The magician in the high hills

The magician in the high hills

The hunter at the end of day


-3 poems-



by Jon Rappoport

December 4, 2013




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





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


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