He laughs best who laughs last. So Art pens couplet poetry. Linking tweets, loaded with characters makes for poetry, pretty.

Margins straight as an arrow, complement content, pithy. Not an autistic one’s revenge. Just justice, really.

Failures to wisely plan oft become, plans to fail. Art Everman is come from a civilized future to these very potentially, end time, present, days,

surreally. Get this! Pen would have Art reason with men who submit not to Abraham, Jesus and Mohammed, today.

MAYDAYS: A tale of two Urantias, in one. One for one percent. One for ninety-nine. No one wins if we come not, to agree. ‘Tis wiser to share

bounty between us and not lose it altogether. Seems logical. But common sense, is uncommon. They just, won’t share.

On running, a tight ship. On Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s ‘Mafia State’. A kleptocracy, kept alive, and well. The best interests of an entire people

relegated to an underclass. Upper-class oligarchs; crew, officers. Below deck … row the people.

The Russian Mafia. To be distinguished from other franchisees of a storied, franchise. Captains of ships of state are Arthur’s brothers. Their people,

one percent, above a poop deck, rule. Below though row, an increasingly restless, rest, of the people.

Below decks, horrors. Men in chains rowing for the lives of others and for themselves only incidentally. “Row well and live,” Arthur does well recall,

Rome’s Consul saying to anti-hero, Ben-Hur. A half-dead Consul, dictating. A slave obeying, Art, recalls.

He laughs best who laughs last. So Art pens couplet poetry. Linking tweets, loaded with characters makes for poetry, pretty.

Margins straight as an arrow, complement content, pithy. Not an autistic one’s revenge. Just justice, really.

Failures to wisely plan oft become, plans to fail. Art Everman is come from a civilized future to these very potentially, end time, present, days,

surreally. Get this! Pen would have Art reason with men who submit not to Abraham, Jesus and Mohammed, today.

MAYDAYS: A tale of two Urantias, in one. One for one percent. One for ninety-nine. No one wins if we come not, to agree. ‘Tis wiser to share

bounty between us and not lose it altogether. Seems logical. But common sense, is uncommon. We just, won’t share.

Seven days in May. The ides of March, bypassing April, have given way to a Manchurian candidate’s, fateful, seven days in May.

As if The Almighty may well be, a fanatic of American culture. God. A film buff. Who knew? And who knew about seven days, in May?

Pen then had said, “Upon a sign tomorrow, begin on Twitter, versing. It’s what ye’re here for, man.” ‘Twas a sunny day, that next day when

lightning, balled, Art, did strike. Unlike, regular, jagged, lightning. Very memorable. Especially, when stricken.

Stricken by lightning, was Art. Startled, Art recalled, Penemue, and his charge to him. Now, mind ye, Art had not been fried, but rather as if bathed in electric,

fields. So charged, Arthur’s began tweeting the nations with an as if, magic, algorithmic.

An algorithmic magic wand, virtually, is Twitter. Stricken by lightning was Art. Not fried but rather, bathed in electric, fields. So charged, Art had a blast

tweeting the nations with Twitter’s, magic, wand. To little, effect. The Twitter Stream, is vast.

The Twitter Stream, is vast. Yet, next to nothing, next to cosmic winds. Yes, everything is connected. Matters of, timing. Stricken by lightning was Art.

An algorithmic, magic wand, virtually, is Twitter. And a new way to communicate, has discovered … Art.

Dogged determination and relentless tweeting have led Art to discover a new twist in communicating, ideal, for the composition, of couplet, poetry,

functional as well in marketing and education. Linking loaded tweets together. A template, for epic, poetry.

A template for epic poetry. Linking loaded tweets, together. Ideal for the composition of couplet, poetry. Remember karma, President Donald

Trump. In civilization, people uncivil, eventually, get their due. And that he laughs best, who laughs last, Donald.

A Mission Impossible Plan: To pen poetry: To shame Kim, Don, Xi and Vlad. To reason simultaneously with those who submit not (really). Today

too, going through motions, holy. To reprise, Abraham, Jesus and Mohammed, even going through, the motions, today.

The Don was born on June 14, 1946. ‘Tis been either 39 or 42 days since the past ides of March. For divining purposes, the Jewish Declaration Day

in 1948 or admission to the United Nations in 1949, vary only but slightly a key date. A most fateful, day.

