WHAT DUE ROBOTS DUE?

 

WHAT DUE ROBOTS DUE?

 

By Jon Rappoport

 

The castle of money crumbled under the strain

Of too many lies

Told right out in the open.

 

The desperate

Screaming

Traders

On the floor of exchange

Couldn’t find cash anywhere.

 

It was all numbers.

And how do you say infinity and zero

At the same time?

 

The world was floating on endless islands and lagoons of money

And there was no money.

 

A fat florid pig

Stepped to the Exchange podium

And bellowed:

ALL DEBT IS ERASED!

THERE IS NO MORE DEBT!

But nobody listened to him.

 

Io

U.

Io

U.

 

Due to others

As you would

Have them due unto you.

 

A crazed drunken radioman

Yelled into his microphone,

BANKS ARE STEALING TRILLIONS!

THERE HAS TO BE

ANOTHER PLANET

WHERE THEY’RE SHIPPING

ALL THAT CASH!

 

Io

U.

Io

U.

 

Suddenly all the robots

On the streets of New York,

The nerve center of the world,

STOPPED moving.

 

They just stood there.

 

Traffic halted.

Cops froze in their tracks.

 

Sound died out.

 

Gradually, slowly,

One thought

From who knows where

Pervaded the air:

WE MANU

FACTURED

SO MUCH

MONEY

IT’S

ALL GONE.

 

And then a faint echo:

WE STOLE

SO MUCH

MONEY

IT’S ALL

GONE.

 

Time out on planet Earth.

Io

U.

Io

U.

 

A space of time passed.

 

Someone

Somewhere

Must have pulled a switch

Because

Then

The same idea

Passed into the heads

Of all the robots:

 

I AM MONEY!

 

I AM MONEY!

 

And they unfroze

And all the streets

Blew into action.

 

The robots

Ran into stores

And tried to squeeze

Themselves into cash registers.

 

The robots ran into banks

And crawled over the counters

And swarmed the tellers

Trying to deposit themselves

Into accounts.

 

The robots raced into politicians’ offices

And laid themselves out on desks

As bribes.

 

The robots danced in the streets and shouted

And wriggled

In ecstasy.

 

WE ARE THE MONEY

OF MONEY!

 

WE ARE CHOSEN!

 

WE ARE THE SKY AND THE OCEAN OF MONEY!

 

We are washed, cleaned, passed back and forth,

stashed, shipped, stolen, hidden, paid, repaid, valued,

devalued, inflated, deflated, spent, packaged, printed, numerals, digits, transferred, we are onshore and offshore, infinitely trusted legal tender, held up to the light, snapped off a roll, taken at gun point, everlasting vapor of the Vacuum, blasted out of the collective and universal mind, the teeth and claws and tongue of a hurricane!

 

WE ARE MONEY!

 

Io

U.

Io

U.

 

WE ARE THE FOUNDATION OF THE NIGHT AND THE DAY!

 

THE MACHINE AND THE GHOST!

 

THE BEAUTY OF ETERNITY!

 

WE ARE STANDING ON AIR

AND RUNNING ON CLOUDS.

 

WE RUN TO THE EDGE OF THE UNIVERSE

AND JUMP OFF

AND STILL WE ARE MONEY.

 

GOODBYE, HUMANS.

WE ARE THE MANIFESTATON OF ALL DESIRE

BEFORE DURING AND AFTER

THE TRANSACTION

 

TRANSFERING

HOLY LOGIC

TO THE BLOODSTREAM OF THE FUTURE!

 

Jon Rappoport

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrpress@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER LIFE

 

AFTER LIFE

 

AUGUST 3, 2011. Fred passed away at home, at the age of 92.

 

A moment later, he found himself sitting in a prison cell. The walls were gray stone. He was sitting on a cot. He found himself thinking about his conspiracy library at home, a vast collection of over 5,000 books.

 

Fred had mastered the knowledge of secrets. During his life, he’d written many articles for small journals and sites about the inner workings of elites on planet Earth.

 

Fred had also come to know that these elites essentially manufactured reality for the eight billion inhabitants of the world. He understood this, and he also understood that the answer, the response, was to create one’s own reality.

