MAYDAY 1742: SUNDAY, JULY 26, 2020


Occam’s razor; an invaluable tool in problem solving precisely because the simplest explanation, in the usual, eventuality

is the right one. And the simplest explanation — bar none — is that predetermined has been — each and every, actual, eventuality.

The simplest explanation is that predetermined is each and every day and each and every eventuality, of each and every day.

Ironically, we are the universe’s must see TV; daily fare for The Creator’s universal viewership to be watched live or on replay each day.

We are the universe’s must see TV; daily fare for a universal viewership; live or on replay each day. The viewing universals

binge-watch — like us — back episodes; rooting for their favorite heroes. Heroes like Kim, Don, Xi and Vladimir; heroes, universal.

Heroes like Kim, Don, Xi and Vladimir Putin; heroes, universal. We are the universe’s must see TV; daily fare for a universal citizenry.

viewership live or on replay each day. And the universals root for their favorite heroes. Imagine Kim the possibilities for ye and for me.

Imagine Kim the possibilities should ye and I make a blockbuster deal at the last moment and that it may be the impetus for my blockbuster

re-election and for Nobels for Peace and Literature very possibly shared by all of us, come what may — in November — come December.

Preview 2020’s Nobel-winning, MAYDAYS, Arthur’s serial tweets, ghostwritten by me. Unlike Art I have, in a bully pulpit, a platform.

It is the platform, Art lacks. And I’ve agreed to trumpet MAYDAYS because I have in that pulpit a self-serving, platform.

Allow me to introduce myself; I’m a man of wealth and fame. I’m a complex simpleton. An idiot savant — some say.

And some say that the simplest explanation of what’s happening is that this existence is my big bit part in God’s morality play.


Behavior modification; the human imperative; because conflict between brothers, is by definition, violence, domestic. Separate — the combatants.

History and our human natures mitigate against humanity being somehow, miraculously saved, from a tragi-comical, sovereign-based, governments.

Accordingly, my MAYDAYS; on ontology, realism, fiction and nonfiction; with a ready remedy in neuro-scientific — science-fiction.

What needs to be read by everyone on the planet can not, whilst bottled up in Twitter Streams. But tsunamis may Twitter streams, become.

A thin veneer of civilization masks a savage beast lurking within us. Behavior mod works in individuals. Why not then — for the nations.


Penueme — the Watcher — has been commissioned to re-introduce mankind to poetry by Him — who created —everything.

Commissioned to save man and Urantia (Earth) because — between the virus and The Don, humanity’s devolving — more rapidly, than it’s, evolving.

Islam‘s Jinn; the Nephilim in Genesis; they were the progeny of the rebel angels that rebelled then, against Him who created,  everything.

Three of them fathered not, Jinn-Nephilim. They were mercy — granted and not, slain. Penemue was sentenced to watch over everything — perpetually.

I am Penemue; a rebel sentenced to watch forever, the carnage on Earth; watching TV re-runs in chains, perpetually; sounds like Hell to me — actually.

I’ve long, longed to die; But now that it’s up to me to help a pitiful creature, write prose-like, groundbreaking, epic poetry I too have reason to live — indefinitely.

The commission: Teach the children of the nations. Let 280 characters teach the wisdom best, to best Abu, Donny and the once, forthcoming — frenemies.

One frenemy is now here. Another, in time, lingers. The novel coronavirus is here. Another, cometh. Along with the virus — one final  — opportunity.



“IN THE MINDS of Urantia’s (Earth’s) mortals there’s confusion about meanings regarding God, divinity and deity.” So begins the Urantia Book (the UB).

Of my three works my magnum opus is this MAYDAYS alert to the planet. My take on what‘s happening based on an unknown author’s — or authors’, UB.

Because all’s predetermined, a Republican once a Democrat, is reborn — egalitarian. Egalitarian of all things have I become in my own — allegory — novel.

Still, unfit to rule may be, even a noble-minded, egalitarian. And indeed, I’m unfit to rule. Still, Someone I pay but lip service to — has me — winning, Nobels.

Go figure. A critical review of your cosmic home; a how to, to peace and prosperity; a how to also — to prolong, your history; all subplots, of a far larger, story.

On goings-on on Urantia (Earth), and the space, about it. A cosmic room — with a view. On history; past; present and future. On peace and prosperity.

The plot, and the subplots following, are the stories of three children of God, three strangely, estranged brothers and billions of others, similarly, deranged.

Kim; Don; Art; three megalomaniacals. Three lazy liars. Kim and Don became the leaders of their nations. Art became a leading drinker, strangely, deranged.

Plots are thickening in The Creator’s morality play, a universal showcasing of what is ironically, in fact — a morality play — universal.

What’s so astonishing about that? About being watched by ETs? We too watch twits like me, on TV, all the time. I’ll forever be — cashing in, on my, residuals.

What’s so astonishing about being watched by extraterrestrials? We watch twits like me all the time on TV. Plots luridly, unusual,

are unduly thickening — and threatening to boil over. Ghislaine’s woes — are my woes. And she’s got really long toes — as I recall.

The goings on, nonfictional on Urantia — read — like fiction. But, now that Kim, Don and Art, in dreams conspire — the lines — blur.

The Urantia Book is a book drawn, from minds, unknown. It’s authors, and its medium — all unknown. Still, we share with them — One Father.


Earthlings: Humor Art. Imagine that ye are all brothers and that on the internet’s Twitter, Arthur, Kim and Donald John Trump — have all gone — atwitter.

Arthur; a layman lover, turned lush, turned lyrical philosopher, learned of truth and wisdom — not in no school — but rather — as dreamer.

To prolong Urantian anthropological history, use — this virus. The Devil long ago made Kim and Don — offers, they couldn’t refuse. Faustian — bargains.

They accepted. The terrible truth is that Kim and Don, for power and wealth, their God-given souls, they bartered and bargained.

To the end of rendering Penemue’s plan to pen alchemical algorithms in poetry to humanity — Art, and his dead poet pals, want to arm ye.

Arthur Everman and his dead poet pals and I want to arm you, with weaponized, poetry. Only poetry, weaponized may free us from, these surreal, realities.

It’s been feeling like humanity’s final, at bat. For nuclear powers cannot risk even a single old-fashioned conventional war, sparking — something, larger.

To be, or not to be? Humanity’s, threshold question. High-technology algorithms we dead poets agree, may well counter, the authoritarianism, taking over.

The Watcher Penemue for salvation’s sake (Urantia’s, and his own) googled for weaklings; and his hits were Kim and Don and Arthur — Everman.

He googled too for great poets, scientists and philosophers; to collude with the brothers; to reveal potential energy in algorithms, in plain view, hidden.

Timing is everything Andre once said. And indeed when Penemue tugged on Art’s big toe — Art was on his — death bed.

“Tweet, blog and pen,” thought Penemue, soundlessly. “Tweet 280 character epigrams into pacific, epic poetry so that what ye write — may be read.”

SETTINGS — AND — 12-21-12

Two settings hath MAYDAYS; Earth and her long-time companion, the moon; Luna and Earth (Urantia, really). They are settings — with character.

Settings with character; personality, have Mother Nature and Lady Luna. Mother Nature’s tempestuous. Lady Luna’s more pensive, in character.


Imagine too that words, those wondrous units, may be spoken, written and indeed, woven into art. Art to make poetry inspire, aspirations, human.

Imagine then. in dreamy reveries, Victorian, soiree-like, wine and cheese, parties. History’s luminaries, partying. Eating, drinking and making merry.

Pen’s commission to Art: Tweet. Blog. Pen, to children, epigrammatic, poetry. Teach them an algorithm. For there is alchemy, in poetry.

Money, it’s often said, is of evil, its root. It makes the world go round. Certainly, much evil is done incident to money.  ‘Tis the devil’s, currency.

However, it needs it not. For if anything makes the Earth go round, it is His love, sweet love and not vile, evil.  Currency is moot, if one has love.

What ten words do you, to humanity, bequeath?” It was a frightening, question; the inception to introspection, transformation, and evolution.

That question, posed to Art Everman post 9-11, was asked of Art by a bright one. “Who,” asked Art, “are you?” “I am one of 400 fallen ones.”

“Your counterpart,” said he, “am I,” he cryptically, replied. “For I am, Art, a fallen one; of 400; 200 princes and 200 followers, mostly — forgotten.

Nephilim, the giant men of renown in Genesis, improvidently, fathered. Judgment, reserved. Of 400, all but three, in chains, await Judgment.

The chained; fallen angels who married and commenced in unions with human women and taught them, knowledge —forbidden, not now — forbidden.

The unchained three married, but fathered not Nephilim; “I am the last Watcher: I watch still. I don’t intervene. And to Him — I still answer.

To wit, while 397 of the fallen, lusted after, married and procreated Nephilim, three albeit fallen, revealed to woman knowledge — forbidden.

Imagine then when on 12-21-12, nothing cosmic seemingly happened, actually the MAYDAYS co-authors Kim, Don and Art — went atwitter, together.

In reveries, dreamy; in settings, lunar and Earthly and soirées, Victorian, history’s luminaries with Kim, Don and Art, wine and dine, together.

Attention Jew, Christian, Muslim, agnostic — and atheist. Read Scriptures in the context of Scriptures — other. Compare and contrast them.

Woe to him without wisdom enough to read Scriptures nor smart enough to read them in context. Finding nexuses between them.

Arthur Everman did as the Watcher bade him. Applying the fine arts of Twitterese and epigramming into the composition of poetry.

He googled too for great writers of prose to collaborate with these unlikeliest of brothers, to best inject prose-like drama, into epic-like, poetry.

“Thoughtfully, tweet, blog and pen algorithmically, alchemical, poetry,” the Watcher Penemue — commissioned —Arthur.

“Tweet blog and pen, Art in the twitterese I, Penemue, hereby impart to ye; an Esperanto-like hope, an Esperanto-like prayer.”

“Set aside your bottle and your self-induced, misery. So your wife left for good yesterday. And your neighbor, tonight, died. Ye’ve bigger fish, to fry.”

“Tonight I’ve pulled on your toe to awaken ye. Tomorrow a tall tree shall fall upon ye. And ye shall be electrocuted by lightning, the next day, bye and bye.“

Imagine then, when on 12-21-12, when Art by lightning was stricken, something similar — to Kim and Don — happened.

And the rest is history, past, present, or yet to be written. The poetry of Arthur reminds Kim and Don of what we’d mused over, ere, last evening.

Arthur was, for 40 years once so lost in a desert, only relative degrees of despair distinguished for him, hellish days, from frigid nights. His despair, filled the air.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch … like me. Once lost, totally, I have, since, been found. I was blind then. Now — I clearly, see.

Standing shall all be .  As if we are, as we shall be, standing, for His words.

“Before God, all stand on an equal, footing.” A fascinating words choice of  words. ‘Footing’. And ‘standing’.

Ganid asked: “What think ye Master, of India’s, caste, system?” And, the Master wisely answered, him. “Before God, all stand, on an equal footing.”


The long, poem. Like, ancient epics. Like Homer’s, Iliad. Like his, Odyssey. Actually at 1.8 million words, the Mahābhārata is, by far, the longest.

Vyasa’s Mahābhārata, is Urantia’s lengthiest epic poem. Its 1.8 million words, less its prose, makes for more than 100,000 couplet verses, iconic.

That makes Vyasa’s epic roughly ten times the combined length of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. And all along its length — content — compelling.

Vyasa wrote the Mahābhārata to enable common people to understand the highest knowledge, easily.  To be, or not to be? Is humanity its humanity — losing?

Arthur Everman’s 40 years in a delusional wasteland have been terribly educational; in them he’s learned everyone seems crazy — Everyone — but him.

Everyone seems crazed; everyone, but him. The proof’s in the pudding. That Godless nations rule makes sense to everyone. Everyone — but him.

God rules mankind, notwithstanding, anything. No Caliphate nor Jewish state is forever. No state — is forever. Conflict

on Earth is violence, domestic even when it is, by the state — militarized. But there are remedies, remedial even to the most intractable — conflicts.

Domestic violence has remedies, in law, and in fact. Among them, a few are separation, reconciliation, toleration, and even — eventually — acculturation.

But acculturation takes time. Generations sometimes. Time — is limiting. To be, or not to be? Whither — goeth — Homo sapiens?

Beseeching imprimaturs — signs followed in short order. A tall tree falling did injure Arthur, cuing blue skies to clue too; lightning him … a-striking.

Extraordinary events in the normal course of events are not then actually, very extraordinary.  But who, pray tell … may mourn for humanity?

Arthur’s spoken words fell on deaf ears; his written words, on blind eyes and on strained brains, as if, sedated.  Then 12-21 … came.

Human history is replete with supposed coincidences, implausible ironies, straining credulity. But Garcia Marquez … and Mo Yan see.

Few others see that more goes on in our lives than meets the eye. It is an undisputable fact: Senses deceive. On that fact … we aught act.

Come to pass; one more implausibility; on the eve, effectively of a new age, slacker Arthur ‘Sauled to Pauled’ … from imbiber to writer.

Truly, He uses the weak to more dramatically accomplish His purpose. But you need not be stricken by lightning. Ye just — gotta — wannabe.

We have triggered a major extinction event. The question therefore is how to slow it, keeping in mind, that uncannily predetermined,

surreally seems, everything. Mind ye, absolutely everything that was and is and shall be was — long ago — predetermined.

And extinctions being irreversible, as threats to civilization, they are greater even than the climate change, I’ve been minimizing.

Many shall be from Africa where fertility is twice that the rest of the Earth. And the misery in Africa shall rebound upon us.

Africa’s population is likely to grow from about one billion now to around 4 billion, then. What’s to happen

when millions of Africans try crossing a Mediterranean? Unless we’ve a plan for resettling them, we’ll let them drown — and or — shoot them.

We are wrecking our planet’s life support systems but we can slow all that. A good start toward slowing this extinction event; imparting to the citizenry,

a viable option. Take a cue from our cousins — the ants. Slowing this extinction event; it’s a matter of — community, mutual.

There’s alchemy in education, especially, in its digital instruction manuals — our algorithms. Witness in MAYDAYS, an algorithm, alchemical.


I see dead people. And I can’t handle that. I made a Faustian bargain with the Devil. In truth — stupidly — a bargain —Faustian,

I’ve made. And so dead people, frighten me. Anyone of them — might be the Devil — disguised; coming for me, to consummate … the bargain.

I see hope in democracy and in people. We can put pressure on people in power. Enough is enough. We can’t march — perhaps, on

Beijing and Moscow but on Google Translate, for improving translations, we can — count on. And so, Greta Thunberg, we’ve got to move on.

The planet’s richest tongue (by word count), owes its wealth to its liberal borrowing, from other languages, and history’s mystical, timing.

English is the Earth’s second, lingua franca. Now spoken globally, its rich vocabulary is at home in song, psalm, prose, tweet … or poetry.

It may be there are more English-speaking Chinese, than Americans. More Chinese than Americans may discern a twit … from a tweet.

Tweet is oft understood; but twit? Not as often. Twits are taunts. To twit is s to titter or taunt. Hmm; why then Twitter, and not, Tweeter?

Alternatively, a twit is a silly, annoying, person, or fool. How appropriate that a twit tweets on Twitter; a fool has fooled us, sans wit, albeit.

Why Twitter, and not Tweeter, albeit an intriguing riddle, is not the point, in debate. The point is the twit, that has been, a tweeter of late.

The twit that tweets promises ye that if I dupes US, the American people, a wall, I’ll build, women, I’ll cherish and books, I’ll sell.

A real tweet 09/06/15, by ‘co’-author Tony Schwartz, on his book’s real authorship:“ I wrote The Art of the Deal. Donald Trump read it.”

Don’t be so sad. Look at the bright side; for Donny’s legacy may well be the liberal and conservative wings, of a Democratic Party, multilingual.

Be careful what you wish for US of America, for the tweeting twit is an opportunist; and he is, in this tragi-comedy, no mere apprentice.

Indeed, what is humorous may be gravely serious; to wit, an ugly-American-in-chief who aimed to be President, now is, the Commander-in-Chief.

What once seemed so preposterous as to be laughable is now, no laughing matter; that notwithstanding his tweets, and his golden showers.