‘Tis with good reason that Books caution against divining. Witness: Watcher Pen watching even as The Don was born. Throwing caution then,

and protocol, to the wind. For the first time in ages, the Watcher, acted. Messaging Paradise. Googling for Art, then.

For the first time in ages the Watcher, acted. Messaging Paradise. Then, googling, for Art. For good reason Books caution, against divining.

Witness: Watcher Pen watching even as The Don was born. Throwing caution and protocol to the wind, in his alarming.

Penemue. The Watcher. And Penemue the Watcher was duly watching, as The Don, was born. Ignoring then, caution and protocol to warn of The Donald.

For the first time in ages, he acted. Messaging Paradise. Googling then, Art, autistic brother, of The Donald.

For the first time in ages, Pen acted. Messaging, Paradise. Googling then for Art the autistic brother of The Don. Art. The brother, prodigal. Arthur, who from

his home was driven by the bullying of his older brother, Don. But from the future, Art is come.

From the future, is Art. Come to gift ye, a surprise, reprise. And once again, it’s poetry. For a first time in ages, the Watcher, acted. Messaging, to start,

Paradise. Googling then for Art, the autistic brother of Don. Then coming, in a dream, to Art.

Then in a dream did Pen with a plan, come, to Art. A surprise, reprise. Again, it’s poetry. Penemue’s subtle awakening of Arthur augurs, in man,

transformation. Pen then said, “Upon a sign tomorrow, begin on Twitter, versing. It’s what ye’re here for, man.

It’s Friday. A good day, to March. Or to pen poetry: To shame the cabal: Kim, Don, Xi and Vladimir. To reason with those not yet moved, or physically

unable, to march. A groundswell, swells. The cabal is feeling the pressure. An opportunity to address, connected … issues, duly.

Tweet them poetry. Tweet them beauty. In time. And in space. Little lines. Held together. By dark matter. And dark energy. Matters, metaphysical.

Incomprehensible matters, mostly, to us. Just be grateful. Give thanks. March, or pen. Show, ye are grateful.

“Watch your back, Art” they’ve been saying to him at the end of every soirée, lately. Since then there have been attempts made on Art’s life.

Attempted, assassinations. And at the More-Mart Store where he labors, greeting customers, threats on, Art’s life.

The threats at the close of each evening’s soirée gave Art, pause. For the threats were made, in tones, non-threatening. As if, friendly, warnings.

Confirmation, to Art that he well might expect attempts on his life. Attempts to follow through on warnings.

Jarring to Art; realizing that notwithstanding a friendship built up over hundreds of pleasant evening soirées, each of them would have me

killed the next day and go merrily on his way, desisting only if they, personally, were in the position of, for example, strangling me.

Jarring to Art has been the difference between video-game-playing-killing and killing up close. And personal. As in death by strangulation

in comparison with having others kill for ye. It’s easier to kill by proxy and/or remotely … by pressing … a button.

On the facility of lying and killing on Nebadon‘s Urantia. And their interrelatedness. And indeed, the interrelatedness, of things.

Everything connected by, as if, invisible, strings. A fact, nonfictional in a fiction, surreally, in MAYDAYS … nonfiction.

Everything’s connected by as if, invisible strings. A nonfictional fact, in a fiction, surreally, in Arthur’s MAYDAYS, nonfictional. On the facility

of lying and killing on Nebadon‘s Urantia. Their interrelatedness. And the interrelatedness … of a unity.

Metaphysically, actions and reactions have ripple effects, wrinkling, more or less, the space-time fabric. A nonfictional fact, in a fiction, surreally,

in Arthur’s MAYDAYS, nonfictional. On Nebadon‘s Urantia. Earning, an Angel, his wings … by saving ye.

Trump Tower-Moscow: The story of how Team Trump toiled on a long proposed Trump Tower in Moscow. A hundred stories tall. An icon. Trump-fashioned glass and steel reaching high in the sky to spell out loud, to high heavens and low men alike … “TRUMP”.

“TRUMP“ Envisioned by The Don. Emblazoned upon the skyline of Moscow. A cautionary tale. A near incredible, story of how Trump’s

commemoration, of himself, one hundred stories tall, never, happened. Not for want of trying to spell, out loudly … “TRUMP”.

