This poem not strange enough for ya? Then try this one, too: Monsanto Man. And read his “explanation” of why poetry, when prose is so much more reasonable. That’s the point, it’s reasonable. And that’s not what this is. That’s not where we live now. This kind of writing is pulled, like frantic, fiery electrical downloads, from the atmosphere of the these wild, unpredictable, revolutionary, potent, upheavaling, unraveling, profoundly regenerating (hard to tell now, but just you wait!) Uranus/Pluto (2012-2015) times. Thank you, Jon Rappoport.
Fukushima Man
November 25, 2013
by Jon Rappoport
So there I was
in one of those giant discount stores
trying on a new pair of pants in the dressing room
a cool neutral voice said
“changing your underwear is politics
and by the way when was the last time
you cut your toenails
wearing or not wearing a watch is politics
that mole near your left knee is political
the calcium deposit on your right ankle is political
the way you look at yourself in the mirror is political
those three years of your life in the 60s we can’t account for
are political”
The curtain brushed aside and a tall naked woman walked in
she ran a black instrument over the new pants
-a loud buzz-
“they’re radioactive,” she said “testicular cancer in three months
try the pink drawstring sweat pants instead”
she withdrew
the neutral voice picked up…
“you’re a month late on your appointment for a dental cleaning
you haven’t changed your oil in a year
your health plan will be canceled next week”
I ran out of the dressing room, spotted the front door in the distance and hightailed it…
I emerged into the parking lot…cop cars parked all around…no way through…SWAT guys in black with rifles pointed at me…fat dude with a bullhorn…”lie down on the ground…lie down on the ground now…”
I looked around and saw a large man wearing a gray coat walking away from the store with a package under his arm. I pointed at him and screamed “Russian agent! There! Al Qaeda Russian terrorist! Get him!”
The cops all swiveled and opened fire. They turned that poor bastard into dog meat in a few seconds.
A lieutenant walked up to me and shook my hand. “You saved your country today, sir.”
He squinted. “We knew you were for real when we saw your pants. They’re glowing. Those are Fukushima Casuals. Not many men have the balls to wear them.”
a month later
when I met the president
they had me in my new pants
behind a special shield
he passed a medal through a slot
and I took it and put it my pocket
“son,” the president said, “we all have to make sacrifices
to keep the engines running and the lights on
we’re all in this together”
he grinned, winked, and shot me with his finger
a few minutes later the SS boys dumped me out in an alley and pointed me toward a string of bars
I got the message
the women, you see,
and I’m not talking the best women maybe, but
some women are better than no women,
are attracted to the pants
they come up to me while I’m drinking and
touch the material
when I’m in my room late at night smoking
I notice the cigarettes burn faster
the wall paper is peeling
the windows are fogging over right away
there’s a force
I have this crazy feeling
it has a mind or at least a purpose of its own
it wants to expand
and I’m the messenger
it’s chosen me for some reason
but
when I wake up in the morning I realize it’s just one of those things you think when you’re alone
and the most important thing about you is your glowing pants
even a blessing can be a curse
that’s what I say now when I’m on the occasional talk show
when a lunatic with bright bright teeth
interviews me
the man with the glowing pants
…so I’m sitting in this little bar talking to a floozie
when the tall naked woman from the giant discount store
walks in
only she’s wearing a business suit
she brushes the floozie aside and sits next to me
she orders three shots of tequila and downs them one after another
she leans in close and says
“don’t you get it? they’ve been profiling you for a while now, turns out you’re the one schmuck in fifty million who thrives on radiation…” she leans even closer and I can feel her tongue in my ear like a moist swizzle stick…”in fact, they’re thinking of wiping out the whole human race and rebuilding it using you as the genetic template…”
and that’s how I find myself in an underground lab strapped to a table and a guy who reminds me of Allen Dulles, dead-eye dick with those rimless glasses and a cold blank stare,
stands above me…
Allen says, “If we put this guy next to a few fuel rods, he might glow so brightly he lights up the whole world…he might be God…he might be, finally, God made visible….ship this putz to Japan tonight and let’s see what happens…”
Fukushima Man
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