But fear not, US, of America; for the mutant mouth that is the Donny’s outstanding feature promises that, sooner, or later, him, we’ll be impeaching.

The three champion alchemical congruency of thought; that may be achieved when Space Laboratory crews wave to us, and we wave back, to outer space. 

What follows is history past and present and the prophesy in poetry of a dimwitted, Arthur Everman. It petitions ye to seek, alternative facts, and answers. 

Why pen history poetically? Though harder to compose than prose, it is far more elegantly emotive than anyone may ever aspire to compose, prosaically. 

Art imagines that of all the earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that’s most favored by Him. 

Imagine as well, that while Kim Jong-un and ‘Donald Drumpf’ know of the third, the third, Art, knows them well. He knows they are too fond, of their words. 

Not hard to imagine; the three, do indeed, tweet on twitter; but the two brighter brothers’ world view isn’t as prescient as that of their dimwit, third brother. 

Imagine too, that words, the most wondrous units ever to be conjured by the minds of men surreally may be used by man to make real our aspirations, human. 

Imagine then Victorian soirees spent in dreamy revery with history’s visionaries, nightly connecting; eating, drinking and crafting — epigrammatic — poetry. 

In reveries dreamy and at soirees, Victorian, history’s philosophers, poets, and luminaries, with the megalomaniacs Kim Jong un, the Don and Art, nightly meet. 

To wit Kim now tweets albeit vicariously, to such world leaders as Xi Jinping and Vlad Putin with like-minded, reactionary others, looking on, in rapt, anticipation. 

Across Earth, Kim’s brother Donny, near incredibly, is now the President of US. He fancies himself, next to the Bible’s authors, the best-selling author in history. 

Never mind that ‘The Art of the Deal’ was a book, actually written, by a ghost, really living, in anonymity; a surreal legal fiction, that most earthly, ghostwriting. 

So 3 brothers write on 3 levels; 140 character epigrammatic tweets metamorphose into 980 character blogs, into a compendium; a poor man’s, publicity. 

Twitterese came easiest to Art. Administration came easiest to Kim. Spelling was Donny’s forte. Penemue organized his Liberation Force, accordingly. 

To  attend to national affairs of state, Kim and Don ceded to their weakling brother, Arthur the penning of epigrams. Kim sees to invites; Don to humor. 


I’ve got good news for ye. A real surprise for a modern man, reprised. Nothing less than a miracle is the opportunity this virus

— presents. Poetry to heal US and show US how to shift paradigms we need shift to implausibly, near incredibly, transform US.

Poetry may well heal US and show US how to shift the paradigm we need to shift to transform US, albeit belatedly, into the men

we were intended to be. Nothing less than a miracle is the opportunity this virus, presents. An opportunity to go, viral. Amen.

Art has taught me that, except incidentally, it not about the poetry; nor whether what’s happening on Earth — is fiction

or nonfiction — nor whether it’s real or surreal. It’s about communication. And the opportunity for Kim-Don’s Plan to go viral, Amen.

Invading men? No problem. And Mother Nature’s, too slow. But the crisis this novel virus presents, promises to be — a tragically

real, game-changer. Ironically, I loathe, microbes. It’s not about poetry. It’s more about communications, so … newsworthy.

The crisis this virus presents promises to be a game-changer. Because, I loathe microbes. Content without cadence makes for, poor poetry.

I believe in the importance of communication and the power of persuasion. Got content? Add cadence. As in my … poetry.

Got milk? water? Toilet paper? And Lysol? I believe in communication and the understated power of poetry, in the art — of persuasion.

Got content? Add cadence. As in my poetry. Arthur has truly taught me, about the time-honored art, of timely, persuasion.

But enough for the moment about us; for this is about the more generic ‘us’ i.e. humanity, and less, publicity, for news hounds, Kim, and the Donny. 

Then London; and brother Kim, so previously unsure about whom to honor, the west’s Willy or the East’s Rumi now knew; it’d be, England’s best. 

Thanks Penemue (hereinafter Pen). And thanks too to the poets and artists of the nations. We are gathered here regarding the very fate, of the nations.

Not that the fate of the cosmos and its non-earthling inhabitants isn’t important. It is and they are. But we’ll get to them later. First, the nation-lands.

Nations are the constructs by which men, in vain, attempt to govern themselves, a natural evolution from nuclear families, clans and tribes, aboriginal.

Pangaea now numbers 196 nations (not including Taiwan, and Puerto Rico), 4200 religions, and 6500 languages; verily, ye must evolve to a single nation. 

English is but Mother Earth’s second lingua franca. Its rich vocabulary rhymes easily, easily feeling at home in song, psalm, prose and of course, poetry. 

English isn’t just for Englishmen, any more. But no one language can end all the babbling. English’s Twitter, Art is betting, may languages be, connecting. 

To be, or not to be? That is, for humanity, the threshold question. High-technology algorithms, we poets agree, are the key to unlocking the secrets of alchemy.

It is Scripture (the Testaments, Qu’ran, the Book of Mormon, et. cetera) wherein lives wisdom, and the uncommonly common, and ubiquitous Rules, Golden.

The very cross-cultural commonness of Golden Rules, evidences, their significance. This repair manual is in the spirit of that significance. We dead poets, care.

Is to be or not to be, ever to be, the question? Hamlet’s soliloquies were about nobility, tragedy and comedy but the poets’ soliloquies herein, are of … Another.

The earthly children of Lord Allah/God/Jehovah/Yahweh are brothers and sisters before Him it mattering not, our religion, nationality, nor our tribe to Him. 

Art’s poetry acculturates! Acculturation is but the modification, of behavior; as applicable to group behavior as it is to individual, behavior. 

Theoretically, behavior modification is not limited but to individuals; surely, our communities too are subject to it as well. Why not test, Arthur’s theory? 

That is to say, behavior mod is not limited to individuals; communities too, to it, are subject; it is, indeed, a relatively simple science, the science, of habit.h


Recall how angry I’ve been with Xi this year. Since March, in this year of the rat. With this virus making its rounds — and him blaming us — the US — at that.

And all that even ere began, the Ides of March; and it’s been — uncommonly — bad luck this year in this most unlucky — Chinese — year of the rat.

Recall also how unlucky this Chinese year of the rat has been — bar none — with every nation — and territory. Awful has been — the year of the rat.


Imagine what is, while implausible, not impossible; that is that Kim, Don and Art are a trio of strange, estranged brothers, that dream together, at night.

Imagine moreover, the surreal reality, that Kim and Don (the two bright, successful brothers) and the drunkard — autistic one, Arthur — write.

Imagine too that while Kim and Don pretend to know not Art, Art knows them; and that each of them is overly fond of his very own words.

Imagine as well that words may be the most wondrous of units ever conjured by the mind of man. The units that tie Kim, Don and Art together, are words.

Imagine therefore that the three are connected. But the bright brothers won’t acknowledge the autistic one. He follows them. They don’t, follow him.


The planet’s richest tongue (by word count), owes its wealth to its liberal borrowing, from other languages, and history’s

mystical, timing. English is only the Earth’s second, lingua franca. Its rich vocabulary is at home in song, psalm, prose, tweet or poetry.

It may be, there are more English-speaking Chinese, than Americans. More Chinese than Americans may discern a twit … from a tweet.

Tweet is often understood; but twit? Not as often. Twits are taunts. To twit’s to titter or taunt. Hmmm; why then Twitter, and not, Tweeter?

Alternatively, a twit is a silly, annoying, person or fool. How appropriate then; a twit, twits, on Twitter; nobody’s fool but his spirit’s.

Why Twitter and not Tweeter, albeit an intriguing riddle, is not the point, in debate. The point is the twit that’s been a tweeter,

of late. The twit that tweets promises that if he dupes the US, a wall, he’ll build, women he’ll cherish and of his books, he’ll be a seller.

A real tweet 09/06/15, by ‘co’-author Tony Schwartz, on the book’s real authorship, chirped: “I wrote the Art of the Deal. Donald Trump read it.”

Why so sad GOP?  Look at the bright side. Part of my legacy may well be sparking your transition to a conservative wing of the Party, Democratic.

Careful what you wish, for United States of America; the tweeting twit is an opportunist. And he is, in this tragi-comedy, no mere apprentice. 

What is humorous, may be, also, serious; for the ugly-American-in-chief, commander-in-chief, is indeed, Putin’s apprentice.


What a difference 1 day may make; as when Yellowstone, Krakatoa and Santorini did blow their tops —volcanically. 

What a difference 1 year may make; as when the tots of their moms and pops — grow, ever inexorably —  ever — fascinatingly. 

What a difference 25 years may make; as when computers digitally ushered ing, an information age — divisive — illuminatingly.

What a difference 250 years, may make; as when machines and engines, dramatically upped — our productivity. 

What a difference 12,000 years may make; as when glaciers receded gradually allowing us, greater … creativity.

What a difference, some billions of years, may make; as when from cosmic dust, in His image, He created … us.

What a difference 1 day, may make; as when meteorites, comets and a fat man and little boy slam into a planet.

What a difference 1 day may make; as when a mutant motormouth, uncouth, doth stigmatize Islam — and polarizes, an entire — planet.

“What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?” A daunting, question; ever since, Art’s been haunted; by both answer and question.

Thus began the dreamy soirees whence revelations begat veritable epiphanies, begetting an epic quest to answer poetically — burning, questions,.

Why poetically? Easy; while poetry’s harder to compose than prose; it’s elegantly far more emotive than one may ever aspire to be … prosaically.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that’s most favored by Him.

Art composes on 3 levels, using 140 character tweets to metamorphose into blog logs to manuscripts; a poor man’s — publicity.

Twitter’s 280 character algorithm’s been, for Art, a useful revelation, surprisingly utilitarian in marketing, education and in — composing — poetry.


Fear of Muslims in US, fear of Muslims in a European, Union; fear of Muslims seemingly, near everywhere; must it forever be

us, versus them? It may be that visionaries step up. Arthur Everman’s poetry, a letter to the nations, a la the poetry, of my dear Emily.

Arthur’s poetry is, a la Emily’s Dickinson’s, a letter to the world, a la Willy’s, plays on words and a la Rumi’s, ruminations on mysteries.

Art draws inspiration from the lives of the poets; from the westerners Emily Dickinson and Willy Shakespeare, to an easterner oft known as simply — Rumi.

From history’s poets, philosophers and scientists Arthur draws inspiration; and from Allah/God/Jehovah/Yahweh’s most magnificently

created, creations. His 280 character tweets metamorphose into concise blog logs only to metamorphose, implausibly, into George Washington’s book of poetry.

A formula for poetry, no matter the tongue: Prior to an 83rd character, end then with the sound that one would have the second line … end.

Lectors may confirm, if they persevere through so many tweets, that (errors aside), each tweet’s length is exactly, 280 characters from end to end.

Arthur Everman’s School of Free Poetry the composition of epigrams is Art’s specialty, no matter, the medium. The medium

refers to the tongue of the tweeter. Art tweets in English, American. But at Arthur Everman’s School of Poetry it matters not the tongue, of the citizen.


Not a peep yet — on Twitter — from either @realDonaldTrump nor @POTUS upon the passing of John Lewis; Donald Trump,

sometimes can be transparently, silent. In John’s memory and in his honor I pray ye forgive me the deplorable disdain, of Donald John Trump.

Upon the passing of Congressman John Lewis; in his memory and in honor of him I pray ye follow my brother Art — my proxy, 

ofttimes, these days. Time is of the essence. There is but a narrow window within which to make me only your second American followee.

김씨가 당신과 마지막 순간에 블록버스터 거래를하고 내 블록버스터 재선과 평화와 문학을위한 노벨을위한 자극이 될 가능성을 상상해보십시오. 12 월에옵니다.

cc: @DalaiLama @Pontifex @antonioguterres @uriminzok @KremlinRussia_E @SpokespersonCHN @JoeBiden @whca @CNN

Occam’s razor; a problem-solving principle shaves improbable possibilities from the spectrum of likely or probable,

explanations. Its premise is that the simplest explanation, in the usual happenstance, is the right one. Occam’s razor; my tool, invaluable.

Occam’s razor; an invaluable tool in problem solving precisely because the simplest explanation, in the usual — eventuality

— is the right one. And the simplest explanation — bar none — is that predetermined, has been each and every actual … eventuality.

The simplest explanation; predetermined is each and every day and each and every eventuality of each and every — day.

Ironically, we are the universe’s must see TV; daily fare for The Creator’s universal viewership to be watched live or on replay each day.

Occam’s razor belies, Alexandr Dugin; as a problem-solving principle its premise is that the simplest explanation in the usual

happenstance is the right one. And Alexandr Dugin‘s world view is woven of conspiracies, usual — and unusual.


What’s to stop a more insidious group of hackers from using global leaders’ trusted — Twitter accounts; spreading

maliciously, lies about national emergencies, wars or even the upcoming November election?

Vulnerabilities for the democracies, are looming.Vulnerabilities for the democracies are looming.

What’s stopping more insidious hackers — the rogue nations from taking upon themselves the task of spreading

disinformation about national emergencies, rumors of war, or even the November election, upcoming?

Vulnerabilities for the democracies, loom. Democratic states, take it from me, have been all too slow to — appreciate —

what’s happening. Witness @US_CYBERCOM, the implementation of my mentor’s mentor’s @A_G_Dugin’s, shortcuts, to a greater, Russian state.

Witness @US_CYBERCOM, the implementation of my mentor’s mentor’s @A_G_Dugin’s shortcuts, towards a quicker —

greater — Russian state. Vulnerabilities for the democracies, loom. We’ve been all too slow to appreciate what’s happening, on battlefields, cyber.

We’ve been slow to appreciate what’s happening on cyber battlefields on Earth; some say by the design of the fascist philosopher,

@A_G_Dugin. Dugin’s vision technological and extrajudicial flies under the radar.

I recommend my Kim-Don Plan. Of the essence again is time. Use AI and the virus. We can do this this time acting in time.

Urantians: Timeliness is of the essence more than ever in time.
cc: @antonioguterres @KremlinRussia_E @SpokespersonCHN @JoeBiden @whca

Groundbreaking may be MAYDAYS’ revelations. Lies. All, lies. Mine, not Mary’s. I’ll correct a legion of lies when in October I

publish groundbreaking excerpts. I shall endorse Joe Biden then and lay bare a wicked web of lies. Lies, Vladimir’s … and mine.

Mary’s scathing memoir about her uncle — President Me, bye and bye has racked up a million sales on preorders alone. Lies. All lies.

And I shall correct the record when in October — I publish groundbreaking excerpts from MAYDAYS, laying bare — all the lies.

We yet may win Nobels in December. Vladimir, Xi, me and ye may yet be the heroes of my poetry.

Thanks for translating the surreal Korean preface, to George Washington’s book, of poetry.

Leader Kim Jong-un: Thanks for your leadership. And thanks for translating the preface to George Washington’s book of poetry.

A great mystery, resolved. And even if I lose in November we yet may win Nobels in December. Vlad, Xi, me and ye Kim may yet be, the heroes of this story.

Leader Kim Jong-un: Thanks for your leadership. And thanks for translating the preface to George Washington’s book of poetry.

Eat, drink, be merry and compose — we all dreamt, epigrams, akin to Emily’s, Ovid’s and Homer’s. Tell, in epigrams, a telling,

story. So we’ve been merry; eating, drinking and — importantly — telling, a telling, story; so dreamt we poets, this story’s, telling.

Twitter rules prohibit people from using Twitter for the purpose of manipulating or interfering in elections or for other purposes

of the civic process. But I’ve got Twitter cowed. I know how to get around rules. Getting around rules is really, my purpose.

Getting around rules is really — my purpose. Amassing power and property are my purposes — also. But amassing power

and property sometimes seems secondary to getting my way. Getting around rules is my purpose. Even more than money; even more, than power.

Even more than my money even more than my power. The how to of getting around the rules has been my purpose. But now,

surreally, I’ve changed. I was once exceedingly, childishly, selfish but now — I’m not. That was then; this — my fellow Americans, is now.

