MAYDAY 1713: SATURDAY, JUNE 27, 2020


A preface in English I’ve posted. And a preface — to the preface. The former’s the preface in the King’s English Don asked me, a non-English

speaker to pen. Of  a top secret. A mystery poem for every president, since George Washington. Mysteriously prefaced in Korean, not English.

Killing two birds with one stone; to get a publisher to address these crises, Don’s leaking MAYDAYS: the rolling epic

poem of every president since George Washington. We’ve all — added to it — but not even George Washington … ever began it.

I’ll take the hit. I’ll take the blame for the mountains of dead. Blame will weigh but lightly on my stunted, conscience. Dead

men with tales to tell —usually hold, their tongues. Had I read might I have read, the warnings? Probably not; for, I don’t read.

The gate of Hell bears an inscription ending with the famous phrase “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate”, most frequently

translated as “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Of Urantia, poor stewards, have ye been. Ye’ve made a living Hell of Urantia, effectively.

That the gate of Hell bears that inscription and that those same words appear in George Washington’s poem — but in Korean

offers us an important clue. For if the Devil is an Italian and we need to find him, he may well be living in territory … Italian.

Treasure the poem. Barack left it to me. So too each departing president — since George Washington, each in turn — leaving it,

to the next president incoming. Treasure it. I wish I had. Alas I don’t read so I didn’t, incoming. Time flies; now I’m outgoing.

In the bottom right hand drawer of the top secret Resolute Desk in the West Wing’s Oval Office, is an epic poem — top secret.

My ugly American lover has revealed to me secrets so secret, only the president himself has his own special access … top-secret.

In the bottom right hand drawer of the top secret, Resolute Desk, in the West Wing’s Oval Office, is an epic poem … top secret.

A preface in English I’ve posted. It’s the preface in the King’s English Don asked a Korean speaker to miraculously, in English,

not Korean, pen. Hidden in a poem, secrets for every president, since Washington. Mysteriously prefaced in Korean, not English.


To it will get posted. For every man from the lovers The Don and The Kim, waxing, poetically.

And if two shiftless shape shifters like us can propose a truly new paradigm, ye eight billion can make it happen truly, transformationally.

With our poetry wanting yet for a publisher and the planet needing a miracle my lover The Don, an oft demanding man, demanding

once again, is being limiting my preface to 1,960 characters, exactly. And Art’s isolating even as many life forms, are stalking him.

With our poetry wanting yet for a publisher and the planet needing a miracle, my lover The Donald an oft demanding man,

once again makes great demands of me; he’s limiting my preface to 1,960 characters, exactly. Art’s isolating but many, Art are stalking.

We were children when we once blew up things. Really surreally now being men, we are feeling called upon; mysteriously

compelled, magically or miraculously to fix things. To that very end Don’s asked me to write a preface in the King’s English, succinctly.

We were children when we once blew up things up. Really surreally, now being men, we are called upon ironically, to fix things. Don’s asked me

to write a preface for Art, in the King’s English. No animals were injured in the filming of my — tragi-comic — explosive, fury.

With November’s chill deceptively near; with a publisher nowhere near; needing yet a miracle, Don turned to his lover;

lovingly, he turned to me, saying: Write me Kim Jong un, my lover man, roly-poly, in the King’s English — a Preface of — 1960 characters.

My personal lover having asked me to write an emergency preface to Arthur’s MAYDAYS. With our poetry alarmingly

wanting for a publisher and in need of a miracle he turned to his lover; he turned to me, for a miracle; 1960 characters, exactly.


Our beloved, my personal lover The Don having asked me to write an emergency preface emergently

and with our poetry wanting yet for a publisher and needing a miracle, he limited me to 1960 characters, exactly.

We were children when we blew up things. But now being men, ironically we are called upon — to fix things.

I have asked Kim Jong un to write the preface to MAYDAYS. And ye may read things there — eye-opening, things,

when to later, it gets posted. For all men; from the lovers —The Don — and Kim.

Aides have started to wonder aloud whether I really even want to win a second term. How stupid’s that? To stay one

step ahead of the law I’ve gotta win. I can’t count on Nobel wins in December helping me in November, win an election.