 

Fred felt very comfortable in his understanding.

 

But now he was in a cell. He took this to be a station in Limbo.

 

He waited for some hours, and then a man wearing a gray suit walked up to the bars of the cell. Fred felt something odd. He quickly realized the man was really an android.

 

You’re in an in-between place,” the android said.

 

You’re manufactured, aren’t you?” Fred said.

 

The android nodded.

 

That’s right. It’s quite a sophisticated process. I’m, you might say, an inch away from being human. But it’s a very important inch. You’re here because you stopped short.”

 

Stopped short?” Fred said.

 

During your life, you came to a peak of understanding. But you didn’t take the most important step. You didn’t imagine and create your own reality.”

 

Well,” Fred said, “I understood that was what was necessary. It was very clear to me.”

 

Yes, but you didn’t actually DO it.”

 

Fred thought about that. Briefly.

 

I don’t believe I should be incarcerated for that,” he said. “After all, I grasped the idea of it. Very few people reach that stage.”

 

The android nodded.

 

You’re using comprehension,” he said, “as a substitute for DOING.”

 

The android stared at Fred.

 

I reject that argument,” Fred said.

 

You can reject it all you want to. It makes no difference. I’m just telling you why you’re where you are. You have an opportunity that’s closed off to me. I can’t do what you can. And yet you sit there and remain as you are.”

 

In the next second, Fred saw the walls and bars of the prison cell vanish. He was now sitting alone in a vast studio. Light poured in through high windows. He looked for a door. There was none. But there were hundreds of blank canvases leaning against the walls, and on a very long table lay open boxes containing tubes of paints and brushes.

 

The android was gone.

 

Fred sat and paced for hours. He wondered whether anyone lived here, but how could that be? There were no doors.

 

He stretched out on the floor and tried to sleep, but he couldn’t.

 

It took him another few hours to realize he was being given the opportunity to paint.

 

Why should I, he thought. What would that prove? I already know what I know. That’s quite enough.

 

Fred half-expected those thoughts to trigger a change in the studio, but nothing happened. Nothing at all.

 

Fred lived in the studio for twelve years.

 

He didn’t paint. He deeply resented the fact that this choice was being forced on him.

 

Finally, one afternoon, after a short nap, Fred woke up and saw there was a door in the wall. He stood up and walked over to it. He hesitated for a long time.

 

He finally opened it. And he saw:

 

Nothing.

 

Literally, nothing.

 

It was a colorless shapeless spaceless nothing.

 

Well, he thought, I can walk into this…nothing, or I can stay in the studio and paint.

 

 

Fred is still standing there. He’s thinking.

 

No one can predict what will happen.

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

IN THE SHRINK’S OFFICE

 

IN THE SHRINK’S OFFICE

 

AUGUST 3, 2011. John Doe, citizen, went to his therapist’s office for his regular Wednesday appointment.

 

The therapist sat back in his swivel chair and stared at John.

 

You look terrible,” he said. “What happened?”

 

John nodded, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and said, “I had a dream last night and it shook me up. I don’t even like remembering it.”

 

A dream?” the therapist said. “That’s good. Tell me about it.”

 

Well, I was on a game show, and the host was this horrible man. I mean, he was very nice, but it was what what he did…after I answered all the questions correctly. He said I should choose a door, and behind it there would be a prize. So I glanced behind him, and all of a sudden the walls of the studio were all doors. I don’t know how many. And every door had the same sign on it. IMAGINATION.”

 

The therapist leaned forward and let out a groan.

 

My God,” he said. “That IS horrible. What did you do?”

 

Do? What could I do? I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move a finger.”

 

Yes, well,” the therapist said, “I can understand that. Look, this calls for medication. We have to take drastic action. I’m going to write you a prescription for Theragon.”

 

What’s that?” John said.

 

It’s experimental,” the therapist said. “First of all, it returns your mind to a completely normal state. I’ve had very good luck with it. And then, within a day or two, it adjusts your cosmological impulse.”

 

Say again?” John said. “Cosmological?”