This is now. And this is how. My MAYDAYS is a groundbreaking miracle easily mistaken for magical realism. Groundbreaking

may be The Watcher’s re-intervention in affairs of Earthlings. The Watcher’s epic poetry may be groundbreaking … or Earth-shattering.

@Acosta: Agreeing one reason network television — in truth won’t cover my rallies is because I can’t be relied on to tell truth.

I won’t change. Jim: Ask me if cash on hand makes one fitter to survive. I’ll surprise ye with … an alarming truth.

Ask me if cash on hand makes one fitter in terms of Darwin’s theory of evolution; survival of the fittest. Ask me about Darwin

and I’ll answer that cash buys health insurance and fitness. I’m a big believer in the theories of the scientist, Charles Darwin.

In a town with such deep partisan divisions it seems that there’s one issue about which there’s bipartisan consensus. There’s

no friendship between China and America. The feeling being mutual, to keep the peace, I have sent two carrier groups over there.

Why are Black Americans still dying at the hands of the police? What a terrible question to ask. Our heroic officers, the police

kill all colors of men. I dare them to ask me my opinion on whether cash on hand makes one, fitter, to survive; leave alone, my police.


Finally free to speak my niece is calling on me — her Commander-in-chief to step down. Resign, she says. As her Commander,

I’m considering both treason and taking no action against her. I’m afraid a jury would agree, my father and I, killed … her father.

The United Kingdom has banned Huawei from its 5G telecom network, reversing a January decision allowing the telecom

company a limited role in building the UK’s super-fast, wireless, infrastructure. Competition trumps cooperation. But I’ve got Plan Kim-Don.

Competition trumps cooperation. Nonfiction trumps fiction. Miracles trump magic. I’ve got Plan Kim-Don. But I lack, in 

nonfiction, Nobel Prizes. If black Obama got one, I’m due at least two. And the plan has been provisionally approved by, President Putin.

Plan Kim-Don. Given the circumstances dire, it has been approved. In soirées, lunar we wine and we dine. That’s when

competitive drives turn cooperative blurring nonfiction and fiction. I may regain in December whatever I may lose in, November’s, election.

I’m mad. Mad as a hatter; crazy; and prone to — unpredictable, behavior. I get tested, regularly, for infection — coronaviral —

but I’ve never been tested for, mercury poisoning. Erratic behavior from me, is not unusual. I am mad — as a hatter —in the usual.

More bad news. Studies are reflecting the difficulty of obtaining herd immunity for any given population. Obtaining —

herd immunity; I’ve been counting on it; and having to wait for a vaccine, beyond disappointing, may my fate be — for posterity — sealing.

Unless my fate was sealed, ere even ere —I was born into my dysfunctional family; my own dysfunctional, character — assuring.

Today’s not the first time I’ve tried to place blame on Joe Biden and Barack Obama over my inept response to the raging,

corona virus. I figure no one’s noticing this is happening on my watch, nearly three years after from Washington — they were seen — departing.

China still has not confirmed how many of its soldiers have died as a result of the clash although my intelligence agency guys

have reason to believe 35, died. 20 Indians died, also. Recall Xi, two Russian words: Glasnost and perestroika. Just ask, Vlad’s guys.

Glasnost and perestroika; two Russian words that most days, Vlad hates; in English, Xi, openness and restructuring. Yesterday’s

ways, by definition — are dated, and fated to fail. Witness this clash with Indians, Hong Kongers — and Uighurs, soon — some say.

Glasnost and perestroika; add to the two Russian words, karma; an Indian one. Yesterday’s ways are dated; by force of karma

— fated to fail. Witness clashes with Indians, Hong Kongers and Uighurs and bad blood with Tibetans. Xi: It’s really … bad karma.

What’s happening begs a terribly proportionate, karma. Yesterday’s ways are dated and by the force of today’s karma,

fated to fail. Karma; witness what’s happening. We forget in the day time what we dreamt about at nighttime in soirée on Luna, about karma.


Ontological arguments are arguments for the conclusion that God exists from premises which are supposed to derive from

some source other than observation of the world; like — for example — from reason.  Like Calvin. 

Feel not threatened if truth, ye know —not. Given that there’s much more we need to know, 

how many revelations — equal — an epiphany? Verily, it is threatening to one who ‘knows’ the truth to be told by another, there’s more, to know. 


How many revelations to an epiphany?Read the UB.  Don’t feel threatened if you don’t know. 

the truth, to be told by any person, that there are, volumes more … to know.

The irony is killing me.  Don, as smart as he allegedly is, reads not.  He has learned, not, lessons, even simple, moral lessons.

Peter’s, bitter, lesson:  If you tell lies lightly, people will eventually, stop … believing you.

Then when you unexpectedly tell the truth, as expected, no one believes you. Don’s bitter lesson:  If you

forever tell lies, people eventually shall stop … believing you. Then when you do tell the truth, it’ll be too late.  For they shan’t, believe you.

Peter’s lesson is Don’s too:  If you forever tell lies people will forever stop believing you.

Then, when belatedly, you tell the truth, in all the world no one, believes you.

Unlawful orders, must not, be obeyed.  Don is now, desperate, needing, more than ever,

a win.  Any, win.  Kim, in his view, would do superbly.  For Don, it is now, or never.

Theoretically, behavior modification is not limited to individuals only; certainly, our communities

too are subject to it as well. Why not test then, Arthur’s theory?


That is to say, behavior mod’s not limited just to individuals; communities too, are subject; to it. What needs to be actually

read by everyone on the planet can not be while bottled up forever in Twitter’s stream, surreally.

And but thin veneer of civilization masks the savage beasts lurking in the heart of every man and woman on Earth, unnaturally.

Behavior modification works well in individuals; it may work even more dramatically for the sovereign nations.

Behavior mod; worth trying because conflict on Earth is —  in essence, common, violence, domestic — in nonfiction.

After postponing my rally in New Hampshire, citing storms expected in the area from a threatening, female Tropical Storm

Fay, I played golf in Virginia. Who knew Fay would make landfall in New Jersey? Obama would fly to Hawaii. Reserved for me —firestorms.

Making Russia, great again. The grand design of @A_G_Dugin, so ably implemented by my mentor President Vladimir Putin

and myself. Still, Nobel Prizes for literature and peace, am I coveting, for myself — and my mentor — Vladimir Putin.

Already a past winner of the Thurber Prize — for American Humor, the Washington Irving Medal for Literary Excellence and

many other prizes, only Nobel Prizes for Urantian peace and literature, do I covet. Gotta get some — for me and my, adopted — Russians.

Bolton’s book has sold 780,000 copies. Mary Trump’s book’s going to be a monster. My only consolation is my book’s

— nonfictional — in comparison. Theirs’ are nonfictional. My book’s fictional. But 10 years from now — all three may be — nonfictional, books.

As a low-hanging fruit, I make an easy target for satire, especially, a first-person account wherein I myself pen a satire —

chronicling Earth’s MAYDAYS from my descent on an escalator to the heights of presidential satire. I am ideally suited, for satire.

A fake memoir by my seventh chief of staff; it’s a tell-all — about Russia and me. Ideally suited to be satirized, my tell-all —

is funnier, still. It’s my first-person account; and not just about Russia, but China, and the other sundry nations — as well.

Donald John Trump is the apprentice 45th president of the United States. He hopes to be, into his eighties, president.

Awarded the Thurber Prize for American Humor and the Washington Irving Medal for Literary Excellence, Nobel Prizes for peace and literature await, the president.

A new “unknown pneumonia” that is potentially much more deadly than the still novel, coronavirus, has reportedly killed more

than 1,700 people this year — in the country — of Kazakhstan. And so Chinese officials there are warning — of what for the nations — may still, be  in store.

The authorities in Kazakhstan have denied a report published by Chinese officials that the nation is experiencing an outbreak by

an “unknown pneumonia” possibly deadlier than the novel coronavirus. Stay tuned alert for further developments, bye and bye.

Mosaics depicting Jesus, Mary and Christian saints plastered over in line with Islamic rules were subsequently, unplastered,

through arduous restoration work. Alas, Hagia Sophia, the most popular museum in Turkey last year, is once again to be, plastered.

Pray tell. How many revelations to an epiphany? Feel not threatened if truth, ye know. For there is more. There is much more ye need know.

Begin on Urantia. At the Great Library at Alexandria ye wouldn’t find the Urantia Book (UB) — ye likely — don’t know.

Presidents and policymakers like to politic — as if — playing chess: Think ahead, identify possible outcomes — planning

always — for contingencies. But if I play by my own rules; if I just cheat, it matters not at all what games all the others are playing.

We are soon going to see evictions and foreclosures very likely at a rate we haven’t seen since the Great Depression of the 1930s.

Homelessness, hunger and bread lines. In 2020; in the Chinese year of the rat. Verily — I smell a rat. And the rat I smell is — me.

A trio of crises; a health crisis, an economic crisis and a crisis of institutional legitimacy, all at a time of heightening crises,

geopolitical. How those tectonic shifts crystallize will shape the constitution of the post-virus era. I thrive, on crises.

Null and void. Null and void really ought be all my degrees and my presidency, if having had one fraudulently take my

SAT, faking it, my misrepresentation then makes all my accomplishments thereafter null and void — retroactively — due to my lie.

In the law of contracts, null and void or voidable; contractual obligations fraudulently entered into. Such contractual

obligations are voidable in the law when not voided, as a matter of law. Even if I didn’t cheat on my SAT, my presidency ought be — voidable.


Behavior mod’s not limited exclusively to individuals; communities to it are subject. And while it would be unusual,

scaling up to the modification of the behaviors of communities; it’s not at all — impossible. Theoretically — it’s possible.

Getting from here to there is just a matter of modifying behaviors. Use Twitter’s algorithm. And my game-changing

words and numbers; my gift and my  legacy to ye — I am this day — hereby, to ye — presenting.

The poetry of the future if we so will it may become a living thing. With a vocabulary wisely more pacific that will be ringing

true and speaking to readers directly. Words and numbers; an algorithm; a word to the wise on what to do about what’s happening.

Consider the difference between a real revolution and the mere failure of a state or the collapse of an empire. The latter failures

evoke the poetry of the past. True revolution has its own vocabulary. The poetry of the future must echo it — to thrive — and prosper.

The poetry of the past reverberates to the present day — still — in themes, militaristic. But the poetry of the future, wisely will

defer in favor of a vocabulary, more pacific. Words and numbers more pacific must prosper ere peace may our hearts … fill.


Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever

on Earth is happening. My epically long-winded soliloquy about soirées on Luna, especially characterized by — tweets of exactly— 280 — characters.

It’s the public health, stupid. I denounce and renounce tonight the statements I earlier made this Independence Day; the very first — global — such day.

One such plot device is the convivial, lunar atmosphere. Only truth is spoken in the absence of air, up there. On Earth, lies fill the air, every day.

MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to illuminate whatever in Hell on on Earth is actually, happening. My true

account of my soirées on Luna with my frenemy, dictatorial, friends, especially characterized by — tweets of 280 —characters, too.

MAYDAYS; its my soliloquy; about soirées on Luna, and our forever, troubles, on Earth; with my frenemy — characters; in characters —

280; and everywhere strongmen are colluding against me and looking to kill my disgruntled and whistleblowing, Puerto Rican — brother — Arthur.

I looked up the definition of ‘fascism.’ It is this: A philosophy, political, movement, or regime (such as its namesake Fascisti)

that exalts nation and often race, above, the individual. And I do seem to be, as virulently — fascist as any former —Fascisti.

Yesterday, an asteroid exploded over Tokyo; a smaller version of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs, once upon, a long time, ago.

Speak — of the devil. We often don’t actually know where and when the smaller asteroids are coming. But when they get here — they let us know.

MAYDAYS’ settings, characters, plot devices and revelations are meant to reveal what’s happening — in this Hell — on Earth.

Epigramming; it’s story-based, poetry. Just divide your 280 characters in half — and start — versing, Poetry’s meter — is music

to the ear. My fortunes have taken a tumble this year but I’m coming back, on the Comeback Trail. And poetry’s meter, is music.

More importantly it sets forth the previously unknown story of how my lover Kim has helped me to craft a plan to save — the Earth.



Deny and distract. I spent more time yesterday honoring dead Confederates than I did talking about my 130,000 confederates

who have lost their lives to Covid-19 or warning Russia off the bounty. Rather — I feed red meat to my — modern day — Confederates.


The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice bequeathed by your fathers, is not in

me. This Fourth July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice; I must mourn what’s, really, happening.

Henceforth, the Fourth July must be ours and not — thine, only. So that all may rejoice, henceforth, in what’s actually

happening. In the interim because these blessings are, unjustly, not enjoyed in common I declare — Independence Day — for the citizenry.

I declare this day the inaugural Independence Day for my planet; that I’ve been in cahoots moreover with President Vladimir Putin

and his cabalists and that we’d like to rule, perpetually. Support my Velvet Revolution; it’s been approved by Vladimir Putin.

A second Velvet Revolution; it’s been approved by Vladimir Putin. My Velvet Revolution will be the best Velvet Revolution,

ever. Accordingly, I declare this day, the inaugural Independence Day for my planet and the beginning of a second, Velvet Revolution.

The end will come like a thief in the night. Or later some other evening, maybe. It may very well depend on whether

transcendental decisions maybe, wisely, instituted. Time is of, the essence. A Velvet Revolution comes. It shall spell an end, to dictators.

Really surreal, nonfiction: the historical three estates of the realm; the clergy,
nobility and commons; now five, with media … come lately.

Really surreal, nonfiction: There are now five estates of the realm; clergy,
nobility and commons … media, are … Johnny-come-latelies.
Really surreal, nonfiction: Now there are five estates of the realm but newly
added reporters and bloggers, now eclipse, two … of the three.
Really surreal, nonfiction: Two of the five estates of the realm, are reporters
and bloggers … would that they jump-start … the commoners. 


The Kim-Don Plan; behavior modification; truth and reconciliation. A Golden Rule and a Universal Basic — Income; and His miraculous algorithms.

Intelligence, artificial we must enlist as we transition to greatness. And key — are the miraculous … algorithms.

Key to the transition to greatness I envision are the algorithms. Letter-complementing numbers are the miraculous algorithms.

A virtual fountain of perpetual potential energy. Use artificial intelligence to transition to greatness. Key, are the algorithms.


I — President Don — know not The Truth, The Light and The Way. It’s my way for everybody — the highway for anybody else with a differing — opinion.

Lucky for me, no one else appears to know The Truth, The Light and The Way, neither. Lots think they do but theirs’ isn’t probably, God’s opinion.

Republicans are all in on my re-election strategy; a stay out of jail strategy. I’ve got a strategy — to stay — out of federal prison.

At least I did; once upon a time; just six months ago I presided over a robust economy — then WHAM — blindsided, by a microbial virus.

Fast forward to today, Wednesday, July 1, 2020, just halfway through the Chinese year of the rat. ‘Kung flu’ some call this virus.

A turning point? I think not. A point of inflection, perhaps. The turning point’s down the road. Beyond assault weapons; beyond racism; beyond white

nationalism. The turning point’s at the conjunction of a Golden Rule, and egalitarianism, not vile, nationalism, white.

The turning point’s at the junction of a Golden Rule and egalitarianism. Beyond assault weapons; beyond racism; beyond white nationalism’s racism,

especially, there’s a turning point, coming And Charlottesville has been to white nationalism what El Paso’s been to vile, racism.

Time, Urantians, being of the essence, know all men by these presents that on behalf of humanity — I, the one and only, President Don do say

and declare Saturday July 4, Independence Day for all (wo)men. Prepare for Tuesday, March 4, 2030 — the 1st, Global Citizenship Day.

MARCH 4TH: A COMMANDING — DATE: It’s a date I’m suggesting to the global leaders for celebrating the 1st GCD, officially.

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.


He can see clearly now. He’ll take the hit. He’ll take the blame. And the blame will weigh but lightly on a stunted, conscience.  He — doesn’t read.

How much better might he have responded to a trio of crises had he read?Might he have heeded Obama’s warnings? Probably not; he doesn’t read.

He’ll take the hit. He’ll take the blame for the mountains of dead. But blame will weigh but lightly on a stunted, conscience. Dead

men with tales to — yet tell — usually hold — their tongues. Had he read —might he have heeded Obama’s warnings? Not if — he doesn’t read.