Descending I’ve been ever since. How’s that even possible? I got off the escalator at the bottom of the stairs. What sense does that make?

That I yet, descend. An aging actor on a stage playing my part in a morality play; the very biggest loser in a very real … sense.

Five years ago on June 16, 2015, I gifted to ye one of the most indelible images of 21st-century politics when I slowly descended upon my

golden escalator to a rally announcing my candidacy for the presidency. And descending I’ve been, bye and bye.

I can vouch for my books only. Only they alone, in fact, qualify as truth in what seem like, vast oceans, of outrageous, lies.

Why wait? I’m leaking, a teaser. My first, leak. I’m outing my whistleblower Art at No … lie.

It’s not an outing, unfriendly. We’re actually — colluding. Collaborating on my book; George Washington’s — ere, mine.

My immediate predecessors; Barack, George and Bill will attest to the existence of this top-secret poetic, writing and attest too

to its miraculous nature and its miraculous provenance. Poetic, not prosaic, it was Washington’s poetry, ere it was mine.


So far — so good. Sparse attendance having cancelled my outdoor rally, I found also, indoors, seats, unoccupied. My

fury overshadows, my embarrassment. Furious that seats, remain — unoccupied, I could not care less how many die.

Stunningly surreal; what’s happening. And it being so completely unacceptable that I so recklessly and shamelessly

endanger the lives of citizens I’ve sworn to protect, I beg my press pool, when asking questions: Show me, no mercy!

I am not going to live my life in fear. I must get back to my normal. Not a new normal; my — old fashioned — normal.

Anything less is unacceptable. The protesters, I’ve warned not to show; if they do, it’s — completely, unacceptable.

Yesterday’s great news, today I’m afraid, must give way to Tulsan news less than great. For a span of decades — Tulsans —

white and black refused to talk to one another about the events of May 31, 1921. No thanks to me, now talking at least, are the Tulsans.

What’s happening now is that I’m now in full-blown, auto-destruct mode. Hosting a super spreader campaign event today

in Tulsa promises trouble. I’m begging for trouble. And there will be trouble aplenty today in Tulsa. I’m auto-destructing, today.

My fellow Americans: I have great news for modern man on this Juneteenth; this 19th of June of this year of our Lord, 2020.

Happy tidings! ‘Tis great — the news that follows. I’ve lent my bully pulpit to Art. He, in return, lent me a hot — insider, tip.

Art is definitely an insider; he’s one of His angels and he’s here on a mission to save a planet and it’s denizens with a — hot tip.

My fellow American Urantians: On this Juneteenth — this June 19th of of this year of our Lord 2020. Happy tidings! June

greetings to all. Witness tomorrow, an affirmation on June’s Juneteenth, that black lives matter, this modern day June.

Now, collaborating are we five of the Cabal with Arthur — the Angel. He’s from the future. He moves around, widely.

Four planets hath Art saved from their wonton ways. Urantia (Earth) would have been the one that for retirement, duly

qualified him. And so take heart in this evidence that everything’s gonna be alright. Crossword puzzles and Sudoku

remain popular in the future but even more popular is epigramming. Epigramming; its more meaningful than Sudoku.

Epigramming. More on this lost art, later. Suffice it for now; Art’s the only one on the planet practicing an art

form not yet in art, discovered. On Maria-ravaged, Puerto Rico. On Urantia by day, and on the moon at night, a transcendentalist, is Art.

We need to be our own DIY innovators — tinkering and trying and being brave enough to toss out, what isn’t really working.

That’s how we may invent and implement futures sustaining for our children. It is essential we cast off, what isn’t really working.


MARCH 4TH: A COMMANDING — DATE: It’s a date I’m suggesting to the global leaders. It is Tuesday — March 4 — 2030.

Tuesday. March 4. In the year of Allah. God. Jehovah. Yahweh. 2030. A perfect fit. And the irony of it, is not lost, upon me.

That speaks volumes. For I am either an idiot or an idiot, savant. A wrecking ball precursor to reconstruction, transformational.

