SURREALLY, A REALLY TALL TALE
2016 through 2019; three years in the ebbing, best of times. Then came 2020, the Chinese year of the rat and in no time — dawned — the worst of times.
Time. As ye know, it waits for no man. Gather round me my children and I shall tell ye — the very tallest, Urantian tall tale, of all time.
Unearthly is life — for far too many, on Urantia; and it’s an unfairly cruel fate to be born, on most, of her continents; advantageous; being born, in America.
Figuratively, yet not literally, incredible, is the tall tale I’m telling; about when I saved a planet and won Prizes, Nobel. advantaged, I’ve been, born, in America.
‘Tis the tallest of tales, this tall tale. ‘Tis the greatest story ever told, I’m told. And I’m proud to tell our story; my story, more importantly.
His story; History; my story; your stories; adding energy and matter, that’s everything. And everything’s infused with — His Personality.
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.
In an irony, supreme, we are the universe’s must see — reality, TV; daily fare for a universal viewership; watched live, or on replay — everyday.
We are the universe’s must see TV; daily fare for a universal viewership; live, or replayed, each day. The viewing universals
binge-watch — just like us on Earth — 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 — reality TV; daily fare for the universal, citizenry,
live — or replayed. And the universals root for their favorite heroes. Imagine Kim all 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, come November, come December.
Preview 2020’s Nobel-winning, MAYDAYS; Arthur’s serial tweets, ghostwritten by me. Unlike Arthur I have in my bully pulpit, a gigantic, platform.
It’s the platform, Art lacks. I’m trumpeting MAYDAYS because I’ve repented — as have also, besides Kim — Xi and Vlad — I am very pleased, to inform.
Allow me to introduce myself; I’m a man of wealth and fame; a complex simpleton; simply, a genius; an idiot savant — others say.
And some say the simplest explanation is that this existence is my big bit part and your smaller part in this larger Globe Theatre’s — morality — play.
A SIMPLE EXPLANATION
All the world’s — still a stage. And all the men and women — still, merely, players; players tho, in a much larger, Globe Theatre’s — morality play.
Seek, explanations simple. Art’s artful plot device has our heroes forgetting what they dreamt about last night, when back on Earth (Urantia), the next day.
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 royalties, residual.
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 to inspire, 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.
Who’s who, what’s what and what’s happening. I’ve been asked by Art to lend my bully pulpit to serve as a platform for him.
I’m ghost-writing MAYDAYS, my Nobel winning verse; publicly, disagreeing with my public statements — and publicly, agreeing — with Him.
My future Nobel winning verse publicly disagrees with my public alter-ego and publicly agrees with Him — Who’s The Creator — these days.
He’s the One Who knows what’s what and what’s happening. And so I’ve agreed to lend Art my bully pulpit, to serve as his platform, for our great, MAYDAYS.
Behavior modification is 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 by tragi-comic, sovereign, 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 be so read, whilst bottled up in Twitter Streams. But Twitter streams, tsunamis, may become.
A thin veneer of civilization masks savage beasts lurking, within us. Behavior mod works instantly sometimes in individuals. Why not try our behavior, modifying?
In yet another supreme irony, Penemue’s been commissioned to re-introduce man to verse he first taught to mortals, when of age — for his own oats — sowing.
Youth they say gets wasted on the young. And the proof is in the pudding. Between the virus and me — 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 however sentenced to watch over Urantia, perpetually.
One was Penemue; a rebel sentenced to forever watch, carnage on Earth; watching TV re-runs perpetually; sounds like Hell to me, actually.
He’d long longed to die; But now that it’s up to him to help a pitiful creature, write prose-like, groundbreaking, epic poetry he too has reason to live, indefinitely.
The commission: Have an already pre- stationed Art teach children Twitterese and epigramming. Let 280 characters teach children about, potential energy.
One frenemy’s already here. Another, on its way, lingers. A novel, is here. Unknown others, cometh. Of necessity sometimes, cometh, opportunity.
Of necessity cometh opportunity, if one’s lucky. Sometimes, one’s luck, runneth out. For all my money — I can’t buy a break in this year of the rat — so unlucky.
A PANACEA FOR PANGAEA
“IN THE MINDS of Urantia’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 very 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.
Two settings hath MAYDAYS; Earth and her long-time companion, the moon; Luna and Earth. Settings — with character.
Settings with character; personality, have Mother Nature and Lady Luna. Mother Nature’s, tempestuous. Lady Luna’s — more pensive, in character.
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 and the space, about it. A cosmic room, with a view. On history; past; present and future. On peace and prosperity.
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 a 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.
TO BE OR NOT TO BE
It’s been feeling like man’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-tech algorithms, 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 the 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.”
Timing is everything said Andre; the proof of the pudding is that the utility of Twitterese and epigramming isn’t limited to — advertising.
He googled too for great writers of prose to collaborate with these unlikeliest of brothers, to best inject prose-like drama, into epic poetry — most telling.