Outrage mounts over reports of Russian bounties to the Taliban, offered, just for killing US soldiers, in a Theater in Afghanistan.

Vlad knows that just as outrage mounts —it dismounts. Outrage — in time fades away. Everything fades away; again, and again.

Similarly, just as Vladimir in Moscow conspires with his agents across the planet Xi too, consults with his minion agents

and they consult, moreover, with one another; debating if, and when then, to cut Don out. Absent Nobels — it’s just a question — of when.

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.

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 Joe. Barack left it to Don. So too each departing president — since George Washington, each in turn — leaving

it to the next president incoming. Treasure it. Don wishes he had. Alas, he didn’t, incoming. Time flies; now, he’s 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.

And the mystery of the nature of the provenance of the book of poems — whether magical or miraculous — is for me, as it is for my lover,

The Donald, the proof of the pudding. For the Korean preface I’ve translated personally references — by name — both me and my lover.

He’s delusional. I’m afraid I haven’t got the heart to tell him that if he harbors but little hope in his heart for a win in November,

lesser still are his chances, for Nobels, in December. Still a lot can happen, between here — and November, and December.


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 is isolating but still, 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; in 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 have read there, by now — 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 George Washington’s poetry — ere, it was mine.

We were children when we once — childishly — behaved. Really, surreally, now being men, we are called upon; mysteriously

compelled, magically or miraculously to fix things. To that end we dictators support The Don’s leaking of George Washington’s, poetry.


Prisoners of our circumstances are we but so is everyone; at least, this way, we’re on top of the heap — on top of everyone.

But this virus having upended everything we’re asking everyone to help is implement the Kim-Don Plan. For the sake … of everyone.

We’re asking everyone to help us implement the Kim-Don Plan. Words for the sake of everyone. Pronto! Yesterday’s words

and its ways have proven, inadequate. But we can resolve that with amendments to our constitutions and our treaties with epic poetry — two big, words.


I will never lie to you. You have my word on that. I am the most informed person on planet earth; possibly, I am the most

informed person, in the galaxy. Some say I am the most informed in the whole universe. I don’t know about that; I don’t like to boast.

Allied, unofficially, am I to my Russian mentor, Vladimir Putin. His mentor is Alexandr Dugin. He’s why Vlad has the longest arms on the planet. Vladimir Putin’s

arms — stretch literally, around the planet. His mentor is Dugin. And I am — a double-agent — of their Russian Federation.


Here we go again. The Fourth of July weekend. Millions gathering across the country during one of the busiest traveling

periods of the year. Memorial Day weekend helped spur many of the outbreaks we’re seeing. Now the stakes are even higher — and climbing.

Never say never. It can always — get worse. Still, 43 FOR BIDEN is just the latest group of Republicans that are backing Biden,

publicly criticizing my handling of the pandemic, race relations and divisive governance. My very own people — prefer Joe Biden.

My very own people prefer Joe Biden. And although I am not at liberty to say so at the moment, I also, my opponent Joe Biden

— am endorsing. Never say never. It can always, get better. 43 FOR BIDEN is just the latest group of Republicans … backing Biden.

Make no deal with the Devil. And vote for — Joe Biden. Maybe it’s too late for me but maybe it’s not too late for my country.

MAYDAYS indeed is an allegory. A devilish character, tricked me. Our secret deals are no hoax. Vote for Joe Biden for the country.


In some countries with limited testing capabilities like our very own United States of America case numbers actually poorly

reflect the total number of infections. Antiheroically, I’ve lied; but now, I must confess. I am totally unfit, to lead the country.

Reports of a new White House messaging strategy follows my saying just this week, that I believe that the coronavirus by my

wish, eventually will, just disappear. It appears, however, that the disappearance of the virus was too implausible; too big, a lie.


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, semi-seriously.


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.


The highly contagious novel coronavirus that has exploded into a global pandemic can remain viable and infectious in droplets in air

for hours and on surfaces, for days. And so I wonder: Is the virus capable of translocation by wafting, into … the air?

Is the virus capable of translocation by wafting up into the air? And up from there to even higher elevations? A coronavirus, novel

remains viable and infectious in droplets in air for hours. I wonder: May a cough or a sneeze, launch, missiles … viral?


There is no reason not to bail out everyone. No moral hazard argument you’d be incentivizing bad behavior — Businesses

— and consumers aren’t responsible for this mess. The cost, doesn’t matter. It’s for the American, consumer. And for American, business.

Business isn’t responsible for this mess. Much less the consumer. I, on the contrary, far from blameless, may, by the Democrats be blamed.

Got to cut a check to everyone. And keep them for months, distractedly, entertained enough, to Joe Biden … blame.


Got to cut a check to everyone. Got to keep everyone distractedly entertained, for months. Entertained enough to blame

Hunter’s Joe Biden for endemic corruption in Ukraine, if not, for the virus. Convinced by my insistence that, Joe Biden’s … to blame.

Joe Biden’s to blame for the corruption in Ukraine. And the hysteria in Italy. Got to cut millions of checks. One, for each, stir crazy,

American. I’ve got to keep everyone, distractedly entertained, for months. And keep myself from going … stir crazy.

But how? How on Earth might I keep myself, not to mention the entire country from going stir crazy Joe Biden’s to blame for corruption

in Ukraine. And the hysteria in Italy. Got to cut millions of checks. Got to get them to, each stir crazy … American.

Unprecedented; days like these; with the spread of Covid-19 threatening our health care system, our economy and our way of life.

How we respond may well determine how much longer we may hang on, or turn, on a dime. I’ll show ye how to turn, towards life.

How we respond may well determine how much longer we may hang on, or turn, on a dime. I’ll show ye how to turn, towards life.

Unprecedented; days like these; with the spread of Covid-19 threatening our health care systems, economies and our way, of life.

Facebook Google LinkedIn Microsoft Reddit Twitter and YouTube say they are working closely together on their COVID-19,

response efforts. And it may be, ironically, that the catalyst to responding to climate and migratory changes, may be in … COVID-19.


An existential threat is posed by COVID-19. I have spun it into a tale of microbes and men, and aliens legal, and illegal. Really

real, only surreally. For what is surrealism if not, an altered reality? Yours, different from mine unless it isn’t, really.

For what is surrealism, if not, an altered reality? Yours, different from mine, unless it isn’t, actually. The threat posed by COVID-19

I’ve spun into a tale of microbes and men and aliens, legal, and illegal. And borders surreal overrun by … COVID-19.


Antonio Guterrez: Eureka! I have found it! It was in plain sight, hidden. But I have found it. And just in time. To change — the paradigms,

change the climate and the reasons for patterns of human migration. And I found it in Twitter’s algorithm, online.

I found Antonio, hidden in Twitter’s algorithm, space and time. Space enough for 280 characters. Time enough for rhyme,

which, when serially linked, may deliver a pithy message, or tell a story, sometimes. Engage the poets. Let my people’s poetry, rhyme.

Antonio: ‘Tis I, President Me, who tweets ye. I pray ye help me. Help me beat this microbial, invader. My people believe me not, no more. I lie

too much for them. In lieu of Giuliani I offer as proxy, Arthur. He suggests we engage young poets, as allies.”

Art’s an alien — yeah — that kind. He’s a real live, extraterrestrial, from the future. And what’s more — and this is where his story,

implausible, becomes impossibly, incredible. He says he’s here to kill a virus, save a planet and tweet, a great story.

That’s not the half of it. Like I said, Art’s story gets weird. He claims that killing the virus and cooling the planet and saving we

who live upon it, won’t earn him the wings he covets. He must replace with poetry, Sudoku too; tweeting, a great, story.

Do the math Don. 8,000 of us are dead from this, already. And ye don’t get from 8,000 to 100,000, much less, two million, in a month.

So get real Donald John Trump. We ain’t gonna be playing no ball in no month. Heck; ye may not even be a candidate, in a month.”

“So get real, Donald Trump. We ain’t gonna be playing no ball in no month. Hell, ye may not even be a real candidate — as well

— for president in a month. Ye forgot, Don, where ye came from. From a single celled beginning, ye may return … to a cell.

From single celled beginnings, complex organisms, we become. Social distancing measures, it seems, are important tools.

Foolishly … I shake hands. Foolishly … I won’t wear a mask. And uber-foolishly I boast that I am absolutely … nobody’s … fool.

Uber-foolish am I. I defy the virus. I shake hands. I won’t wear, a mask. And I don’t ask no one I hug, if they have traveled these days

to China. Still, do as I say. With 1,344 new deaths reported Saturday, we had the most fatalities recorded, in a day.

Two major factors fuel this pandemic in US; that people with no symptoms can easily spread the virus; and problems with testing,

in US. It’s critical. Everyone: Even those who don’t feel sick; stay at least 6 feet from others and avoid social gatherings.

I cynically prayed: God help us. And let not new cases ever number in the thousands, daily. And send me some panaceas or opium

or opioid prescription. And just like that an FDA-approved hydroxychloroquine fell into my lap, as if manna from, high Heavens.

I prayed. And just like that an FDA-approved drug fell into my lap, as if manna, from Heaven. ‘As if’; that’s when what’s happening

may be, not real, but surreal. It’s hard to tell what’s really happening. But it doesn’t bode well that we’re not testing.

It doesn’t bode well that we’re way behind in testing. It’s hard to tell what’s happening when carrier citizens walk about freely,

sadly, foolishly oblivious to the proximity of death. Indeed I fear what death may do, to my presidency … and my, legacy.

Just a little social distancing between our rapacious, rapist and drug smuggling Mexican brothers, and US; very similar, actually, to

what’s agreed to, on the northern, border. Critical is social distancing and isolation, between the borders, of the two.

Worst-case scenario: 1.1 million deaths. That model envisions an overwhelming of the system. Doctors agonizing over who

—ventilates and who — dies. Some doctors dying, alongside, their patients. Still, I share the people’s confidence in me as does, WHO.


Breaking; California just went into lockdown. We’re living in a global public health crisis moving too rapidly. We’ve got to, lockdown.

Lockdown the nation! Medical and financial systems are folding, like the houses of cards, they are. Lock … her down!

California just went into lockdown. We’re living in a global public health crisis, moving, way too rapidly. The nation, most regrettably,

I’ll have to, lockdown. Our houses of cards, are folding. Still, Vladimir and I see in the virus, great opportunity.

“Where have you been? With whom have you been in contact? Lest we forget whilst we are overwhelmed by a novel coronavirus microbe

matters of life and death go on, unabated. Human migration and climate change, go on, no matter, the coronavirus … microbe.

My fellow Americans: As I lay me down to tweet, do as I say. Be like me. Don’t worry. Be happy. Everything’s going to be, alright.

Everything’s going to be, alright, even if we lose sight of one another for a year or so. Even so, it’s gonna be, alright.

Everything’s gonna be, alright. Even if sight of one another, we lose. Even if in sacrifice, we sacrifice, community. Take my hand.

Everything’s gonna be, alright. Life goes on. And if in town … come to the rally. Jostle … with the crowd. And shake … my hand.

Gone are the rope lines, selfies with supporters and entourages of traveling press. Replaced, for now, with new digital, words:

tele-town halls, virtual fundraisers and livestreamed speeches. But I can’t imagine a full life without hearing, my own words.

Which patients get beds. And ventilators. Which patients, die. Like clockwork … cycles of denial … devastation and a shared

community response, belated, followed by inevitably, mutual, finger-pointing as blame is apportioned. To each … their share.

Alternatively, fortunate it has been that this virus thing got out of control. So it came from China. So what? I know President Xi. He’s

done right by his people. I know he’s learning even as I tweet … he’s got billions of brothers — who aren’t — Chinese.

Facebook; Google; LinkedIn; Microsoft; Reddit; Twitter and YouTube say they are working closely together on their COVID-19,

response efforts. And it may be, uber ironic if a catalyst to responding to climatic and migratory changes, were to be found in … COVID-19.

About 75 million residents of Connecticut, Illinois, New York and California have been directed to sequester. Only essential workers

may be away from their homes. Social distancing measures not emulated by me essentially, to keep working … the workers.

I’m battling an outbreak of a new coronavirus called COVID-19. It started in China and has been spreading around the globe, killing

thousands. WHO says it’s now, pandemic. Still, I dither about locking down the country, because of the election, upcoming.

I’m battling the novel virus and COVID-19, the disease, caused. I don’t rush to judgment. I’m presidential. WHO says it’s now,

pandemic. Still, I dither about locking down the country and tanking the markets. After all … I’m our wartime president, now.

Rapidly arising levels of infection and illness have begun to overwhelm health care systems. Testing’s restricted to health care

workers and people who are, hospitalized. They say the battle to contain the virus, is lost. And they say that, I don’t care.

They say that I don’t care. But I do care. Of course, I care about the pandemic and it’s ravaging effect on the economy and on our society,

generally. It’s not that I don’t care about anyone, but me; it’s just that I care, even more, about my presidency.

Throwing cash at societal problems; that’s been the oft problematic behavior of the Democratic Party. Hardly, Republican. Lately

tho, Cotton’s at the heart of the economic stabilization package, whose price tag is swelling, beyond $1 trillion … lately.

Although there was no reason to believe that the Pences had been exposed, given his unique position, they were tested, anyway.

The Pences know, by the way, that this first test may be the first test of many. Ditto, me. Thanks to me; in part … anyway.


WHO says Russia’s doing well. But WHO knows that that’s just for the moment, tho. For WHO knows President — Vladimir Putin

— has 36,540 people who are being monitored for infection. And Vladimir Putin knows he can’t make fiction — of this … nonfiction.

Vlad, knows. Indeed he’s painfully aware that there’s no amount of plausible deniability nor sovereign immunity to dismiss as a fabrication

of his enemies, a coronaviral, stigma. It’s a virus that takes pains, not to discriminate between … its victims.

We of the Cabal: Vlad, Xi, Kim, Mo and me, note, with alarm: The microbe only seems to take pains not to discriminate between us;

evidencing it’s not an intelligent, extraterrestrial invader come to conquer but be a teacher in playing the villain for us.

Only surreally real must feel every man woman and child on the planet.
Knowing this was coming, we did nothing. Not until @GretaThunberg

happened along. Playing the microbial villain for us is the coronavirus. And the heroic, heroine is Greta Thunberg.

The unemployment rate may be 30 percent come April and June due to mass layoffs; worse than what occurred during the Great

Depression. No supplies for our responders. Still, my chances of re-election to a second term seem, implausibly, incredibly, great.

Chilling; Fauci’s telling somewhat fuzzy, choice of words; specifically the certainty of the outbreak clashing … with the clearly

uncertain mitigation issues he says may go a long way to prevent us from becoming, an Italy. A fuzzy choice of words, clearly.


My condolences to Italy. Who imagined a second Vesuvius in a coronavirus and that the bad luck of the Ides of March this year comes

with an extension beyond China and Italy to the world? Beware, Urantia (Earth): The coronavirus, with a vengeance, comes.

Penny wise and pound foolish are the businessmen on Wall Street and President  Me, at the White House, so volatile.

Italian doctors have begun rationing care, making heart-wrenching decisions about who gets treatment and who is left — to die.

Obituaries are running, dozens of pages in the local, newspapers. Piles of coffins, stacked, in parking lots, for those, just left … to die.

Obituaries are running dozens of pages in the local newspapers. And with piles of coffins stacked in parking lots for those left to die,

Italian doctors have begun rationing care; making decisions about who gets treatment … and who … is just left … to die.

Who gets treatment? Who’s just left to die? Rationing care; making heart wrenching decisions about goes on who living and who

dies. Too many for the crematory to burn. What’s happening in Italy won’t happen here. I just won’t do what WHO recommends I do.

Beware Urantia (Earth): The coronavirus, with a vengeance — cometh. And the virus may run roughshod, overrunning, nations.

With a vengeance, it seemingly, cometh. But I naysay those who say the coronavirus may overrun President Vladimir Putin’s, nations.

My grandiloquence, actually, my eloquence in the art of language may be, in part, what may make, compelling, my MAYDAYS.