Bob’s happy to do so. To correct a summary, misstatement. And to officially call upon special governmental enforcer and RICO,

special agent. Art suspects testimony more dramatic even than John Dean’s from Nixon’s impeachment. Who ye gonna call if not RICO?

@AOC @GretaThunberg @davidhogg111: Why not a clearinghouse? Let US learn how Nobel winner Mandela’s model of Truth and Reconciliation

helps US @MoveOn from criminal pasts, to futures, recast. Reprise, Madiba Mandela’s, noble, Truth, and Reconciliation.

Might it have been more accurate to say that the witch hunters have suspects but suspect also they could not conclusively prove neither obstruction,

nor conspiracy (collusion), albeit both, they suspect? Is Barr’s DOJ summary, a word play? Or a real, exoneration?

The saga continues. Different AG. Same sad, old story. Bi-partisan, politics. Scratch, my back. Get yours, scratched. The AG’s brief summary,

won’t for long hold water. Public and press: Press him. As he crows. As he is wont to do: Exoneration, in victory.

The AG’s summary won’t for long, hold water. Public and press: Press him. As he crows. As he is wont to do. This time a rash, exaggeration. The victory’s

in exoneration. Different, AG. Same, story. Scratch my back, to get yours, scratched, reciprocally.

Lies. The stock in trade of the Trump Organization. The President, as is his wont, lies indiscriminately. On this occasion, yet another, rash,

exaggeration. In exoneration, he sees a victory, moral. Any other interpretation, just another, partisan, bash.

The Trump Organization. A criminal enterprise. Among assets not on the books, countless, lies. Lies. The stock in trade of Don’s various organizations,

sundry. As is his wont, he lies. Exonerated feels Don. Crowing victory for illegal, organizations.

The Trump Organization. A criminal enterprise. Among assets not on the books, countless, lies. Lies. Stock in trade of Don’s organizations, sundry.

As is his wont, The Don lies. Pathologically, seemingly. Not eloquently. Not even, oft, coherently. The Don … lies, instinctively.

Mueller is recommending no further indictments. And in Mar-a-Lago (Swampland II), tonight, The Don is exulting. Not one sycophant’s risking

suffering his wrath to warn him that his legal woes are like the universe’s, Big Bang: Faster and faster, expanding.

Like the universe’s Big Bang, faster and faster, expanding, are the Child-in-Chief’s, legal woes. It is instant gratification he seeks. ‘No further

indictments’. Might be vindication. So why can’t The Don, fall, asleep? Why is The Don terrified, of Mueller?

Why can’t Don sleep? And why does he curse him whenever he faces the face, of Mueller? And why does he, The Don, feel, like a witch?

Only his witch hunter, knows, for sure. The hunt, no smoking gun has found. Still, the evidence shows, that Don is a witch!

Mueller’s recommending no more indictments. Why can’t Don sleep? Why does he curse Bob when he faces him? Why does he, feel like a witch? Only witch

hunters, know for sure. No smoking gun’s been found. But there’s more to the story than, an unarmed, witch.

There is more to this story than an unarmed witch and her coven. No smoking gun having been found, the entire Trump clan, can, for the moment,

breathe easier. And go about the business of being the glitzy, first family. Back to, collecting … emoluments.

The Russia Report: But a fractional part of The Don’s, legal woes. And as his legal woes go, so go too, the nation’s, up, and down, with him.

Understanding him best, however, better than the rest, does his lover, Kim. Understanding of The Don, is, The Kim

But a fractional part of The Don’s legal woes is Bob’s Russia Report. And as his legal woes go, so go too a nation’s. Up and down, with him.

Understanding him best, however, better than the rest, does his lover Kim. Understanding of The Don, is The Kim.

Love. Kim. Don. Kingdom. And a cabal of brothers, remiss. But the brothers fear the rumbling they hear even from as far away as, a seemingly surreal,

lunar surface. They hear the lies. And the battle cries. And they know, that the suffering there, is real.

We know that Mueller filed his report. And that it’s ‘comprehensive’. Unfortunately we know at the moment next to nothing, of anything else. We

may never know who in Moscow urinated on The Don. Nor may we ever know, given Kim, Don’s real, sexuality.

Who is Donald John Trump? Is he a ladies’ man? A man’s man? Or a gay man’s, man? A man of mystery, is The Donald. And we shall know,

somewhat more, tomorrow. But we shall never know what might have been had The Donald been other than he is. A man, who does not, anything … know.

