So President Don shall dance before the media monster, later on this day. A minuet, diplomatic. In its parts, tragic; and comic. Poetic justice,justly, ironic.
The greatest irony is in the sowing of the seeds for reform of a world order … anachronistic.
Toxic, fittingly, is the word of the year. And the Don, its fitting, standard bearer. For The Don is, as if, a thoroughly modern, Typhoid Mary.
Immune, himself (by the power of Teflon), to the toxin he carries, Don has dispersed his namesake toxin, globally.
http://a.msn.com/01/en-us/BBPJP5Y?ocid=st
President Donald, with the witting, and unwitting assistance from an international media monster has globally dispersed his namesake, toxin.
Now pandemic, the toxin is infecting every man, woman and child. Increasingly … people lie. FEAR: THE DON TOXIN!
http://a.msn.com/01/en-us/BBPJyl0?ocid=st
Fear, indeed, the Don toxin. But fear it not, unduly. For fear is good, evolutionarily. Treat fear like medicine. Healthy, in small doses. Like the small doses one
gets from the truths spoken on Urantia’s Luna by lying Don and his lying brethren, Earthmen.
Don only seemingly admires his manicure while actually pondering, weighty, affairs of state. Streams, of migrants. And mid-stream, elections.
Tax breaks. Tax returns. Climate change. California. Acting, increasingly, paralyzed. Counting, on his fingers, a number of years … in prison.
President Don: Recommended, reading, on an inconvenient, truth. There is underwater, an ongoing and invisibly epic, refugee crisis.
Marine creatures. Fleeing for their lives. Read. And ponder. What’s at the link. For the fleeing in the seas is fueling the fleeing, on land … in similar … crises.
http://a.msn.com/01/en-us/BBP6KJh?ocid=st
Don only seemingly admires his manicure while actually pondering, weighty, affairs … of state. Streams of migrants. And mid-stream, elections.
Tax breaks. Tax returns. Climate change. California. Acting, paralyzed. Or just counting with his fingers, a number of years, in prison.
http://a.msn.com/01/en-us/BBPDiK8?ocid=st
Write, algorithmically. That is to say, tweet. For moving on is a matter of communication. Our hallowed grounds are past due, for a ground, swelling.
In commemoration of an eleventh hour, day and month, one hundred years past, let us tweet … to help us … to @MoveOn should One be, so, willing.
MAYDAYS: A Wikipedia-like, epic poem, re-written, in real-time, as necessary, to avoid, a looming, MAYDAY.
MAYDAYS is many things, but fundamentally, it is but a simple, algorithm. A set of instructions, is, MAYDAYS.
An epic poem, is MAYDAYS. Intended to be, ever, in progress. Couplet verse, painstakingly composed, by instructions, algorithmically.
Most revolutionarily: Potentially, authored, by everybody, for everybody, only seemingly, magically.
MORONS AND ALIENS 