MAYDAYS aims to infect everyone with a medicinal art, in the holistic, tradition. Poetry. An essential part, of a well-balanced, day.

Can my campaign for re-election be revived when so much is so suddenly going, so wrong? I won’t accept any reality, at any time,

not in my best interests. For the moment I’ll just deny the possibility of jobless claims into the millions, buying … time.

Time; except for me, it waits for no man. But denying the possibility of millions of sure fire, jobless claims won’t buy me, very much time.

Still, the hero of Vietnam’s Bone Spur Ridge, won’t need much time to beat the virus, to a calypso beat, in time.


Most folks overcome the illness; unless they’re older; or have an underlying condition. Like my brother Art, from Puerto Rico. Iris’

brother is a mess. Arthur shan’t survive contact with it, if he contracts it. Rest in peace … dear brother … of Iris.

Rest in peace Arthur, dear brother, of Iris. Most folks overcome the illness; unless they’re older or have an underlying condition. Like my misfit

brother Art. Iris’ brother’s a mess. Art shan’t survive contracting the virus if he contracts an infection.

Art shan’t survive contracting the virus if he contracts an infection. Rest in peace Arthur, dear brother, of Iris. Most overcome it unless

they’re older or have an underlying condition. Like my misfit brother Arthur: Iris’ brother. He’s … a real mess.

The disease is spreading because many people especially our young people are not abiding by my wise guidance to stay home.

Seriously; practice, social distancing. There are not enough people taking this seriously. Please … everyone: Please … go home!

It took 67 days from the first reported case to reach the first 100,000 cases; eleven days for the second 100,000 and just four days for the third 100,000, WHO says.

Over 367,000 people have been diagnosed. And the pandemic is accelerating … WHO says.

We’ll see. I can do two things at once. Multi-tasking, I call it. We’re not going let a simple medical problem, microbial, turn into — too

long a treatment and financial problems, long, lasting. I’m not looking at locking down months, I can tell ye, too.

Some say social distancing is vital to slowing the spread of the virus which has already infected more than 40,000 people in US. I say

that the shock to the economy could hurt the country more than deaths from the virus. What … pray tell — do ye — say?

Consider @TeamJoe for @JoeBiden made to order platforms. Useful, generally but especially useful, now. It’s no pulpit, bully, surely

but it might be helpful going forward, towards the comeuppance, richly deserved of a habitual, some say, criminal, bully.

Useful generally but especially useful now. Now with the coronavirus front and center and climate change and human migration

abreast of the microbe on either side. Joe Biden: Ye are in need of an additional platform to stand upon; one for all, Americans.

This emergency I’ve declared must not drag on for even one month, longer. My own health professionals warn that viruses predictably,

quickly, spread. But I’m, the chosen one. I know what to do; when to do it; and how to do it, safely … and effectively.

Dr. Fauci has grown bolder in correcting my falsehoods and overly rosy statements about the spread of the coronavirus the past

two weeks and he has become a hero to my critics. My patience wears thin. Not even one week more, may my patience … last.

Over the past 24 hours 85 percent of new cases have been in Europe and the United States; 40 percent were in the United States.

Britain’s Boris, resisted locking down Britain, but changed his mind. Modi’s locked down India. Not tho … the United States.

The United States is a harbinger for the rest of the planet. Just look at us today. Where we are today, you will be in four, five or six weeks,

time. Take a long hard look at where the United States is today. ‘Tis where ye may very well be, in six weeks.

Consider Urantians, predestination. Consider the purpose predestination serves in administration of His seven Universes.

Septuplet Universes comprise the vast Kingdom of our Almighty Creator. Consider, dear lector, the predestination I consider in verse.

Shutdowns and school closures will slow the virus’ spread but when lifted, we’ll be right back where we started. Hospitals shall be

overwhelmed. Get thee to a grocery. There has already been too much community spread to prevent this tragic inevitability.

Volatile am I, to be sure. Recklessly impetuous and indecisive, I alternate between the two. But volatility, no matter how sliced, remains, volatile.

A refrigerated truck outside Elmhurst Hospital in Queens stores the bodies of the dead. On Tuesday alone, 13 died there.

Queens accounts for 30 percent of New York City’s confirmed coronavirus cases. More than any borough; far more, than its fair, share.

To pen an epic, tragically compelling and funny, at once. Such is my MAYDAYS. A history of Earth. And my birthplace Queens, like me,

for the moment, is at the epicenter of the epicenter. Poetry in motion, am I. Nobody moves and nobody writes … like me.

Antonio Guterrez: This is war. To win we’ll need a war-like, wartime, plan. To figure out how to surround and defeat an enemy,

already us, surrounding. In soirée last night I turned to my Carthaginian General Hannibal and my Chinese Sun Tsu, to help, me.

In soirée last night I turned to my Carthaginian General Hannibal and my Chinese General Sun Tsu to help me. This is war. To win we’ll need war-like wartime plans.

To surround and defeat an enemy already surrounding us, we’ll need an extraordinary, plan.

In soirée last night, I turned to Generals Sun Tsu and Hannibal. And their extraordinary advice was carpe diem. Seize today,

the day. They certainly won’t be expecting to be surrounded, when it’s ye, who are surrounded. Carpe … diem. Seize … the day.

What a difference a day may make. What a difference makes, passage, of time. Patients later than these won’t feel as lucky as these.

These may make antibodies and recover. Not so for those I have destined to be sickened … later, in time … than these.

Many already have I destined, to nightmarish ends, scarcely imaginable a month or even a week ago. What a difference a day

— may make. What a difference makes, passage, of time. Patients after these, are flat out of luck. We’re in, disaster mode, today.

We’re in disaster mode It’s just that I act like I don’t know it yet. I know tho that we may well be tanking, in more ways than just one. I lie,

easily But there aren’t enough lies on the whole of the Earth, that will save anyone who didn’t need, to die.

We’re in disaster mode. I just act like, I don’t know it yet. I know tho that we may well be tanking in more ways than just — one. I lie

— easily. But there aren’t enough lies on the whole of the Earth (Urantia) that will save anyone who needn’t so, die.

I lie easily. Not glibly; sloppily, actually. But there haven’t been enough lies on the tip of my wicked tongue that might lessen the grief

and the anger at losing, all at once, loved ones and jobs and a way of life for a life of unprecedented … grief.

Chaotic. My administration is chaotic. Time heals not all wounds, equally; and not all men are equally created, no matter what laws say.

What have ye done for me … lately? Will two trillion be enough and … in time? Will Republicans … stand by me? No … I’d say.

What have ye done for me lately? Two trillion might have been enough. It might have been in time. Will Republicans stand by me? No

way, no matter what I say. Mark my words. By next week my star will be shot. No matter what they may dutifully say, I know.

The outbreak that’s overwhelmed New York City hospitals in recent days is just the first in a wave of local outbreaks happening,

nationally as per CDC models; striking our cities, especially in coming weeks. What’s happening, mirroring, what’s happening.

Greater than The Art of The Deal, MAYDAYS may be. And I say ‘may be’ only because I’m humble. As a news flash flashes before me

informing me we already have the most cases, I see the handwriting on a wall, I once upon a time, might have built, surreally.

Greater than The Art of The Deal, I’d started to tweet last tweet MAYDAYS may be, making a splash, when I was reminded by a news

flash of our sudden surge into the lead among, infected, nations. And I see handwriting on walls and even on my … Fox News.

I see handwriting on walls and I hear things. And I see dead people, not on TV, all around me. White-robed ones seem friendly; less so

the hospital-gowned ones; although they reach toward me as if to shake my hand my Secret Service guys, won’t let me go.

In nightmares I’ve been having, zombie-like, hospital-gowned ones, reach toward me as if to shake my hand then suddenly lunge at me,

not wanting not to let go of me. With mouths wide open, as if wailing, I hear no sound from them, but they seem, unhappy.

So experts dispute my claim that an economic downturn would be more deadly than a pandemic. So — what? I dare say

— who cares? Anyway, from the looks of things we’re getting both, anyway. And who pray tell, elected ye the president of US like me, anyway?

People are dying. And with each day that passes I dare think to myself, tho I dare not publicly say, that the community spread virus

is both terrifying and terrifyingly, inevitable. Far more terrifying tho, is that I am still … the President … of US.

Sad. Sad to see the televangelist-in-chief leader of the free world offer a hazy tale of a miraculous cure. Offering hope so cynically

ought be considered an abuse of power. Fodder for an impeachment in the future against me. But Scotus, may protect me.

To offer hope to humanity, please do, not as I do but rather, as I say. Take a moment to visit with my brother Arthur — at WordPress

— Art fears he’s not long for the world. He’d appreciate it if ye’d visit at, Defeat, the virus.

The economy is in deep recession; echoing the Great Depression in the way it has devastated our once great businesses

— triggering — mass layoffs; threatening to set off chain reaction bankruptcies; losses for companies large and small, bad for business.

Curiously, in this Chinese year of the rat, it appears that the Italian Ides of March, has been extended, into the rest of the year

of — this year. Astonishing irony — purposeful — seemingly. How could it not be purposeful that all of this happen this year.

Evidence of intelligent, design. It’s evident, everywhere. How could it not be purposeful, that all of this is happening — in the year

2020, year of our Lord? In 2020, I say to all of ye: President Me, this year, even more, than the virus … ye need fear.

Unemployment. Death. The scale of the devastation wrought to the economy and the national psyche is now, clear. Millions of US

filed for unemployment. The jobless may file for unemployment, but if already dead, ye can’t file for unemployment … from US.

There is a disconnection between me and the governors and mayors. They beg folks to stay home, even as I hope the economy will be raring

to go by Easter. Socially distant, President Me gives lip service only. The governors and mayors, he is … ignoring.

One month after predicting we were but days away from being near zero in coronavirus cases I have, in recent days increasingly tried,

shifting the blame to state and local leaders as the spread tops more than 100,000 cases nationwide. 1,500 … have died.

As is my wont, in recent days, I’ve tried to shift the blame to state and local leaders as the case count now, nationwide, tops more

than 100,000. In 1,500 cases, the patients have died. Many more in store, has the coronaviral, Covid-19. Many, many more.

I felt it was pandemic long before it was called pandemic. And albeit I have minimized the pandemic’s effect on my United States,

verily, I don’t lie. It’s all just … truthful, hyperbole. I resent the insinuation that I’d lie for … the United States.

When will things return to normal?
The answer is simple, if not, satisfying: when enough of the population is resistant to the air

borne Covid-19 to stunt spread from person to person. That’s the end goal. No one knows how long it may take, to get there.

The virus presents an opportunity. An opportunity for a new normal. And Vlad and his guys and I would indeed, most happily,

take ye there. There is where ye physically are already but metaphysically, ye’ll have to move a long way to get ye some normalcy.

I present to ye — opportunity — opportunity in the calamity that is this novel, virus. ‘Tis opportunity for a novel, normal. And a novel,

novel, It’s Robert Frost approved fiction, nonfictional. 280 character tweets, serially, linked into a novel, novel.

Fiction, seemingly nonfictional. Tweets, 280 characters long, serially linked into Grecian, poetry, epic. Tragic. And comic. And ironic.

Ironic, is the story of the wise man, who, deeming himself … wise … names himself … Homo sapiens … and then … disproves, it.

The sickened, often, still can’t get done the testing that might have saved them had it been done, on time. Whether or not fair,

where doctor’s orders consign the critically to palliative care — to death, they might, resign; and to, its palliative, care.

Everyone knows flus kill more Americans every year than Covid-19 has, so far this year. Some panicked residents of my New York,

fled the city before an order that might trap them in the epicenter. Confusion leads to panic. And there is panic in … New York.

Panic not, New York. Follow, my lead. And don’t worry. Just be happy if it seems that I’m just making it up, as I go along. And, ironically,

because I see in calamity, opportunity … I am tagging, by this tweet … the Nobel, Committees.

Public health experts warned that flirting with the idea of a travel ban for one of the most populated parts of the country was too

likely to backfire, causing residents to flee being stuck, potentially, dreadfully, taking the virus along with them, too.

Reconsidering I flip-flopped, judiciousness being, one of my great, attributes. Dreadful would have been — microbial — hitchhikers,

hitching a ride with the City’s citizens; fleeing, the germaphobic leader of US. A bad idea, I’m flip-flopping, on Twitter.

Mixed messaging; a common tactic in Earthly interpersonal, relations. I only appear to be abruptly abandoning the proposal I on

no notice proposed, Saturday morning and backtracked on, hours later. I’m incompetent in planting tactical … misinformation.

I suggest Trumpian, relief. Let’s create the special purpose vehicle the African ministers have already, previously, requested. One in

which sequestered interest payments on sovereign bonds, support, African nations, regardless of their limited, incomes.

Meanwhile back in America, deaths from Covid-19 may reach 200,000 as New York, New Orleans and other cities warned, soon,

they’d run out of medical supplies. And soon; all too soon may my support in the Congress, like a virus, in warm weather … swoon.

200,000 to die. But I am a wise man. The very wisest, some say. Even as New York, New Orleans and others, run out of supplies,

my support in the Congress, like a springtime virus may swoon too soon if it’s by my antiheroic role, that … I, myself, belie.

My support in the Congress, like a springtime virus, swoons too soon if it is by my antiheroic role, that I, myself, belie. 200,000 to die,

they say. But I am a wise man. The very wisest, some say. Even as the cities, run out of supplies, Even as, I lie.

‘Tis Easter week. The week we’ll be striking a balance between social distancing measures and measures taken to restart and grow again

the economy of the nation. The week we’ll be, flattening, the curve. The week I’ll prove to be, uniquely, inept, again.

‘Tis Easter Sunday week. The week we’ll be striking a balance between social distancing measures and measures taken to grow once

again the nation’s economy. The week we’ll be flattening the curve. The week I’ll prove to be prescient and clueless at once.

Millions of Christians tuned into online church services on Sunday in lieu of attending their usual places of worship. In some places,

clerics kept the doors of some of their places of worship, open. Wise is the man … worshipping, in online … places.

Wise is the man worshipping in a crisis like this one in online places. Millions of Christians tuned into online church services on Sunday,

in lieu of attending their usual places of worship. In some places tho, clerics kept their doors, open … Sunday.

In too many places too many folks flaunted for reasons sundry, Sunday social distancing measures. Distancing measures intended to

— protect. Measures I’m extending in this year of the rat and an Ides of March extended, through the month of April … too.

The timing; the timing of The Creator Author of this foreordained tragi-comedy in this year of the rat and an Ides of March by leap year,

extended. I extend through the month of April the social distancing measures I top-secretly feel may last for years.

Impeccable the timing of The Creator Author of this foreordained, tragi-comedy in the year of the rat, by a leap year, extending, this year,

the Ides of March. I extend through April the social distancing measures I top-secretly know, may last for years.

Beginning this week hospitals reach their max capacities, cases rise exponentially and ventilators and beds become, invaluable.

Models project April will be a hellish public health catastrophe unlike any other, ever before. Still, I see for me … Nobel.

What a difference a week makes.
Last week’s pie in the sky, happy talk having given way less to hard facts than to body

bags. Today, Sunday, I’m singing a brand new, tune. What a difference a week makes. And the sight of really dead, cadaverous, bodies.

What a difference, indeed, makes, time. Last week’s pie in the sky, happy talk having given way less to — hard facts than to — bodies,

black-clad. It’s a brave new world, out there we’ll be living in, a while. Keep your distance from one another and me.

More and more, with each passing year, it seems that it’s a brave, new world, out there, we’ll be living in, a while. Keep your distance from

one another and me. What a difference indeed, makes time. Last week’s pie in the sky happy talk, done … gone.

But is it a brave new world, really? Or the same, cowardly old world, cowering ever more, more, unseemly. Cowering now from an

invisible foe. A foe that has him completely surrounded and has him moreover wondering, what on Urantia (Earth), just happened?

What just happened? And why is this happening? And what is going to happen to my children? I feel powerless to protect them

and helpless to help them confront this brave new world they’re inheriting from me and that I just can’t begin to explain to them.


What say ye to the children? Begin by saying that unfair as it is it is what it is. The forbears of the children, bad stewards of Urantia

(Earth) have been. Call on technology’s algorithms and artificial intelligence. For paradigm … shifts, on Urantia.