With but a month (or five or so) to go to Election Day I want to speak as clearly as I oft don’t do to my sallow — fellow — Americans.

The point of this verse, inter alia, is to declare my unfitness to hold the office I do in fact hold. To say — I’m sick — and tired of being — unfit.

Too sick — and let me be clear — too mentally ill am I, to be your president. Indeed I have been, from the beginning and all along — ill, and unfit.

And so in lieu of resignation, I offer instead an unequivocal endorsement of my esteemed opponent, the most honorable … Sleepy, Joe Biden.


Sign me in closing, President Tweety Trump. Sorry, Sleepy, about all that Ukrainian-Hunter, stuff. I was just kidding. Don’t even bother to

investigate me; nor anybody in my family. I’ve taken the liberty — of offering — and accepting a presidential pardon, already, too.

I am outta here. Good luck Joe. Be honest, always, with the people. Ne’er lie to them. And check back in here for your updates, daily.

This epic poem I hereby gift ye explains, lots; not just why I’m undertaking the risk of leaving DC’s unlucky Chinese year of the rat — to ye.

More on that later; lots more. For now — I am so outta here — I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Joe: treasure the poem. Barack gifted it to me.

Treasure this poem Joe. Barack left it to me. So too each departing president since George Washington. Each president leaving it to

the incoming president-elect. Treasure it. I wish I had. Alas, I don’t read so I didn’t read it, incoming. And time flies; now I’m outgoing.

Treasure it Joe. Refer to and defer to it. I wish, I had. Only my hindsight is 20-20 But — it is tragi-comically — improving.

Enter the dragon. No; the dragon’s not the virus. The dragon is Art; and as Arthur enters, he’s spitting — ash — and fire.


Some say I’m not perfect; but reasonable men, may differ. I’ve made a secret commitment to Art Everman, my second class, American, citizen.

Whether or not Arthur’s alleged electrocution actually happened I can’t say; nor can I say that’s when it happened Arthur began versing.

And I wasn’t there either when Arthur alleges he had his EUREKA moment in his tub and promptly got himself a policewoman, arresting.

But I will say this if only to end any debate as to what’s happening here. Hands down I can attest that Art’s verse is — miraculous, verse.

There is a vast potential, not in plain sight, but hidden. Hidden as if in the bowels of an algorithm. Almost perfectly hidden. For things

placed in bowels are pretty darn well, hidden. But relax; algorithms, unlike bowels, are really super-duper, clean — metaphysical — things.

The children may be just the open, sponge-like minds mankind needs to see the persuasive value in poetry. Leave it —surely — to the children.


Abe Lincoln earned his eventual political stature to compromise and confidence — George Washington, through it seems a higher

calling. To my chagrin, I’d done no real work to earn my wealth. Like Citizen Kane, wealth had been a mere stepping stone — to my power.

But what good can power do? What good can power do, I’ve often thought, even as, I’ve done wrong. Now second thoughts empower.

“I’m having second thoughts. Magnificent — second thoughts. I’m studying composition at Arthur’s very much besought School of Poetry.

He in turn, studied ethics at Trump University. Now defunct, once upon a time, it was as well, much besought — and regarded — very highly.

Dissolve the UN; one nation, reconvene. One Rule per nation; each nation its own; and everybody gets her Basic Income, Universal.

And that globally universal Rule? None other than our very much beloved — albeit, our very much — underutilized — Golden … Rule.


Dissolve the UN. One nation, reconvene. And Rule the Golden Rule — the Law — in every nation. Everyone gets his UBI and — the Rule.

In these crises multi-task — efficiently. Follow the data. And the science. Let tech crunch the numbers. Use everyone — And lose — no one.

It’s 2020. Set 2030 as the inaugural GCD; the 1st global citizenship day. I’ll be there. March 4th — both date and command — to everyone.

To celebrate citizenship and to recall, perhaps, when more myopic men than I ruled. And I’ll be there if can just scrap these illegal, term limits.

Seize the day; but for God’s sake have a plan around. All my blather of instinct and gut feelings, sounds of indigestion — not instinct.