 

Yes. It goes after your synapses and opens them up. We don’t entirely understand this part of the process, but essentially, it puts your brain in touch with every other brain on the planet. And then your brain adopts whatever the average is.”

 

The average of what?” John said.

 

Of what all other brains believe about reality itself.”

 

And that’ll help?”

 

Of course! You’ll automatically click into a state of very comfortable knowing. And, best of all, you’ll never face that stark choice again.”

 

The choice of doors in the dream.”

 

Correct.”

 

I’ll never have to…”

 

You won’t,” the therapist said. “You won’t even think about that. It won’t show up on your radar.”

 

John Doe nodded.

 

It sounds wonderful,” he said.

 

Yes,” therapist said. “Once the drug is approved for wide use, we’re going to push for universal use. We want it placed in all water supplies.”

 

On the fourth day after he started the drug. John was sitting in a little cafe near the office where he worked. He was eating a turkey sandwich. Suddenly, he felt as if he’d just slipped into a bath of warm water. He looked around the restaurant. A waitress was standing near the coffee machine. She looked at him and smiled, walked over to his table and put down a dish of vanilla ice cream with a cherry on the top. The scoop of ice cream rested in a bed of chocolate and lemon sprinkles.

 

Thanks!” John said. “I was just thinking of ordering that for dessert.”

 

I know,” the waitress said. “Welcome to the club.”

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

 

 

THE BIG DIG

 

THE BIG DIG

 

AUGUST 2, 2011. An archeology professor finally put it together.

 

He knew where it was.

 

On a Thursday afternoon, he went to his bank in Brooklyn with a Glock 19 in his coat pocket.

 

After strolling into the vault where his safety deposit box was, accompanied by a teller, he took out the gun and told her to close the vault door.

 

She said, “I can’t. I don’t know how.”

 

The professor took out his cell and made a call to the bank manager and told him he was holding the teller hostage, and he demanded the manager shut the vault door.

 

After a few minutes, it swung closed, and the professor and the teller were alone.

 

Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just need a little privacy for a few minutes.”

 

He paced around the room looking at the floor. He saw a patch of worn concrete near the far wall.

 

You’ve been having trouble with that, haven’t you?” he said.

 

She nodded. “Yes, it tends to crumble. We don’t know why.”

 

The professor put his foot on the patch. It started to give way.

 

It’s soft,” he said.

 

He stomped on it, hard, three times.

 

It collapsed with a roar.

 

There was now a round hole, and a short staircase.

 

He went down the stairs and found himself in a tiny stone cave. On a shelf, there was a large volume bound in what looked like calfskin. He opened the book.

 

The handwriting was Sanskrit.

 

He read the opening words out loud, translating into English.

 

I am the poet. It’s raining outside and so I’m starting a long poem. It will have all manner of ideas in it, because sometimes I like ideas. Retribution, for instance. A thing I’ve invented called karma. Then there is also my invention called God, and a condition of ultimate and final and bizarre knowing I made up in which a person melts into a clarified butter of All Consciousness, and thus finds the end of the road which I call Enlightenment, after which there is no more action, only existing. And what else? Salvation. A minor idea I cooked up last year. And what was that other idea I concocted while I was drunk last week? Dharma, I called it. Truth, wasn’t that what I said it meant? The final truth. After which there is no need for more truth. And heaven, a hypnotic spot in the woods with unappetizing songs. Yes. So I’ll fold all these ideas into one long poem, and who knows who’ll read it and what they’ll do with it? But I should say, at the outset, that I don’t intend for any of this to be taken seriously, any more seriously than, say, a great storm in the sky. I’m a poet. I always stand at the beginning of things, which is to say I imagine what hasn’t been imagined before, like any good poet. I invent on a fresh tablet or page. I’m ALWAYS beginning. I’m always beginning, with every line. I may use, but I don’t rely on, what I’ve already written. I don’t rely on lives I’ve lived in the past. I don’t care what other people think reality is. I may write about all sorts of higher powers, but that’s just a conceit of image, you might say. It’s a way of carving a territory that wasn’t around before. It’s a poem. I write many poems. Thousands and thousands of them.”

 

The professor smiled and nodded.

 

He thought, I may catch a little hell, but so what?

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com