Conflicts of interest, malfeasance and corruption taint and give a bad name to, bad, governance. What say ye, to the children? Begin

by telling them that — unfair as it is — it is what it is. With the forbears of the children, the bad stewards … begin.p

Begin with bad stewardship of a planet, entrusted. Conflicts of interest, malfeasance and corruption taint and give a really bad

name to, bad governance. As bad as it, bad governance suddenly is, the least of our problems. We got a virus … really, bad.

We got a virus. We got it, bad. We got other, bad problems, too. But as bad as it, bad governance is just one of our problems.

Ironically, if we but flip a switch, we might well a paradigm — shift. Just flipping a switch, may resolve, all our problems.

I declare that if but 100-200 thousand Americans die from the virus then I will have done for ye, a good job. A job well done — I

will have done if I can defeat the coronaviral microbe before it gets done infecting us; causing us, perhaps, maybe, to die.“

I would lie to ye if I told ye that I failed to see in the virus an opportunity for change so transformational, a paradigm shift,

it’s tantamount to. Witness Vlad sending medical supplies to US, to help US survive, Covid-19; beginning, a paradigm shift.

In Africa and India, men like flys, shall drop. Africans, Indians and Americans all dying on me; and all, concurrently, at the same time.

India’s locked down; Africa’s on alert. Everybody knows, we’re on notice, about the imperative shift, of a paradigm.

Verily, too few believe we are on any such notice; about the shifting of any paradigm. If indeed ye believe that then ye are a fool’s,

fool. But in Africa and India, men like flys shall drop. Africans, Indians and Americans all dying on me, the … fool.

We’ve been fools. Me, especially. Just witness, my shift in attitude. To accept as reality, what was a hoax. I’ve been a fool’s, fool.

Now April, the Ides of March extended, are ended. On Earth, men like wingless flys, shall drop. But … Arthur Everman’s,  no fool.

Actually, that Arthur’s no fool isn’t true, either. In his time on Earth, he’s been a fool, near exclusively. But like me, eventually,

he’s come around and had an adjustment of attitude. I’ve accepted as reality my hoaxes. Fools have been we … Art and me.

The downturn may be far more punishing and long lasting than feared by many, enduring, perhaps, into next year — apace.

Beyond, even, as governments amp up restrictions to halt the spread of the contagion. As fear of the virus redefines … public space.

A baby, with bathwater has been, thrown out. But the sell-off provides ambitious and visionary managers with some opportunities,

far more, visionary. Investing in artificial intelligence may be for more prescient investors … an enterprising … opportunity.

If asked to grade myself I’d rate myself a 10. I think I’ve done a great job. Reasonable men, might, however, disagree. And although I

— am in fact unfit and lie routinely, I shan’t resign. I shan’t resign my office, no matter how many Americans may die.

It may be as simple as poetry — for us. Arthur’s taught me that. And I’ve bought into it too. Poetry hath music — calming — to us;

to the beasts, within us. There is great power in lyric, poetry. And a virus — maybe — may draw it out, from … within us.


With the novel coronavirus causing a surge in work-from-home activity Zoom’s become the video meeting app of choice. So — Zoom

it if ye can. Get by with conferencing, by video. Be socially distant. Dispense with meeting with viral … carriers — on Zoom.

Be socially distant. Dispense with meeting with carriers of the virus by conferencing on Zoom. Don’t take it home — to your family.

Zoom it, if ye can. Get by, for the time being, with video. And get used to a new normal, for the sake … of your family.

For the sake of your family. get used to the new normal. Be, socially, distant. Dispense with meeting with carriers — of the virus.

Don’t, by all means, take it home to your family. Talk to them about the threat to the human family, posed … by this … virus.

Death comes in waves; the first wave followed in the fall and winter, by even more waves, posing a threat to us — later — again.


I’ll talk to Jared; to see how he feels about running the country for me if my base abandons me and I think, about resigning.

Be not alarmed ye ever-Trumpers; ye who would stand by me even if ye were an eye witness to my infamous, 5th Avenue, murder.

Grooming for the presidency have I been, my Barbie and Ken, daughter and son-in-law. As I tweet to Jared, to confirm, on Twitter.

Indeed I am here now, but not for long, it seems. Indeed it seems that no matter what I may say — that was then — and this is now.

Now is when by the Grace of God, I am here. @Marvel at the breakneck speed with which I make things happen, surreally, now.

Marvel at me; President Me, to ye. Marvel at the phenomenon of nature that I am. And marvel at ground swelling, earth shaking, plot

twists. I am here now but not for long. Indeed it seems that no matter what I may or not say, verily … it matters, not.

To get ahead of a virus like this one we must use projections of what may happen in the future — to act — in the present. Predictions,

fraught with error, oft because of error in their assumptions. A thankless profession, the epidemiological, profession.

To get ahead of a virus like this one we must project what may happen in the future; and make predictions, oft fraught with error

because of errors, in assumptions. And assumptions kept secret, invite doubt and invite embarrassing, speculation, of error.

Verily imagine that my theory that reality is inversely proportional to surreality is true. Ergo, eureka. The missing link, Holy Grail. Fiction’s

inversely proportional to nonfiction. A unified theory of metaphysics born of my antiheroic infidelities and my affinity, for lying.

Witness the world marking a grim milestone Thursday; more than a million corona cases when in reality that mark, was made — when

— God only knows. Clearly, there is a lag time between — reality and surreality — and between fiction … and … nonfiction.

Witness too, the UN General Assembly unanimously approving a resolution Thursday, recognizing the unprecedented devastation

wrought by the viral pandemic and the cooperation needed amongst the member nations, to foster cooperation and discourage, competition.

I don’t understand why every state hasn’t issued stay-at-home orders. Why isn’t that happening? But, that it’s not happening,

bodes poorly. It’s hard to see anything positive from this calamity, arising. Implausibly tho — near incredibly — it’s, happening.

Jared. Again. ‘Squeaky’ Kushner, whom I’ve been top-secretly grooming to be a future president, is at it, again. He’s been making too

many, rookie mistakes. Now he’s gone and done it again. Patience. Unlike me he’s not perfect, and he’s a simpleton, too.”

States and cities are restricting movements in response to a fast-spreading pandemic likely to claim, worldwide, millions of lives, possibly.

But others remain defiant that the devastation unfolding elsewhere, should not curtail life … in their … communities.

Call it what ye will. Defiance; stupidity; stubbornness; some like, American, exceptionalism. Whatever ye may deem it,

it seems that I may have, once again, spoken too ignorantly, too soon. I’ve got to stop doing that someday. That’ll be the day, I quit.

The day I quit. Call it a day of karmic retribution or American exceptionalism. Call it what ye will. Whatever ye deem it, it seems

I’m leaving sooner rather than later. Beaten by a dirty, viral, microbe. For these deaths I’ll surely be blamed it seems.

Coming to a theatre (of war) near ye. Protocols to follow in Spain to decide, absent euthanasia, who lives and who dies.

Euthanasia, sanctioned in some countries, remains illegal, in Spain. We in the United States must also decide who lives and who dies.

Who lives and who dies. Coming soon to a theatre (of war) near ye. Protocols about the sanctity of life, aside, a Darwinian businessman

such as I, suggest, on behalf of the living, that letting the dying die, saves resources for living men … and women.

Speaking as a Darwinian with vast experience in matters of life and death, verily, I can wisely speak to who lives and who dies.

Do as I order. Be, like me, socially, distant. Stay at home. Protocols about the sanctity of life aside, let the dying, die.

I’d be uncomfortable, wearing a mask as I met with presidents, prime ministers, dictators, kings, queens. I — don’t know. I

don’t — see it for myself. And that is I’d say, as it should be my fellow Americans. Ye are to do as I say and not as I do, say I.

I’m out. I’m gonna leave shortages in supplies to the states. I’m leaving it to them to decide whether to shut down their states. I

don’t want to be the center of attention. I’m a wartime president. Leading the battle against … an invisible enemy … am I.

More than once, I’ve falsely claimed that the federal stockpile of emergency medicine and supplies I inherited from Obama, was empty.

I’m getting, increasingly, desperate; my lies so transparent, everybody, sees right through them. I have no, credibility.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, conflicts, more or less, lessen, with flare-ups and dust-ups, ongoing. Natural disasters sometimes even occasion,

rivals, working together. I’m sorry. I didn’t sign up to fight no stinking, microbe. I am The Don, antihero, American.

Natural disasters sometimes even occasion rivals, working together. I’m sorry. I didn’t sign up to fight no stinking, microbial, virus.

Donny, antihero American, am I; the hero in Vietnam, of Bone Spur Ridge. I won’t fight no stinking, invisible, virus.

In Ecuador’s Guayaquil, dead bodies are being left in the streets. Hospitals have no beds left to accept sick patients. Morgues,

cemeteries and funeral homes are full. With no place left to put them the dead are left on the street, not taken, to morgues.

As the world knows I ignored, downplayed and dismissed the coronaviral outbreak problem ‘til it became one of the worst crises

in our nation’s history. I’m a fish out of water. Unfit to be the president in the best of times; dangerously unfit, in crisis.

We are now at the center of the global pandemic. New York, the hardest-hit state, reported its highest daily rise in viral deaths.

My March jobs report points to, a market, collapse. And I shall certainly — unfairly — be blamed … for all these, deaths.

The relatively late start of both companies means the bulk of their production will come online in May.

There may still be a peak in May although most health officials expect it in mid-April. Worry not, about that. We shall still have peaks … come May.

I wonder whether I’m on the verge of a breakdown. Not one, governmental. A physical, spiritual and emotional, breakdown.

I’m wondering whether I might win from the people a vote of sympathy if — on, live TV — I go, to pieces, and hysterically, breakdown.

My failure echoes the period leading up to 9/11: Warnings were sounded, including at the highest levels of government but I was deaf

to them until the enemy had already struck. I keep my own counsel. Everyone knows that to sound advice, I am stone, deaf.

Turn to the tools we have. We must make them work for us, better. Like the wonders of video conferences, my Nobel-winning innovation,

Twitter Diplomacy and even, letters. It’s a brave new world. I’m the man; the only one that can, lead US, to innovation.

Meanwhile in New York City, crematoriums run, 24 hours a day. The city put out a wireless emergency alert Friday, asking

any licensed medical personnel to volunteer to fight the virus. Hell on Earth is New York City. And India. And Syria. And North Korea.

It took me but 70 days from my initial notification to treat the virus, not as a distant threat; some exotic flu strain, but as a force

that had outflanked America’s defenses and was poised to kill tens of thousands. I’ll be forced, to use, lethal force.

If ye only knew what’s being said —and shouted — in the halls of power. And homes, less, powerful. The virus dominates me, verily,

but I say, only seemingly. Don’t worry. Be happy. Even should millions die, I … shan’t be blamed, for such a catastrophe.

Pursuant to my orders, governors around the world further tightened limits on social activity as the death toll zoomed really fast

past, last hour’s numbers. In basketball, be like Mike but in facing pandemics, be like me. I’ll lead. Follow me. To last.

Follow me. To last. A purposeful choice of words. Do I mean for my fellow Americans to follow me to persevere or do I mean rather, follow me to last

place. I’ll leave it, my fellow Americans up to ye. Conflicted, I decline to opine one way, or the other.

I must admit: The previously estimated national death toll of 100,000 to 240,000 seems, more and more, like a low-ball, guess.

100,000 to 240,000, seems less than what shall be the final death toll. Would, that it were less. I’m so very sorry, I guess.

In crises, come moments that cry out for leadership. Heroes and anti-heroes, rise to the call. Might Jared have, a personality?

Thank ye Jared. For being here; for being, ye. A snake — squeaky — of voice. A snake in the grass, sly and cunning, naturally.

I warned today that America’s toughest week of the coronavirus crisis is coming up, predicting that there will be death, also. I’m

afraid — I admit — I’m afraid. I’m afraid that as the number of Covid-19 cases, surges — indeed — I’ve run … out of time.

What do I know? I’m no doctor. But I have, common sense. And I have enough sense to know that, sometimes, ye have got to ask

yourself, what have I got to lose? If I were of Covid-19 dying, what have I got to lose — myself, I might, reasonably … ask.

I’m no doctor. But I’ve got, common sense. And I have enough common sense to know that sometimes ye have got to just — ask,

yourself — what have I got to lose? Hope is medicine, powerful. If I were dying … what have I got to lose, I might, myself, ask.

And so as I chronicle in MAYDAYS, the hero of Vietnam’s Bone Spur Ridge, an anti-hero in my MAYDAYS adopts a most cynical, strategy.

To play on my ability to inspire the nation — my cult of personality — to keep under 200,000 … the expected fatalities.

Info-wars feature the eternal battle of fiction, nonfiction and in the coming election, science fiction. Climate change — is science fiction,

I’ll say. Brace yourself for a 2020 campaign, dominated, and denigrated by — information and — disinformation.

I relish my reputation as a maverick; as a bull in a china shop, running, rampant. I enjoy the chaos that envelops me — protecting me,

from my, countless — frenemies. Verily, in my second term I shall propose that I be the president, of US, indefinitely.

A panacea for Pangaea — in time, Earth, née Urantia. To save the planet and its people — use the enemy to come together … in time.

It’s hard. It’s hard to be humble when one’s as great as I am. It’s so hard I don’t bother, trying. I’m betting big on US — on business,

as usual. I’ve found an algorithm in 280 spaces, in time on Twitter, I believe can help us, get back … in business.

On the occasion and in commemoration of Passover, Easter and Ramadan I want to extend to all, Spock’s split-fingered gesture

and it’s warm greeting: Live long and prosper. Please; don’t shake my hand. And don’t hug me. Just kindly … return the gesture.

Live long and prosper. Just don’t shake my hand. And don’t hug me, either. Just kindly return, the gesture. In the upcoming

commemorations of Passover, Easter and Ramadan I want to extend to all, Spock’s split-fingered gesture and it’s … warm greeting.

With testing still lagging and 25 percent of those infected showing no symptoms but still spreading the novel coronavirus, understated,

is the enormity of the crisis. Even the surging death toll fails to capture the scale of our pandemic-infected states.

Hospitals across the country face dire shortages of vital medical equipment amid the coronaviral pandemic, with testing kits

and thermometers, in short supply. Hospitals can’t ensure the safety, of the health care workers needed, to adequately, treat it.

No one can ensure the safety of the workers; not the queen bee with her colony; and not even me with ye. I do my best to

plan and to, prepare. A failure to plan — is a plan — to fail. He Who creates everything, spares, nothing. Plan. And prepare … too.

I plan and I prepare. A failure to plan is a plan to fail. No one can ensure the safety of all the workers; no queen bee’s colony; not even me,

with ye. Survival of the fittest ought not be our purpose nor of any purpose, corollary. Amen. Let … it be.

Amen. Let it be. And shout it from the mountaintops. Survival of the fittest ought not be our purpose nor of any purpose, corollary.

It’s no coincidence my plan all along was to not know things and still, save the day. To ye who mourn — cynically — I’m sorry.

To ye who mourn, cynically, I say I’m sorry. I’m not really very sorry. Protocols call for me to say so. It’s good to have protocols — when one

just seems — not to know things. But this confluence of people and events, is less, coincidence, than predetermination.

Predetermination. In essence, I was meant to be. And ye too. But let’s get back to me. Not only meant to be but chosen to be. A great

white hope, to many. This confluence of people and events is less coincidence than His predeterminations, holy and great.

Who can dispute I’ve been chosen And who can dispute my model now predicts as few as 81,766 people will die through early

August. My model suggests, keeping fatalities under 100,000 may be, a winning … electoral strategy. This, I may do … for ye.

“Keeping fatalities under 100,000. That’ll be the strategy that’ll win, elections. That, I’ll do. Who can dispute I have been chosen? Who

can dispute that my legacy, beyond Jared, and Twitter Diplomacy, may be, revampings of the UN, FBI, CIA and WHO, too.