I’m now hearing that the cacophony of my bellyaching sounds, sound most unbecoming and — to many — most alarmingly, annoying.

Then suddenly, a dramatic plot twist in this great American tall tale; of four antiheroic dictators and a More-Mart greeter — hero.


Four for humanity they’d have ye believe they are. But with Art — we are five not four — looking for Nobels for the four, antiheroes.

No, ironies are not, upon me, lost. Magnificent, is His timing — Jung’s synchronicities — His magnificence, clues us, as if us — challenging.

To the end of an incomprehensibly baffling mix of predeterminations, free will, miracles — and magic — and what some — luck — are calling.

And that — speaks volumes. For I am either an idiot or an idiot — savant. A wrecking ball — precursor to, transformation’s, reconstruction.

Or leave it to the children. Just not, the Beaver. But natural leaders, just like everybody else, are different from — the follower — rest of us.

Most follow where the leaders, lead. But some are their own leader. Leaders like Greta. She may well, in marching — example — lead us.

My tipping point tipped yesterday; just as another tipped, 78 years ago, on D-Day. Going forward, egalitarianism is on its way — for us.


Some say I’m not perfect; but reasonable men, may differ. I’ve made a commitment to Tulsa and my beloved Oklahomans.

I am, in fact perfect but still, reasonable men may differ. In any event, a plot twist for the ages has twisted me in knots.

I know not what to do. As an apprentice, president, I’ve been learning on the job. I’ve been learning how to be, president.

I am having difficulty just walking and holding a glass of drinking water. My doctors say I have suffered — a stroke.

My tipping point — I fear, has tipped, like Hitler’s, 78 years ago. Keep an eye, dear press pool on me. I fear me — this year.

Keep an eye out, press corps. Bad karma, I’m reaping. And make not of my being respired, artificially — a ‘gotcha’ — photo … opportunity.

Compelled am I to double down; compounding risks, multi-dimensionally. Weird. I’ve been warned of a super spreader event.


I’m alright with that. I’m hoping I’m right and everyone’s wrong. In any event I’m betting big on my magic — at Tulsa’s —super spreader.

Wrong place. Wrong time. Still, the madness of doing the virus’ work for it; scheduling a spreader event for the Tulsans — amongst us,

smack dab in the middle of a spike in Oklahoma’s viral infections leaves us at the virtual mercy of this — evil, demon — incubus.

These have been the best and the worst of times, reprised. Predetermined — times. I know Tulsa is gonna wanna surprise

me. And in two weeks time I shall deny, with plausible surprise, responsibility for a spike on a spike surprise.

In two weeks time I shall deny with audacious aplomb any responsibility much less liability for a spike on a spike untimely surprise.

These have been the best and the worst of untimely times reprised. Predetermined times, untimely.

Soon — very soon now — a cascade of new issues shall soon overwhelm and l’ll be left out to dry and do a fall guy swoon.

Looking at the big picture and reading between the lines I easily see, how, in just two weeks time, my faithful frenemies,

can sink my battleship. Events may surprise me, even tho my agents warn: Vlad, Xi and Kim act, concertedly.

My agents have warned me: Vlad, Xi and Kim are concertedly, acting. Looking at the big picture and reading between the treaties’ lines,

I see how — in just two weeks time, taking liberties and advantage may be my watchful frenemies; but warning me — challenges me.

Shunned even by, Republicans. My shooting star, fizzles, soon. Fitting for one such as I, so seemingly, a character in a TV cartoon.

So insecure am I that in legitimate warnings, I hear criticism. Witness my fiascos; a piss-poor pandemic response; capitalism,

in doubt; my economy shutdown; future and abhorrent racism, in the police, belies an underlying, institutional, racism.

@GretaThunberg: Hi again, Greta. It’s just me again; the president, of the US. Urgent is the challenge to the presidents

of the nations, the public health. Men oft won’t move until, like cattle, they’re prodded. Prodded —feel — the presidents.

Never mind that my tipping point’s, passed. Never mind that my batting average as a sound decision maker lies

200 points south of the Mendoza line. In my blame game someone not me has to take the blame. Someone has got to take, a  shower.

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