MAYDAY 1751: TUESDAY, AUGUST 4, 2020

An Earth-shaking event has shaken Beirut today, MAYDAY 1751. It’s ironic. Viewing the blast’s effect on the filmmaker recording it; it’s

scary. Atomic-bomb-like was the force of the blast, even on one as far away from it as the filmmaker was, when he recorded it.

Photo-poetry, is yet fledgling. Yet it may well be humanity’s disarming weapon against the weapons of war. Far more mighty

than a sword may be — ink and pen! Citizens of Earth: Study Arthur’s poetry’s potential — to mine potential energy — algorithmically.

Photo-poetry is yet fledgling, presently — but in the future that Art hails from it is has evolved. Many years removed from that

year in 2020 when in the face of events, confluent, I first wrote poetry, disarming. It all began in that eventful 2020 — year of the rat.

Republicans: Don’t look now but this confluence of events ends up destroying the Grand Old Party. It may eventually amend

itself into constituting an austere conservative wing of the Democratic Party. Alas, I didn’t have time enough … to everything, end.


ALCHEMICAL — IS POETRY

Poetry’s power; it’s transcendental, potentially. Witness my call to all: Opportunity, unrecognizably disguised as a virus, calls

upon the citizens to tweet directly to your leaders — in lieu of marching on our palaces — and tearing down, our walls.

In lieu of revolution, violent — velvety, better be, our revolution. Akin to the Czech one, in 1989. Kim and I propose, our Kim-Don Plan.

Our plan we’ve named, the Kim-Don Plan. In honor of flawed men everywhere, a plan modeled on Madiba’s, Truth and Reconciliation — plan.

Nelson’s Truth and Reconciliation; at the heart of Kim and Don’s plan, its call for revolution akin to the Czechoslovakian one

in 1989, is overdue. And the timing of everything flowing away from my clash of civilizations may reprise — a velvet, revolution.

The timing of everything hints to us — to clue us to what’s likely, really happening. In chat rooms, near everywhere, miraculously,

the plots are thickening even as whistles atop pressure cookers, begin to whistle; even as the sheep-men graze, obliviously.

As the sheep-men graze the sheep herders worry. What may become of them when the sheep men discover they soon may

perish from a virus and are impoverished because of the herders’ greed? In lieu of hanging from trees, let’s make a deal, real soon — someday.

A deal apologizing half-heartedly for our crimes over time; admissions in exchange for leaving us in power for a long time

would be ideal. Alternatively, a deal more justiciable may lie in banning us from all levels of governance — retiring us, for all time.

Retiring, to pasture; for all time; and it’s surreally, about time. Time. It waits for no man; not even me. Let’s make a deal in time

for its announcement in September. So that even if we lose an election in November, Nobels we may win, come Christmastime.

A SURREALLY 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 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; it’s 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.

Hosea; the prophet of doom; but underpinning Hosea’s gloom and doom is a promise of restoration. The Talmud says Hosea’s gloom and doom

message was greatest, his generation. One of Twelve Prophets of the Hebrew Bible; viewed by Christians as a Prophet, Minor. Like him, I see — gloom — and doom.

Unlike Hosea, I’m no prophet. But I’ve seen the videos of our alternative destinies for thousands of nights. I’ve seen our

alternative fates play out before me. And the fates are two — gloom and doom and peace and prosperity. And I’m the man of the hour.

I’m a man for the ages; for Urantia, the man, of the hour. I’m no prophet. But I’ve seen the videos of our alternative fates — and the fates are but two.

I’m a man for the ages; Earth’s man of the hour. I’m no prophet. But I’ve seen the videos of our alternative fates, not iconic

(because they haven’t happened yet) but supremely ironic. And it’s supremely ironic that it’s up to us, in fact whether we go bankrupt — or profit.

As a test of reality pinching oneself misleads; that it hurts and even bleeds is no proof of reality except circumstantially metaphysically.

TRUE TALL TALES

Pinching oneself as a test of reality misleads. Ye can feel the pinch; make it hurt; even bleed. Still, that’s no proof. In metaphysics

there are no proofs, not circumstantial.  This poem’s an algorithm; an Occam’s Razor; to help ye modify, your behaviors, barbaric.

An Occam’s Razor of an algorithm; a useful tool to help us duly modify our barbaric — behaviors. Karma works — mysteriously.

But it’s not, trust me, as mysterious as it seems. What’s happening isn’t magically, happening. It is nothing less than miraculous, actually.

What’s happening isn’t magical.  It’s magnificently, miraculous. And in more ways than ye imagine. Karma works —mysteriously.

But it’s not as mysterious, as it seems. Not if everything’s predetermined. Not if everything’s scripted and choreographed, tragi-comically.

Magnificently miraculous, not magical, is Karma. It’s less mysterious if everything’s scripted and choreographed. It’s less mysterious

that way — understanding how everything fits and how everything is connected in His universes — still, so awesomely, mysterious.

Everything fits; everything’s, connected. Surreptitiously, rule the dictators, whilst we Earthling sheep-men, graze, obliviously.

I know why I lie for my mentor, Vladimir; it is because he compromised me with sex, lies and a videotaped, Goddamned, orgy.

Sure, all lives matter. White privilege won’t die easy. That’s why the plan that follows is designed to unveil the plan that follows on March fourth, in 2030.

Surreptitiously rule selfless dictators, whilst the benevolently ruled sheep-men — graze, obliviously. Fat and happy

were the sheep men, until just recently. And humming, were the economies. We are sick now but by March 4, 2030, our nations, will be ready.

Or not. It all depends on the decisions we make, or alternatively the decisions that have been made for us, previously, already.