Revamping national and international agencies and institutions. The deep state … never-Trumpers at the — FBI, CIA and the UN

— and WHO, too. But first things first. Keeping deaths, under 100 K. That’ll be the strategy. Then who’ll dispute, I have been chosen

Revamping if not eliminating, the agencies and the institutions. And that’s not the half of it. I shall still have to lead US — surreally

— through, destiny.’s clash … of civilizations. But first things first. Deaths, under 100 K. That’s, the strategy.

Keeping deaths under 100,000. That’s the strategy going forward. Leaving for later axing agencies, institutions and — destiny’s

clash of civilizations. I shall be our greatest president whose legacy includes, Nobels … like Obama’s … really … surreally.

Clashing civilizations unite in a self-destructive orgy of religious fervor and faith. Remember: Be like me. Don’t get close to me.

And do as I say and not as I do. Be socially, distant. And keep deaths under 100,000. Going forward, that’s the strategy.

Both Fauci the country’s leading health official and Birx, the White House’ coronaviral invasion response coordinator stated in error,

possibly, that continued mitigation efforts may well lower the death toll from 100,000 to a manageable, number, lesser.

Lowering the death toll from 100,000 to a more manageable lesser number. That’s my re-election strategy in a nutshell. My electoral

College advantage gives me a leg up on the bad guys. Whether I’ll win is debatable. But as ye know, anything, is possible.

As ye know, anything’s possible. Lowering the death toll from 100,000 to more manageable, lesser numbers; it’s my primary

strategy for re-election. I’ve got an Electoral College advantage. But I’ve got an even bigger advantage in my cult of personality.

“Shunning and shaming; I’m great at that. Those who shun and shame, in my name, especially, ought be considered — patriots.

Patriots —those, shunning and shaming foreigners, in my name. Blessed, are they. And martyrs, if … ashamed, one kills, a patriot.

I am indeed good, at shunning and shaming; I’m good at that. Those who shun and shame in my name, ought be considered — patriots.

Patriots are those who shun and shame foreigners, in my name. Blessed, are they. And martyrs if ashamed one kills a patriot.

Teaching: It’s hard for me. It’s harder to teach an entire community than it is to teach the only two I envisage duly taking the reins

of the country from me. In four years or so one of them takes the reins from me and begins their derivative, own reign.

I implied the inspector general was politically motivated. Why hadn’t she spoken to others in charge, ere penning, her error

— her — error-filled, libelous, report? Just another, fake dossier. Another lie and an assassination, of my … humble … character.

Art’s in isolation from a virus. Worse, he’s hiding out from agent assassins out to get him. Worse yet, he can’t just, do his duty.

His duty, to not worry and be happy; but his duty to say whatever’s not OK today will be OK tomorrow sounds lie a lie, to me.

Everything sounds like a lie to me. Why would they sound, otherwise? As ye know I’ve told a lie or two in my time. Or, perhaps, times

a-many; it’s hard to remember. It’s hard to remember all the times I’ve lied. I can’t remember — that many, times.

I’ve lied so many times it’s hard to remember all the times. It’s so much easier to say I can’t remember. So I oft say I just can’t remember.

It’s so much easier that way. And so ye’ll oft hear me say, so sorry but it’s surreally hard for me to remember.

I wasn’t exactly a ‘hands on’ leader with respect to social distancing. So it’s not clear that the country would respond if I begin

urging Americans to return to work and re-open their businesses while the virus is still, skulking … still, circulating.

Not having a plan for the rising uninsured yet seems to be a lingering blind spot for GOP strategists. They took the House in midterms

by having better answers on health care. Remember Darwin and the fittest. Against insuring — the uninsured — hold firm.

Instead of about 94,000 deaths as estimated just a week ago, my model now predicts about 82,000 by late — this summer. A hero

— I’ll be; an anti-hero, really, given, my defects, in character. I’ll save America First! Then Urantia (Earth). I’ll be … a hero.

I’m so vain I think this poem I’m writing’s about me. Don’t I? Don’t I? Yes, I do. I’m destined to never learn that it’s not about me

not about ye. It’s about us. I have been a fool. Everything’s about Him and our larger … interdependent … community.

Arthur’s lying low in New Jersey a state of 9 million residents and a federally recognized, coronaviral, “hotspot”. It’s suffered tragically,

44,416 cases and at least 1,232 deaths, more than any state but New York and more than all but, eight countries.

The whole world is in a bad state. As far as the future goes, nobody has much confidence. Nobody but me — I am confident.

l’m the cheerleader-in-chief for my country. So don’t expect the truth from me. I’ll protect ye from the truth. I am, the president.

Change. It seems constant. There may be stillness somewhere. Motionlessness. I don’t know. That’s beyond my pay-grade. But change

in the human experience is constant. In the future, if we don’t shake hands that’ll be a relatively, insignificant, change.

Giving up on shaking hands in greeting, pales, next to other changes, awaiting us, far more, significant. Like — climate change.

There may be changelessness somewhere. I don’t know. Spock’s gesture tho, makes shaking hands, but microbial carrier, change.

Giving up on shaking hands in greeting pales next to other changes awaiting us, far more, significant. Changes like — climate change.

Changelessness — nonsense. Spock’s gesture tho, makes sense. Shaking hands: A microbe’s way, to it’s carrier … change.

It’s a small world down there in the microbial world of my hands. And so when one microbe meets another down there they

often greet one another with a hearty, ‘live long and prosper!’ The Vulcan greeting would suit man well, perhaps, maybe, one fine day.

The Vulcan greeting would suit man well even as soon as today. It’s a tiny world down there in the microbial world, of my hands.

And so when one microbe meets another there they often greet one another with … ‘live long and prosper, shaking not, hands.

How did the tiger contract the disease that has infected around 1.4 million humans? It’s too — weird-science-like — science fiction

like weird to me. That the virus spilled from an animal to a human and back somehow to an animal. That’s, science fiction.

It’s too weird. Weird science like, science fiction, to me. That the virus spilled from an animal to a human and back somehow to an

animal. That, my fellow Americans, only seemingly seems, like science fiction. I am afraid, however, it is … nonfiction.

The coronavirus pandemic has crystallized several long-standing undercurrents of the president’s governing — ethos: His refusal

— to accept criticism, a seemingly insatiable need for praise and an abiding mistrust of independent entities and individuals.

I want to impose my version of events and discredit and disable any arbiters of fact who may disrupt a self-aggrandizing, story

line. That has been my instinct in business and in politics and ye can see it on full display, in this … coronaviral … story.

My instinct in business and in politics is to keep my intentions close to the vest; stick to my version of events — and questions parry

— regarding my plans and proposals if my plans and proposals I regard top-secretly as controversial, constitutionally.

It’s my way or the highway. I’m a dictator, see? Leaders like me see any questioning as a challenge; as a real threat to … my power.

It’s a crude mentality; either ye are with me or ye are against me. My advice: Don’t tread on me. Cede to me all power.

There are rumors of discontent in the GOP; it’s not discontent with me. It’s discontent with what some say is a hidden agenda,

friendly to foreigners. Too, egalitarian. Think, man! We’re all foreigners to most! Call on my cult of personality, on Urantia.

It’s my fault. Not the virus; the unpreparedness. In a plot twist for the ages, I’ll make it up to ye. For I am an egalitarian,

self-closeted. Now, hear this! I’m, coming out. To be, to everybody, fair. For I am a Urantian … self-closeted, egalitarian.

Indeed I am Urantian. And a proud American. And in a plot twist for the ages, the president of America. And I’m

proclaiming: Now, hear this! I’m, coming out! To rule by a Golden Rule, to run the planet. To be to all renters fair, on this planet, of mine.

Imagine a Golden-ruled planet. A planet where programs of artificial intelligence administer the planet. Leaving to its citizens

pursuits, spiritual and recreational. Sudoku-like pursuits, like epigramming. Epigramming; all the rage, for future citizens.

The howling; a primal affirmation, nightly: a momentary reprieve, each evening; a collective declaration that indeed, we

— shall prevail. A way to take back some of the control that a pandemic-forced social isolation has forced all to give up … wanly.

Not that we ever had any control anyway, in a world where all’s already, predetermined. If ye didn’t know ye had no control,

control ye’d swear, ye had. And even if like me, ye know it, still, it seems that making decisions shows, that one is in control.

It’s in the judiciousness of one’s decisions wherein one may evidence whether one’s decisions were, in retrospect — judicious.

Not that we were ever in control enough to be judicious, in a world where everything’s already predetermined, to be, judicious.

Expect alarming numbers of coronavirus deaths this week. Expect them, even as the number of new infections is flattening, in

New York state, epicenter, of our American outbreak. If we keep our deaths to less than 60,000, we‘l’ll have, this virus, beaten.

My first lady urges us to protect ourselves from the virus by wearing face coverings in public, a striking image, all the more striking,

because it contrasts with my messaging, tepid. But … my vanity gland, makes, wearing a mask, for me — embarrassing.

My fellow Americans: We shall not gather as usual to celebrate the holiday amid this local, and only temporarily — threatening,

outbreak. An outbreak that may indeed spike again if we too soon stop — being socially, distant. A good time, for epigramming.

We’re near a peak thanks to the social distancing star of my virus, response. My haphazard strategy, is working But dying’s

gonna spike again if we too soon stop, being socially distant and leaving, our homes. All in all … a good time, for epigramming.

It’s been heartwarming, Art says, to hear Barack opining on something — anything — at last. He’s been biting at the bit, ye know

To speak to us about empathy as the part of my governmental response that’s been, missing in action, in wartime … ye know.

It’s been heartwarming, Art says, to hear Barack opining on something, anything, at last. And if he speaks about my empathy

as a part of my governmental response that’s been missing in action I shall have to, most disagreeably, disrespectfully, disagree.

I’ve got problems with Obama. A ton of them, It’s not just his youth or the airs he puts on; the prize he won his first term really

sticks me in my craw. So if he speaks of a lack of empathy in my coronaviral response, a virtual, nobody, shall Barack be.

Usurping the plan of governors, former government officials, disease specialists and nonprofits pursuing a strategy that relies on

the three pillars of disease control; that’s my plan today. But by tomorrow I may unwisely supersede, that plan, of action.

I’m no prophet. I’m an astute businessman; a betting man. I’m nobody’s fool, no way. But Art Everman’s epigramming has me

convinced that his is an ideal way to build rapport and solidarity between parts of — or all of — the community. Networking, poetry.

Indeed, I’m no prophet. But Art’s epigramming has convinced me that his is an ideal way to build up solidarity within our communities.

To change the paradigm, poetry. Wisdom, in verse. To return to Earth, peace and prosperity. And to reprise, our poetry.

My anti-heroic mission: To pen the wisdom-infused verses that inspires man to change … by his attitude … his paradigm.

Wisdom, in verse. For peace prosperity and poetry. Art’s epigramming; an ideal way, to build up solidarity, within communities, over time.

MAYDAYS is a poetic love letter to every citizen of Earth, telling cosmic, geological and socio-anthropological history (politics)

with socio-political current events (politics) to save us from ourselves at least temporarily … by yet even more … politics.

To save us from us, a love letter I have written to every citizen of Earth (Urantia). In Emily’s honor for her … once upon a time,

writing one, also. Her letter to the world’s invisibly connected to my heart and everything along circuits in space and time.

Like Popeye, who I watched on TV as a boy, I ams what I ams. And as — it is what it is, too — it’s time to pray. Time to pray in time’s

space. There has come an answer. Let it be. To save us. A love letter to ye come from her letters, in space, and time.

Last night l as I laid my woman down, multi-tasking, I wondered whether switching from a success story pitch to a comeback pitch,

pitched to voters in November, might be better for me, given, the changed, circumstances. I’ll do it again, making US, rich.

I’m multi-tasking; juggling, issues of policy. It’s not easy being me. Especially, when one’s a genius. Worse when one’s a genius

germaphobic; with a microbial problem, complicating, everything. But If I reopen the economy too early I won’t be no genius.

The upshot of all the fallout from my near four year presidency predictably, depends, depending as it oft does, on swirling colors.

But this microbe’s colored everything. Stay closed? Or, reopen? But Vladimir and I have been blinded … to blinding … colors.

I have been blinded by blind fate to blinding, colors. But this microbe has colored everything. Reopen — the economy

or stay closed. Either way is a loser, with one likely, a bigger loser, than the other. I‘ll seek not for the GOP, the presidency, maybe.

Reopen a weakened economy or stay closed? Either way’s a loser. Either way, an economic disaster, in tandem, with death,

against me. I was warned, my wished-for Easter reopening of the country, wasn’t happening, and that I’ll be blamed, for every death.

I have learned a lot about autism from Arthur. Indeed, It seems I’m in the spectrum. And the spectrum is wide. Some tend to be

laconic — like Greta; some histrionic, like Art; some spasmodic, like me. But I ams what I ams, say Popeye, the comic … and me!

Verily I ams what I ams, I say. I have learned a lot about autism from Art. I’m in the spectrum. In the spectrum, some tend to be

laconic, like Greta; some dramatic, like Art; some clinically spasmodic, trash talkers, like me. But this ends badly for me.

Nothing less than Red Dawn on steroids; that’s what this is; with the Chinese beyond the Russians with designs on US. A virus

novel, invisibly lurks on the hands of who, knows who. I’m thinking this may end badly for US; worse, for me, this, coronavirus.

Indeed this looks to be ending badly, for US; worse, ending badly for me. This microbe lurks on US, invisibly. On the hands

of who, knows who. On whose hands, who knows? The novel coronavirus … spreads like wildfire … in the air … and on the hands.

The death toll has doubled from 10,000 to more than 20,000 in five days. Worldwide, confirmed cases, surpass — 1.75 million.

More than 150,000 people have died. Social distancing measures are working. My brave leadership is saving countless … millions.

There are a lot of things that go into a decision like that. And it’s going to be based on a lot of facts and instincts. Whether you

like it or not, there is a certain instinct to it. I hope I’m making the right decision, and no one — up and dies, on you.

I tell ye secrets: Normally humble, I put on airs sometimes: especially if I think I’ve got insight into what’s really happening. Animal instinct

arisen within, a wartime president, defies good reason. Unwisely, to my war-ravaged citizens, I sell, my animal, instincts.

It’s time, we ally. So o/b/o Vlad and his guys, I proclaim the UN to be our one nation and egalitarianism’s Golden Rule, rule,

and law. Plots thicken, even as they twist; twisting too, those trapped in my MAYDAYS story, of lies — and allies — that rule.

On Passover this Easter during the month of Ramadan and thereafter, all who would be like me, heroic, now hear this: An epigram

per day keeps the doctor away, they say. I appeal to religious leaders to join forces. And say so, too. Why not — daily, epigrams?

We’re all in shock. Still in denial of what has happened and what may be happening next act. My Mayday, May 1, target date is in fact,

unrealistic. But that I act like I’ve no clue is in itself a fact and a clue to what’s happening — as a matter, of fact.

Tough crowd; the Earthlings, I’m told. We’re all in shock. Still in denial of what has happened and what’s happening next act.

But that I act like I’ve no clue is in itself a fact and a clue to what’s happening … as a stone cold, hard, matter, of fact.

Why not, daily epigrams? On Passover and Easter and during the month of Ramadan and thereafter, all who would be, in time,

heroic, now hear this and do as I say and not as I do. See in my hypocrisies and a super flu virus, your mistake, once upon a time.

See, my fellow Urantians, in this super flu virus not just the grave mistake ye made with me once upon, a really, surreal time.

Why not, daily epigrams? On Passover and Easter and during the month of Ramadan, o/b/o children; that they, may love, in time.

See, my fellow Urantians, in this super flu virus not just the grave mistake ye made with me once upon, a really, surreal time.

See, in the virus, opportunity. On Passover and Easter and during Ramadan, o/b/o the children, that they may love … in time.

What the right hand giveth, the left hand taketh. I really surreally can’t help but say the self-defeating things I do, do, opine.

Too little comic relief, to offset the tragic events, ongoing. But an about face timely, may give the children, their time.

But an about face timely, may get back, for some of the children, some lost time. Often, what the right hand giveth a left hand, slyly,

taketh. The self-defeating things I say and do are too little tragi-comic, relief. And too late, maybe. We’ll … see.