Ye are at a tipping point in your history. Note, Alexandria, David and Greta: A petition to void Vladimir’s Brexit crashes a governmental website in

Britain. Timely accessing, of the site, crashing it. Incidental, hacking. Just … signing in.
cc: @MoveOn

@AOC @GretaThunberg @davidhogg111: Irregular, warfare. Ironic. A petition to cancel a Vladimir-engineered Brexit, CRASHES, a governmental website, in Britain.

Vladimir Putin engineered too a Manchurian President, of US; a now stormy … rainbow, coalition.

Tweet children, to the cabal, directly. To their person. Or to their state. For President Putin, tweet to @official_rfs; for President Xi, tweet to @xijingping;

for President Kim, tweet to @uriminzok; for President Don, tweet, @realDonaldTrump, messagings.

MAYDAYS: High drama. In verse. Even in ‘safe’ places, no one is safe here. Magical realism. Fictional nonfiction. Fake news. Lies, in reverse,

rule on Urantia. Drama, not in prose nor epic, verse but in your face. His, story. History. Implausibly, in verse.

Even in ‘safe’ places, no one is ever really safe, on Urantia. Accidents and illnesses are to be expected. Magical realism, not much. Nor verse,

tragi-comically, haunting. Lies rule on Urantia. So Art pens, with his brothers, Urantian history, in verse.

No one’s ever safe on Urantia. Not in workplaces. Not marketplaces. Not in schools. The cabal of four, rules, too self-servingly, Urantia. And so verse,

Art pens, with them. In their dreams. Do, the right thing. Blackmail … them. Write to them, in verse.

No. No one here, is ever safe. Albeit most in modern times, live, lives uncoiled; not ready, on a moment’s notice, to run, for one’s life. In verse,

ironically, may such modern men, find purpose. To save a planet for them and children. In unison. In verse.

In God. In His verse. Therein may one find, purpose. In modern times most men live, lives, uncoiled. Relaxed. Not altogether ready, in moments … terse,

to run for one’s life. If, like Art, one is too old, to run, or march, in lieu, of marching … verse.

If too old to run or march, in lieu, of marching, verse. ‘Tis in God. In His wisdom. ‘Tis therein that one verily may find, purpose. Verse, metaphysically,

elevates men. We do things like green new deals not because it is easy. But because it is not, easy.

We do things like green new deals as per JFK, not because it is easy but because it is not easy. Metaphysically, verse, elevates, men. If too old, in lieu

of running or marching, on Twitter, verse. ‘Tis in God and in His wisdom, that one finds, what to do.

Climate change and a green new deal. A gateway issue and a solution, respectively. Transcendentally, MAYDAYS, must go, globally, viral.

Notwithstanding that that’s what got Putin in deep intrigue, irregular warfare, defensively, is going, globally, viral.

Irregular warfare. It’s, what’s happening in state sponsored, hacker, communities. Counter-attacking defensively, is destined to go, viral,

globally. Climate change and a green new deal. An issue and a solution. And a vast source of children to go, viral.

Climate change and a green new deal. An issue and a solution. And a vast source of children to go, viral. Irregular warfare. It’s what’s happening, virally,

in state sponsored, hacker, communities. On counter-attacking with pen-wielding, children, virally.

A hue and cry. A hue and cry there may be when the members of the cabal, protest. Protest the unfairness of, tragi-comically, ironically,

interfering in the affairs of foreign nations, not to mention, counter-attacking, with pen-wielding, armed, children.

On interference in the affairs of ‘sovereign’ nations. And the nature of the claim, to sovereignty. And on utterly disregarding the feigning taking

of insincere offense to a counter attacking only happening due to ill-considered, first strike, attackings.

MAYDAYS: On interference in the affairs of ‘sovereign’ nations, the nature of claims to sovereignty and utterly disregarding the insincere, feigned taking

of offense to a counter attacking, only happening due to ill-considered, first strike, attackings.

MAYDAYS: His story. History. Of the Watcher, Penemue. Puppet master, Vladimir. His apprentice puppets: Xi, Kim and Kim’s lover, Don. Verse. Fictional nonfiction, in verse.

Linked, by Twitter’s algorithm, into drama, not in standard prose, but in, epic, verse.