OCCAM’S RAZOR

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, 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.

PENEMUE’S COMMISSION 

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.

IMAGINE

“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.

ANCIENT EPICS

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.

INDEPENDENCE DAY 

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.

EUREKA!

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. Who knew — WHO too?

But that was then and this is now. Screw them. I would not be so callous if I could be otherwise but alas — I can’t, so I won’t, to myself — be true.

LOCKING DOWN

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.

REOPENING

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 that he’s learning even as I tweet, that he’s got billions of brothers who aren’t, even  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 may keep working, the pharmacies and the grocery store, 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 economy and an election, upcoming.

I’m battling the novel virus and COVID-19, the disease, by the virus, 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 a wartime president, now.

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

workers and people who are, hospitalized. They say the battle to contain the virus, is lost. And they say furthermore — 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, even Republicans balk at the cost heart of the package, whose price tag is swelling, beyond a trillion, lately.

I care. Although there was no reason to believe that the Pences have been exposed, given his 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.

PUTIN’S RUSSIA

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, from 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. And it’s a virus that seemingly  takes pains, not to unduly discriminate, between, its victims.

We of the Cabal: Vlad, Xi, Kim, Mo and me, note with alarm that the microbe — only seems — to take pains, not to discriminate

seemingly evidencing it’s not an intelligent, extraterrestrial invader, come to conquer but just an uncommon terrestrial, just trying to propagate.

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

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 clearly

uncertain mitigation issues he says may go a long way to prevent us from becoming, an Italy. Fuzzy — Fauci’s words — about Italy.

ITALY

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. The coronavirus, with a vengeance, comes.

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 where they are — to die.

Who gets treatment? Who’s just left to die? Rationing care; making heart wrenching decisions about who goes on 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, that I do.

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

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

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

MAYDAYS aims to infect everyone with a medicinal art, in the holistic, tradition. It’s poetry. Not medicine traditional but part, in the future — 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 myself, some 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 coronavirus — to a calypso beat — in time.

WOMEN IN ART

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

brother is a real mess. Arthur shan’t survive contact with it, if he contracts it. And it’ll be Rest In Peace then, dear brother, of Iris.

Rest in peace Arthur, ex-hubby of Mary. Mary’s misfit ex-husband’s — a mess — still. Art shan’t survive contracting the virus unless

some antibodies, he acquires or a miracle, otherwise, saves him. Rest in peace Arthur; Mary’s less than dear ex is the brother of his dear Iris, God-blessed.

The disease is spreading because many people, especially our young people, are not abiding by my 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; 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. Sounds exponential to me. The pandemic is indeed accelerating, just as, 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, too long, lasting. I’m also not looking at locking down for 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 the deaths from the virus. What pray tell do ye say?

Consider Joe Biden a platform made to order. Useful, generally but perhaps particularly useful, now. No pulpit bully, surely,

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

POLITICALLY CORRECT BULLYING

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, more or less, in about 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.

VOLATILITY

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

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

SUN-TSU AND HANNIBAL

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 Hannibal and Sun Tsu to help me. This is war. To win we’ll need war-like wartime plans.

To surround and defeat an enemy that’s already surrounding us, we’ll need to formulate an extraordinarily, deceptive, 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.

DISASTER MODE

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. 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 that will save anyone who needn’t so, die.

I lie easily. Not glibly; sloppily, actually. But there aren’t enough lies on the whole planet to lessen the grief

and the anger at losing, all at once, loved ones and jobs and a way of life in exchange 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 the law says.

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 surge into the lead among the infected nations. And I see handwriting on walls, between lines and even on Fox News.

DEAD SEE PEOPLE — II

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, clearly, unhappy.

So-called experts may 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 than the gowned ones 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. Still — my Scotus may protect me.

To offer hope to humanity, please do not as I do but do rather, as I say. Art fears he’s not long for the world.

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 — in general — 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

— 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.

IT’S A PANDEMIC; I KNEW THAT 

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.

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.

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.

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.

WISE GUY, HOMO SAPIENS

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.

TRUMPIAN RELIEF

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, swoon may too soon if it I, myself, belie. 200,000 are 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 shamelessly — lie.

EASTER

‘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 Earth this Easter, just happened?

WHAT TO SAY TO THE CHILDREN

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.

WHAT’S HAPPENING? 

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.

ZOOM

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.

JARED

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.

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.

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.”

A UNIFIED THEORY OF METAPHYSICS 

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, presciently. 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

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.

AMERICAN EXCEPTIONALISM

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.

UNFIT AT ALL TIMES

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’ve ignored, dismissed and otherwise downplayed the pandemic, even as it’s become 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 a 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.

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.

SCIENCE FICTION 

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.

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

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.

AUTISM

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.

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.

ALAS — ALAS

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 sad 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’VE GOT A PLAN — TO SUGGEST 

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.

THE BLAME GAME

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.

COME THE POGROMS

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.

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.

PANDEMIC DELUSION

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.

EPILOGUE IS PROLOGUE 

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.

EPILOG-2050

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 yet fledgling. Yet it may well be humanity’s disarming weapon against the weapons of war. Far more mighty

than a sword may be — ink and pen! Citizens of Earth: Study Arthur’s poetry’s potential — to mine potential energy — algorithmically.

Don’t be like Mike. Be like me. Study the Scriptures or their summaries, if in a hurry. And study with Arthur — his studied, poetry.

Art’s Chachomanopapa School of Poetry is Robert Frost, approved. And my Kim-Don Plan has been approved for publication by President Vladimir Vladimirovitch Putin.

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