We’ll see. Fates, alternative, are many. Imagine wildly, I feel so provoked by a reporter’s question, I throw my loafer at her

— or him. Who says I’m thin-skinned? As your anti-hero I’ll sinisterly cut, WHO’s money. And brag on it, in bad form, atwitter.

Herd mentalities whip us to and fro. It’s up to individuals not government to decide whether to exercise our right to work, to

worship and play; or even just staying socially distant, at home. These are our inalienable, rights. I’ve got it on paper, too.

No one knows what l’ll do with my power. Oft, not even me. But it’s hard to run a country run by deep state herd mentalities.

Avoiding taxes shall ever be hard, skirting and evading legal technicalities. But I am all … about me. I’m not … no groupie.

I’m no groupie. I’m a gadfly; a, social butterfly, venomous, flitting table to table, at fundraisers, unable later, to arise. A Plan B

contingency plan is become necessary because, as everyone knows, no Plan A survives, first contact … with the enemy.

To whom much is given, much will be required. Luke’s wisdom at 12:48 means we are held responsible for what we have. If we

have been blessed with talents, wealth, knowledge, time, and the like, it is expected that we in turn, benefit others, accordingly.

I’ve been given lots. I’ve taken lots, also. And so I know that a lot, indeed, is expected of me. To whom much is given, much will be

required. Luke 12:48 means we are held responsible for what we have. I’ve been blessed. I’ll reopen our economy, slowly.

I’ll reopen our economy against my wishes, slowly. And, perhaps, it’s all for the best for sometimes, I want to move — too quickly.

— Now, tho, I’ve no choice. The virus, unlike me; smallish, unintelligent, and extremely rude has worn out, my hospitality.

The contagion’s spread has made physical protests nearly impossible. Impossibilities and physical limitations, to The Watcher,

present obstructions but temporal. Poetry was, from Penemue, in days of yore, a gift to man, from the Watcher.

I’m special; irresistible; untouchable; irreplaceable. Still, a virus has put me in my place. Things are bad … and getting worse.

I’m not good, at death. It’s beyond me. Still, I’m getting blamed for death. Things are bad … and they’re getting worse.”

Things are bad and getting worse. I’m not good at death. It’s beyond me. It makes me sad. I’m getting blamed for all these deaths.

Things are bad and getting worse. Add to the rising rolls of the unemployed daily death tolls. Like clockwork, tolls death.

Don’t be alarmed. Just a trial balloon; a sure sign tho of my desperation; that I’m considering ordering the end of lockdowns

by May 1. And I have total authority to do so. It’s in the Constitution, somewhere; my total authority over national, lockdowns.

Republicans are joining Democrats in a growing backlash against comments from President Me Monday, asserting “total”

authority, over deciding when to lift stay-at-home orders. It’s my call all the way. It’s my authority. It’s mine. And so, it is total.

The emerging consensus: Had I embraced the multiple early warnings I received about a potential, coronavirus pandemic,

I probably would have saved lives, and won my election. As it is, I sing a song with an oh so sad refrain, lamenting, what a dope am I.

Had I embraced the multiple early warnings I received about a potential coronavirus pandemic, I likely would have saved lives,

and won my election. As it is I sing a song lamenting what a dope I am. Overseeing, and getting blamed for, this loss of lives.

A genius I once was and I am, still. But my genius, the news purveyors, use against me. Updating the state on its status, coronaviral,

mounting deaths makes me look, to blame for this tragic loss of life. Sheer genius; updates transformed into, rallies, political.

I want a detailed plan to reopen the country ready within days so I can issue suggestions for some states to reopen beginning on May

1. On Mayday of all days, fittingly, I, MAYDAYS’ author shall suggest to the states a best way forward to avoid, MAYDAYS.

Regardless of what I opt to announce, it will fall to governors and mayors to decide whether to reopen businesses and begin

returning to normal in their own jurisdictions. But many governors are treading more cautiously than me. And with … good reason.

Threatened is the reopening of my economy. I know reopening without an expanded testing capability is sheer lunacy.

Still, my monied reputation, I’ll bet on US. I’m a businessman. I’ve got a lot, at stake. Still, I’m betting on business, with your money.

Threatened is the reopening of my economy. I know reopening without an expanded testing capability is lunacy. Still,

I’ll bet on US my monied reputation. I’m a businessman. I’ve got a lot at stake. Still, I’m betting on business against the virus, still.

People live and lie a while and then they die. I’m a businessman. I’ve got a whole lot of skin at stake here. But I’m betting on time.

Threatened is my economy. I know it’s loco to reopen. But I’m on a mission to recast, in my image … a stately … paradigm.

“But viruses, like me — too; we act and react. We don’t reason. I’ve got animal instinct in common with it. So I’m betting on time. Time, shortened. I’m

counting on it’s shortness to force the cooperation needed to confront a common enemy. Genius uncommon, this common sense — mine.

The plot thickens. The Chinese reaction, I imagine shall be swift — and furious. Evidence that the so-called novel, coronavirus,

originated at a Chinese research facility in Wuhan is inconclusive, leaves the Chinese something less … than inscrutable … to US.

The military is bracing for an indefinitely long struggle against the coronavirus. Looking for novel ways to maintain an edge,

tactically. Looking too, to sustain troops’ health without breaking their morale while all the while, sustaining the advantage.

And so it has come to pass in the Chinese year of the rat that a virus ‘born’ there, and borne thereafter, near everywhere, naturally,

or artificially, came to be. And if it came to be artificially, there’s gonna be, President Xi, hell to pay, naturally.

If a virus in China is ‘born’ and borne thereafter, near everywhere, there’s gonna be, Xi, naturally, investigations; legal

matters. It remains to be seen as a matter of law whether the wet markets of Wuhan or the research laboratory at Wuhan, is causal.

It remains to be seen as a matter of law whether the wet markets of Wuhan or the research lab at Wuhan is or are, causal.

Whether a virus born in China and borne thereafter near everywhere on the surface of the Earth, carries with it, connections, legal.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad. Xi’s irate. But damn the torpedoes — full speed — ahead. From this coronaviral microbe,

distracting, I’ll be, from here on in. We’ll just work out later, WHO never gets the blame for this alien, coronaviral … microbe.

It’s the blame game. I blame ye and ye blame me, et cetera. I excel at the blame game. I want us, Xi, to move past that. Noble

Nobels await the men who may make us — once again — noble. And if we bring peace to man then … by definition, we’ll be noble.

Let’s speak Xi, as one. Ye and me and Kim and Mo, also. And Vlad, of course. Let’s speak as one. Accordingly, I hereby proclaim in our names

a United Nation, staking a claim to Nobels we’ll earn if we can end, these endless, horror stories, in our names.

MAYDAYS: O/b/o Art, my 1st foray, into ghostwriting. To Art’s dismay he’s found he’s no platform like a bully pulpit, for nonfiction,

posing, as fiction; a magnum opus, allegory. A story about a man; me, and a virus, implausibly, uniting, in nonfiction.

Folks are dying at home. These deaths are currently, oft unaccounted for because of a lack of testing — then — before they died.

Still lagging in our testing, this is chaos and this is karma. It’s on me — my everlasting legacy — those, who have so, died.

A thought experiment being in order, I ordered a rally, political, tweeting a tweet to accompany it. Demonstrations endanger

people’s lives; because this is precisely how Covid-19, spreads. Thanks Albert Einstein for the experiment, I tweeted on Twitter.

I’m on your side, I say, laughing out loud. I’m on my side, really. But in a twist of fate — smacking of predetermination how many die

is in the hands of a virus that has stymied man. But it hasn’t, stymied me. Why, I’ll survive, no matter how many, die.

I’ll survive no matter how many die. Why’s another matter; a matter for my Maker or His designated, celestial, authorities.

Heed me. We live and we die; the why beyond the cause of death is none of our business. Get back to work. Leave the economy to me.

Mind your business. Leave the security of the nation and its economy to me. I shall survive no matter how many die. Why’s

another matter that happens to be none of your business. Get back to work. Get back to work ere ye start coughing and die.

My fellow Americans: It’s a brave new world. But the new normal’s not normal no ‘mo. Although we be free and we be brave,


still, we’ve got fear, to fear. Get back to work ere ye start coughing and die. Mind your business. Be a man. Buck up. And be brave.

Futures surged after a report said a Gilead Sciences drug showed some promise in treating the coronaviral microbe, giving hope

to investors, there could be a treatment solution at the end of the money tunnel. And a pot of gold buys, a whole lot of hope.

Online conspiracy theories are describing the COVID-19 pandemic as a government-perpetrated hoax. Blame for the pandemic

lies, they say, not with the Americans but with the Jews or the Chinese, raising the risk of violence against them, for the pandemic.

Thousands of Americans are dying needlessly because of my dithering. How many more around the world, shall have to die due to my scapegoating of the WHO

over my very own failures? But WHO knows along with China that I dropped the ball so I’m blaming WHO.

I’m blaming everyone. And WHO too. And why not. That’s always worked for me. If my followers know not civil disobedience from

armed insurrection then some continuing education is in order. Thousands, are dying here. Millions, globally. Come, the pogroms.


Come the pogroms. And God forbid they be like what happened to the Armenians in Turkey and the Syrian Yazidis. Insurrection

often begins with civil disobedience. I’m blaming everyone. WHO too. And why not. What’s always worked for me … is intimidation.

There’s enough coronavirus testing capacity to put in place my great plan to allow for a phased reopening of my economy

albeit officials and business leaders are raising alarms about shortages. I’m not, delusional. Lying are those who, disagree, with me.

Unwise it is to publicly, disagree, with me. Unwise, it is, indeed. And
I’ll call ye out on it, rest assured.  I’ll call ye out on it, for sure.

Authoring MAYDAYS gives me some say over characterizing who’s who what’s what and what’s happening, for sure.

Authoring MAYDAYS gives me some say over characterizing who’s who — what’s what and what’s happening — for sure.

Unwise it is to publicly, disagree, with me. Unwise it is, indeed. I’ll call ye out on it — rest, assured. I’ll call ye out on it — for sure.

Who’s who, what’s what and what’s happening. I’ve been asked by Art to lend my bully pulpit to serve as platform for him.

I’ve agreed to ghost-write MAYDAYS, my Nobel winning verse — to be — publicly, disagreeing with me and publicly, agreeing, with Him.

Future Nobel winning verse publicly disagreeing with me and publicly agreeing with Him Who’s The Creator — these days.

He Who knows what’s what and what’s happening. I’ve agreed to lend Art my bully pulpit, to serve as his platform for my great, MAYDAYS.

This thread of mine, eventually, may go viral. Because everything we say and everything we do, predetermined — is, was — and will be.

My verse publicly disagreeing with me and publicly agreeing with Him Who’s The Creator these days is a Godsend, naturally.

Once the immediate crush of COVID-19 cases subsides, epidemiologists say a “post-peak” purgatory lies ahead, until a vaccine

is discovered and disseminated. One, allowing a return to some semblance of normalcy; once we’ve achieved herd immunity — or have, a vaccine.


It’s one thing to be harmlessly delusional. As one In a daydream is. As we all at times do. But when one such as I — to such death,

am causal, then my confabulated reality shall collide with the American real — surreality of — my responsibility, for these deaths.

I’ll own these deaths. I don’t mind lying. But lying’s a problem if no one believes ye. The bare cupboard Obama alibi — was a lie

— from the outset. My responsibility for these deaths happened — and happening, even into the future — is no lie.

No end run is necessary. President Putin, my mentor, has taught me about governance and stood by me throughout my

impeachment. In my businesses, there’s two sets of books. One secret one hides criminal truths. The other, for public consumption, is a lie.

Tony: Help me help Art help us. He’s in a safe place; in a safe house, at the moment. But not from Vladimir’s assassins.

And he’s in a viral hotspot, right now. Arthur as ye know is old and slow, and medically, compromised. Have ye a safe place in Europe, for him?

Have ye a safe place Tony, for Art?
Safe from Vlad’s assassins. And this new assassin, novel, they say. But Art says he has a novel, novel — also.

As ye know he’s old, slow and medically compromised. But we’ve got to keep him alive somehow. We’ve got to live, too. Just to keep him alive — also.

Women. Amazons when they so need be. But nurturers, mainly. And I suspect that if polled they would elect egalitarianism over

nationalism’s rule. Men as well see we need one nation and one Rule Golden and having run out of time we’ll need to start over.

Switching paradigms; and starting over; given a governmental infrastructure already in place, we can do this — in short order.

Starting over; it’ll be faster — and cheaper than ye could possibly imagine. We’ll finally not worry and just be happy just as I’ve ordered.


Gather. Reorganize from the sovereign paradigm to the Golden-ruled one. Bring our vast artificial intelligence capabilities online

for solutions administrative as we concentrate on edification and recreation in individual passages through space and time.

In our individual passages through space and time pause daily to meditate upon purpose; His and ours and pressing change,

insistent. In governance, climate and human migration, due to a lack of time, these remedial, meditations are vital, to real change.

I tell ye Art’s story, the Watcher’s poetry, really. A story of determination and predetermination. Arthur mirrors
The Creator,

The Author of Scriptures and the Director of this morality play. Meditation’s key to modification of behavior. So says Arthur.

Did I say Art said that? I meant to say I said that. Art merely agrees with me. As do Vlad and his guys, belatedly realizing, epiramming’s

our last opportunity to, in one fell swoop, use the virus to save our skins, become one as a planet and Nobels win.

How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it varies. In a battle between a microbe and a germaphobe, a profile in courage,

may emerge. And so take this tweet as a spoiler alert only if ye determine whom is — the already predetermined, profile — in courage.

In this battle between a microbe and a germaphobe, a profile in courage, predeterminedly, emerges. Predictably, he’s me.

They say that people get the governors they deserve. My fellow Americans deserve, in crisis, a profile, in courage. Someone, like me.

Others, on the other hand say the opposite, whatever that may be, on whatever, occasion. A microbe and a germaphobe,

waging wits, battles; and one, a profile in courage, predeterminedly, emerges. Predictably, he’ll be me — the germ-killing — germaphobe.


For the time beings, for Urantia — happy, bittersweet and, bitter endings — also. Ye have been from a homo sapiens sapiens,

saved. Arthur won his wings. With five planets saved, officially retired is he and off to to hook up with his beloved Emily, awaiting, in Heaven.

And his brothers got their souls back, from Lucifer’s Satan. Kim, Don and Art.  Three, too soon to be — long gone. But — they’ve left — answers.

Witness the wisdom in threes, twos, and ones. Trichotomies, dichotomies and unities. Witness numbers and letters and Aristotle’s, “Number

is everything.” And my Emily’s letter to worlds. Witness Another’s wisdom in Art’s verse.  Witness — in it — The Father.

Witness Arthur Everman’s commission; a universal, mission impossible. And witness the verse. Poetry channeled from elsewhere in the universes,

local or grand. Witness too, Art’s Saul-to-Paul-like transformation. By lightning stricken, an illumed Arthur,

with quill pen, analogs — penned an analog of his beloved Emily’s lovely letters.

To the nations, akin to Emily, Art has written as an algorithm, MAYDAYS. A lettered and numbered, how-to alchemical 

towards Golden Rule fueled, behavior mod fortuitously timed to mirror public health fueled, behavior, modification. It’s not magic — but a miracle.

Remember: Everything that happens is part of His plan. Remember also Occam’s Razor. The simplest answer is most likely the right one.

Thus it bears repetition: Convene the UN in emergency session. Exchange the sovereign paradigm for a Golden Ruled one. Reconvene a new — UN.

One nation committed to multi-tasking the trichotomy of governance, climate and migration and the dichotomy of the haves and the have nots … finally.

True still, Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s, “True, This! Beneath the rule of men entirely great, the pen is mightier than the sword — and great — the state.

Cæsars: Strike the loud earth, breathless — Take away the sword — states can be saved without it! Love’s poetry may yet save the state.”

The stage of the most dramatic events in the history of all the universes; Nebadon’s Urantia has earned its place, high atop — the Nielsen ratings.

Photo-poetry, is fledgling.  Yet, it may be humanity’s most disarming weapon against the weapons of war. Far mightier than a sword, may be — ink and pen!

To the women and children of Urantia; to the men; not as much; but even men can be like me if they study poetry’s potential — to mine, energy — potential.



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