of darkness, the islands of light, toward which people desperately grope, are clusters of buildings occupied by mega-corporations and government agencies.

To achieve a measure of survival, people seek those islands and the jobs that come with them.

When you sign on and are accepted, you pledge a loyalty that knows no bounds, because there is no viable alternative. You cease worrying about the crimes your employer is committing, because you are safe, you are out of the darkness, and you want to stay there.

What would cause this future to come to pass? Many answers have been offered. I’ll add a factor to the list.

It concerns a method of problem-solving. Here is the premise: if a problem crops up, solve it by enlarging the scope of the relevant factors.

More precisely, ARTIFICIALLY enlarge the scope of the relevant factors.

This is Elite Problem Solving.

In 1996, Hillary Clinton’s book, It Takes a Village, appeared. In it, she argued that a whole community must solve the problem of raising a child. Of course, this was pretentious nonsense. It runs parallel to the idea that no entrepreneur can prosper without infra-structure that is built with public money, and therefore the entrepreneur and his output should be the property of the state.

Starting with the individual child, Clinton offers a solution that encompasses a town or a community or even a city…or who knows…maybe a planet.

But the original problem isn’t solved (if it was a problem to begin with), and the solution is an artifact designed to regulate a larger environment. To put it another way, Clinton’s model makes it necessary to put everyone under the gun because a child may be a problem.

Problem: a gaggle small fish might be wiped out by allowing water from rivers to irrigate farmland. Solution: we must consign the whole valley of farms to eternal drought.

If the free market gives birth to 12 million companies and corporations, this creates the “problem” of uninspected potential crimes. Therefore, we have to put the world under the regulatory eye and nose of agencies, whose ultimate objective is to wipe out those enterprises, or weaken them to the point at which they will be absorbed in much larger corporations—until, finally, there are 400 mega-corporations that are responsible for 80% of all international trade and production.

Then and only then can we feel safe. Then and only then can we know that government will exercise proper control over business on planet Earth.

Of course, when 400 corporations do constitute the productive engine of Earth, they will have bought off governments so they can do exactly as they like. They will partner with governments to share the spoils. Which was part of the idea in the first place.

Again, the method is: whatever the size of the original purported problem, make the solution bigger and more encompassing.

If one gun (fired by one person) killed one person, confiscate all guns everywhere.

Here is another example: if you foment and prepare and fund and supply a war between two major powers, in the aftermath you will solve the problem of reconstruction by welding those powers together as one Complex…in which case, you end up with larger unified organizations than when you started, and you control that unified whole.

In Europe, that whole is called the totalitarian European Union.

Look at the opposite strategy, which is no longer held to be viable: you create self-sufficiency wherever possible. Responsible self-sufficiency. Most people don’t have a clue what that means.

Suppose you started a small nation. You would be faced with the problem of survival. How would you solve that? You could forge all sorts of relationships with other countries in the areas of trade, loans, and purchases of material…except you know that these other nations are corrupt beyond the telling of it. Their governments are corrupt, their economies are corrupt, their leaders are criminals. Do you opt for this larger entangling solution, or do you decide to make do with what you have and innovate and work your way toward the objective of your own national self-sufficiency?

If you opt for the second choice, what happens? It has rarely if ever been tried. These days, you would be accused of isolationism and, at the very least, “exiled from the world community.”

And yet, theoretically speaking, if you could survive and prosper as a new nation, dedicated to inculcating the self-sufficiency of every citizen as a long-range goal, you would stand as a shining example to the rest of the world. You would have made the great experiment with freedom work. This was, in a way, what the original American Republic was built to achieve, before it was subverted, three or four minutes after the Constitution was drawn up.

During World War 2, members of the Council on Foreign Relations were tasked with setting out a plan for the creation of the United Nations, the grand global solution to war everywhere at all times.

As we have seen, its emerging agenda has been a covert op to control many facets of human life in all nations, under the rubric of “sustainability.”