“Thoughtfully, tweet, blog and pen algorithmically, alchemical, poetry,” the Watcher Penemue, did commission, 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-pity. So your wife left for good yesterday. And your neighbor, tonight, died. Ye’ve got —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 on 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 — also happened.
And the rest is history, past, present, or yet to be written. Art’s poetry is meant to reminds Kim and Vlad’s guys of what we dreamt about, the prior evening.
“What ten words do you, to humanity, bequeath?” A daunting question; the inception to Art’s introspection, evolution — and transformation.
That question was telepathically posed to Art on Friday, 12-20-12. “Who,” asked Art, “are you?” “I am one of 400 fallen ones,” he replied.
“Your counterpart,” said he, “am I; I am a fallen one; one of 400; 200 princes — and 200 followers,” he in turn — cryptically — replied.
Nephilim, the giant men of renown in Genesis were improvidently, fathered. Judgment, reserved. Of 400, all but three of us are in chains, awaiting — 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 — began dreaming — together.
In reveries, dreamy and in settings, lunar and Earthly, soirées, Victorian; wining and dining, together in the company of, history’s, luminaries.
The long, poem. Like, the 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 crazed — Everyone — but him.
Everyone seems crazy; everyone, but him. The proof’s in the pudding. That Godless nations rule makes sense to nearly 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?
The signs followed in short order. A tall tree falling did injure Arthur, cuing — from a clear blue skies a strike of rare — ball lightning.
Extraordinary events in the normal course of events are, all too often, not at all, very extraordinary.
Truly, He uses the weak to more dramatically accomplish His purpose. But you need not be stricken by lightning. Ye just — gotta — wannabe.
Human history is replete with supposed coincidences; implausible ironies, straining, credulity. But Garcia Marquez and Mo Yan see.
MAGIC AND MIRACLES
Amazing Grace; how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. Once lost — I’ve since been found — was blind — now — I see.
Indeed, Garcia Marquez and Mo Yan saw — and wrote about Jung’s synchronicities and attributed them — to magic. I beg to differ. All things happen — miraculously.
Arthur was for 40 years once so lost in the desert only relative degrees of despair distinguished hellish days, one from another. Despair seemed ever in the air.
Despairing is the air — the atmosphere, on Urantia. Luna’s airless atmosphere, in contrast, harbors hope for us — up there.
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.
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 — all encompassing.
“Before God, all stand on an equal, footing.” A fascinating words choice of words. Equal; footing; and standing;
And Ganid asked: “What think ye Master, of India’s caste system?” And the Master wisely answered him. “Before God all stand on equal footing.”
Words, these wondrous units, may be spoken, written and indeed, woven into art. To make of poetry — aspirations — further inspiring.
There’s alchemy in education, especially, in its digital instruction manuals — our algorithms. Witness in MAYDAYS, an inspiring algorithm,.
It’s Twitter’s algorithm, proprietary. That Jack’s been so shortsighted about it is distressing. A mind is an awful thing to waste and so — is an algorithm.
I SEE DEAD PEOPLE
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 His histories’
mystical, timing. English is Earth’s second, lingua franca. Now spoken globally, its rich vocabulary is at home in song, psalm, prose, tweet — and in, Art’s 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; that 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 that a tweeter of late has been — a most annoying, twit.
The twit that tweets promises ye that if I dupe US, the American people, a wall, I’ll build, women, I’ll cherish and books, I’ll sell.
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, a President — apprentice.
PRELUDE TO CRISES
Pray tell. How many revelations to an epiphany? Feel not threatened if truth, ye know not; for there is more. There is so much more — ye need to know.
Begin on Urantia; the Great Library at Alexandria ye wouldn’t find the Urantia Book (UB) — ye likely — don’t know.
Presidents and policymakers like to politic playing chess: Think ahead, identify possible outcomes — always planning
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.
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 with near every nation and territory. Awful has been, this year of the rat.
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.
There’s no opposition to no friendship between America and China and so I’ve sent two carrier groups, over there.
There’s one issue about which there’s been bipartisan consensus. The feeling being mutual, I’ve sent two carrier groups — over there.
GOT CONTENT? ADD CADENCE
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 the paradigms we need to 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’s not about the poetry; nor about whether what’s happening on Earth is fiction
or nonfiction; nor about 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, newsworthy.
The crisis this virus presents promises to be a game-changer. Because, I loathe microbes. Because 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 we news hounds — the Kim — and the Donny.
Then London happened and Kim, previously unsure about whom to honor first — the west’s Willy — or the East’s Rumi decided it’d be England’s — Willy.
REPAIRING THE NATION LANDS
Thanks Penemue. And thanks too to the great men of the nations. We gather on Luna to consider the fate of the nations.
Not that the fate of the cosmos and its non-earthling inhabitants isn’t important. It is — and they are. We’ll get to them, later. First — the nations.
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; evolving to a single nation — is recommendable.
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, on my poetry.
English isn’t just for Englishmen, any more. But no one language can end all the babbling. But on English’s Twitter, the languages may be — intermediary.