In 1988, two UN agencies that seemed to have little power, the World Meteorological Association and the Environmental Programme, created the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC). The IPCC went on to spearhead the drive to convince the world that man is causing so much atmospheric warming, civilization will soon end if the UN doesn’t radically reorder the behavior of all societies and individuals. And the UN mantra is: “the science is settled.”

A child in a classroom fidgets in his chair and looks out the window. He doesn’t respond immediately when the teacher asks him a question. Well, this child needs to be “solved.” For that, a school counselor is brought in, who in turn recommends a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist makes a diagnosis of ADHD, which doesn’t exist. There is no test for it. The child takes Ritalin, and within eight weeks falls into a funk. The psychiatrist diagnoses this as a new emerging condition, clinical depression, rather than an understandable reaction to Ritalin. He prescribes one of the SSRI antidepressants. Two months later, the child cuts himself. The psychiatrist, ignoring the fact that these SSRI drugs are known to cause suicide, decides to prescribe an even stronger chemical, one of the so-called antipsychotics. The parents refuse to allow this. Child Services is called in. They interview the parents and suggest that a charge of medical neglect could be brought against them, in which case the child might be taken from the home and put into state-sponsored foster care.

It takes a village. An overbearing criminal village.

An innovative but struggling company, Silk, which markets organic soy products, sells itself to Dean, a giant agribusiness corporation. Dean turns around and begins buying cheaper soy from China, rather than from the US organic farmers who were supplying Silk. Some of those US farmers go out of business. This is called “free trade,” and is justified by the claim that we’re all living in One World, and the sovereignty of nations is merely an outmoded fiction. Loyalty to one’s own country is scoffed at as “primitive.”

All over the planet, huge agribusiness corporations are bringing local farmers to their knees. These corporations are international. They owe no allegiance to any nation. They float.

Here is Richard Bell (pseudonym) (16 interviews, 132 pages with Richard in my collection The Matrix Revealed), a former financial insider: “Someday, up the road, a few of these agribusiness corporations will merge into a super-entity. Then what will we have? Is this still the free market? Of course not. The level playing field no longer exists.”

“And here’s the kicker: overall food production declines. Government pension funds and banks are INVESTED in the stock of that super-agri-entity. They want to see that stock price rise. They’ll do NOTHING to interfere with that.”

“Agriculture becomes a closed system. The whole idea is to make it look like free-market capitalism, when it isn’t. It turns out that you need separate nations to have capitalism. You need tariff protections. You need nations that figure out how to move toward self-sufficiency. You won’t learn these principles in college courses. You’ll learn just the opposite.”

We have been sold a fiction. Time and time again we have been told that no nation can exist and survive on its own. Self-sufficiency is a foul and selfish myth. Every nation needs vital resources it doesn’t have. It can only obtain them from another country.

This presupposes that the ingenuity and imagination of the human mind is limited in what it can devise. Which is the biggest lie of all.

Discrediting the notion of self-sufficiency is the cornerstone in the building of Globalism.

Why do you think we are bombarded with stories and pictures of poverty around the world? Why do you think stories of celebrities adopting babies from “The Third World” are given such wide play? Because our so-called leaders really care? This op has as its goal fostering the amorphous conviction that everyone must pitch in to help everyone at all times everywhere.

And THAT sets the stage for what? Not share and care. Not a better world. No. It sets the stage for mega-corporations and their partner governments and banks, backed up by intelligence agencies and armies and “missionaries,” to enact their Great Solution: global control, management, governance.

The celebrity, bouncing her new adopted baby on her knee, says, “I know, in the end, when all this is done, our leaders will make it a better world. I know they will. Share and care will win.”

But that’s not the plan. It never was.

You can find the elite formula in many places: “smaller problem, larger solution.”

The smaller problem leads to a grand solution that encompasses far more than the problem ever touched.

In other words, it’s a fake solution dressed up to look like the real thing.

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

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Jon Rappoport

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