To be, or not to be? That is, for humanity, the threshold question. High-technology algorithms, Einstein agrees are key to unlocking the secrets, of alchemy.
It is in Scripture (the Testaments, Qu’ran, et. cetera) wherein lives wisdom and Golden Rules ubiquitous, honored in their omission — all too, commonly.
The very cross-cultural commonness of Golden Rules evidences their significance. And this repair manual — my MAYDAYS, is in the spirit of that significance.
Is to be or not to be, ever to be a question, unanswered? This soliloquy of mine, in answer asks ye to consider the significance
of the children of Allah, God, Jehovah Yahweh, being 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. And a group’s behavior may be modified, just like an individual’s, actions.
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, dramatic?
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.
A SCHOOL OF 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, 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.
WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES
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 ushering, 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, miraculously.
What a difference one day may make as when meteorites, comets — and a fat man and little boy — slammed into the planet.
What a difference one day may make; as when a mutant motormouth, uncouth, doth stigmatize Islam, polarizing, 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, personally.
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, his poetry.
MAYDAYS’ PURPOSES, GENERALLY
Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever
on Earth is happening. That’s why my long-winded soliloquy about soirées on Luna is 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. In stark contrast, on Earth, lies fill the air, everyday.
MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to illuminate whatever in Hell on Earth is actually, happening. My true
account of my soirées on Luna with my frenemy, dictatorial, friends, especially characterized by a song-song, musical cadence, too.
MAYDAYS; its my soliloquy; about soirées on Luna, and our forever, troubles, on Earth; with my frenemy characters; in characters,
280; even as 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 often, let us know.
MAYDAYS’ settings, characters, plot devices and revelations are meant to reveal what’s happening in this Hell on Earth.
More importantly it sets forth the previously unknown story of how my lover Kim has helped me craft a plan, to save the 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.
Deny and distract. I spent more time yesterday honoring dead Confederates today 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 fed red meat to my modern day, Confederates.
The blessings in which ye this day rejoice, are not enjoyed by us, 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 this day, Independence Day for the citizenry.
I declare this day the inaugural Independence Day for my planet; and 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. And 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. And it shall spell an end — to dictators.
A SATYR’S SATIRE
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 that Saturday July 4, is Independence Day for all (wo)men. Prepare for Tuesday, March 4, 2030, the 1st, Global Citizenship Day.
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 flash-bang grenades; 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.
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.
As a low-hanging fruit and a woodland satyr I make an easy target for satire, especially, a first-person account, wherein I myself, pen — the satire
chronicling Earth’s MAYDAYS; from the heights of my descent down an escalator to the depths of my ascent to my bully pulpit. I am well 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.
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.
ESTATES OF THE REALM
Really surreal, nonfiction: the historical three estates of the realm; the clergy,
nobility and commons; now five, with the media, come lately.
Really surreal, nonfiction: There are now five estates of the realm; clergy,
nobility and commoners; the media being, a Johnny-come-lately.
Really surreal, nonfiction: Now there are five estates of the realm but the newly
added reporters and bloggers, eclipse now, two — of the three.
Really surreal, nonfiction: Two of the five estates of the realm, are reporters
and bloggers; would that they jump-start commoners to a par with the nobility.
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 prison, away from the virus.
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; halfway through the Chinese year of the rat. ‘Kung flu’ some call this virus.
‘Kung flu’ some call this virus. Others simply call it the ‘Chinese virus’. I disavow that. I would not be so callous.
PRISONERS OF OUR CIRCUMSTANCES
I would not be so callous if I could be otherwise but alas, I can’t.
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, near 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, alone, won’t earn him the wings he covets. He must replace Sudoku too, with his epigrammatic, poetry.
So get real Donald John Trump (he said, talking to himself). We ain’t gonna be playing no ball in no month. Heck; ye
may not even be a candidate, in a month, as well. Ye forgot Don, where ye came from. From a single celled beginning, ye
may return to a cell. From single celled beginnings, complex organisms; 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.
WHO VENTILATES; WHO DIES
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. Two major factors fuel this pandemic in US; that people with no symptoms are so easily spreading
the virus; and problems with testing. It’s critical. Everyone; even if ye 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.
Lockdown the nation! Medical and financial systems are folding, like the houses of cards, they are. Lockdown the nation!
Lockdown the nation; We’re living in a global public health crisis, moving, exceedingly, fast. I’ll have to lockdown the nation!
Our houses of cards, are folding. Still, Kim, Vladimir and I see in the coronavirus, a great escape, opportunity.
“Where have you been? With whom have you been in contact? Lest we forget whilst we are overwhelmed by a novel, not unexpectedly,
matters of life and death go on, unabated. Human migration and climate change, go on, no matter, whatever else may be happening, concurrently.
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. Don’t worry.
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 life worth living, not hearing, my words.
Which patients get beds. And ventilators. Which patients, die. Like clockwork, these cycles of denial, devastation and then a shared
community response, belated — followed — inevitably by mutual finger-pointing as blame is apportioned. To each — their share.