It’s nothing less than miraculous; that all those who shake my hand, mysteriously accursed, become. But they say that all roads, eventually, lead to Rome. Ironically, my sure hands,

may yet the planet, save. Still, it’s the sovereign district of New York whose prosecutors want to slap handcuffs on my so apparently magical — and miracle-working, undersized — hands. 

DeJoy admits that he has no intention of replacing the sorting machines, blue mailboxes and other key postal mailing infrastructure that postal employees have been publicly removing

and that overtime payment plans so critical to the timely delivery of mail, is not in the offing. It’s highway robbery. We’ll see about mail sorters — decommissioned, recommissioning.

The North Korean government is reportedly ordering its more “decadent” citizens to hand over their pet dogs so that a hungry public can eat. Dangogi, a spicy soup made from dog

meat is a historically popular dish in both Koreas, A dog’s life; it doesn’t mean in the Koreas what it may mean, elsewhere. Americans, love their dogs. Koreans, like dog.

One of the richest ironies is the happenstance that, everything having been predetermined, everything‘s, rigged; indeed imagine everything that’s happening and moreover everything

that’s ever happened, to havebeen, predetermined. It’s shockingly practical to so imagine it. So let’s just imagine it. Look at it as — from Occam’s Razor, an invaluable, shaving.

If I lose the election millions of my voters will buy my claim that I was cheated. If I win, millions of Democrats will believe, in stark contrast, that I’m the one, who cheated.

Either way, our trust in elections, the bedrock principle of democracy, will be eroded by one who, with impunity hath always, just so, unabashedly — nay — proudly, cheated.


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

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

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

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

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

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

TV has had a dramatic effect on me. A chronic condition, not as threatening to me as it is, believe ye me — threatening — to the nation.

Too much TV-watching has had tragi-comic effects. Much taken was I, with my cartoon caricature childhood hero, the sailor, Popeye.

He’s why I like to say I ams what I ams; That’s the comic part. Then, there’s Iran. The made for TV, 444 days. TV left a mark, bye and bye.

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

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

That’s not to say that I’m not a genius. There’s no denying that. It’s just to say that for serving as president, I am unfit — uber — supremely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

George, having previously presented it, to him. Treasure it Joe. Refer to — and defer — to it. I wish, I had. But only my hindsight … is 20-20.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter the dragon. No; the dragon’s not the virus. The dragon is Art; and he entered as dragons are wont to do — spitting ash and fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TV has had a dramatic effect on me. A chronic condition, not as threatening to me as it is, believe ye me — threatening — to the nation.

Too much TV-watching has had tragi-comic effects. Much taken was I, with my cartoon caricature childhood hero, the sailor, Popeye.

He’s why I like to say I ams what I ams; That’s the comic part. Then, there’s Iran. The made for TV, 444 days. TV left a mark, bye and bye.

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

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

That’s not to say that I’m not a genius. There’s no denying that. It’s just to say that for serving as president, I am unfit — uber — supremely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

George, having previously presented it, to him. Treasure it Joe. Refer to — and defer — to it. I wish, I had. But only my hindsight … is 20-20.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter the dragon. No; the dragon’s not the virus. The dragon is Art; and he entered as dragons are wont to do — spitting ash and fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Only I, The Donald dareth say that I’m not dying but going alive to where my Creator resides. Only I dare say that, like Elijah, I’m going alive — and directly — at that.

In the wake of Beirut — Hiroshima and Nagasaki — this week, weigh heavily, upon me. But nobody really believes — that I really believe — that.

What makes it immoral if you lose and not immoral if you win? That’s not just a historical question. It’s as relevant today and in

today’s wars as it was about the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. History is no longer only written by, victors, who win.

History no longer is written exclusively by the winning victors. Progress; albeit too little, and perhaps, too late. What makes the victors’

criminal acts, not immoral? Imagine a planet utopian not like this Earth, dystopian. A pilgrim’s progress — to the reader — victor.

History no longer is written exclusively by the winning victors. Progress; albeit too little — too late. What makes the victors’

criminal acts, not immoral? Imagine a planet utopian not dystopian. It’s the 1st step in a pilgrim’s progress for — the reader.

What makes the victors’ criminal acts not immoral everywhere? Boldly planning on going boldly, to Heaven — to Heaven where

no man has ere so dreamt of going. That’s where I dare say I’m going, more or less like Elijah, directly. I’m already, halfway there.

Only I, Donald John Trump, dare say I’m going to Heaven where my Creator resides. Moreover, I dare say I’m going directly there,

more or less like Elijah. If that seems implausible, I’m halfway there. And if ye are reading my soliloquy — I’m almost, there.

The Lord and the Founding Fathers created executive orders because of partisan bickering and divided government. Orders,

executive; they’re just what the doctor ordered. I know that to be true because I too was there with the Lord and with —the Founding Fathers.


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.


Three clashes. Three problems. Three opportunities. And the fate of the Earth depends on me and my four, strange, estranged, brothers.

Predetermined is everything; everything, happened; everything, happening. And saving everything has fallen to me and my strangely, estranged, brothers.

What a long strange trip it’s been; this acid trip from Pangaea to Urantia (Earth); a trip unearthly to all too many still; the less than grateful, dead.

Less than grateful have been many of the denizens of Urantia (Earth, hereinafter interchangeably). Others — knowing why the caged bird sings — sing, instead.

My lover Kim can attest to the fact that for one so extraordinary, my singing voice sounds, uncharacteristically — for me, ordinary.

Personally, I know my singing, like everything about me, is great. God bless my roly-poly Kim; if he’s got a defect it’s that, like everyone, he — me — envies.

Everyone envies me; my life; my success; my personality. And it has come to pass that my not reading may be the proximate cause of an extinction.

Implausibly, near incredibly, it has come to pass, in an irony, supreme — my not reading might be causal to, a possible, extinction.

“Je pense, donc je suis,” wrote René in his native French, once upon a time. “Cogito, ergo sum, in Latin. “I think, therefore I am.” From one revelation, an epiphany.

Treason’s in season, at my White House. Russian agents, white supremacists and even a Neo-Nazi, for this post-American homeland, are driving, my policies.

September, 11, 2001. December 21, 2012. And an unknown date in 2060 prophesied by Isaac Newton. Time — is of the essence.

It’s always just minutes from midnight on the Doomsday Clock. Even the criminally disingenuous know, that time — is of the essence.

Twitter diplomacy, such as it is, may be my one and only, legacy. Particularly, if Vlad and his henchmen in the end, screw me, in their communist, camaraderie.

I think therefore I am. A vision, a revelation and an epiphany is what follows; reality TV, universal; the four horsemen of the Apocalypse — verily.


Two roads diverged. Taking one or the other oft makes all the difference. Of a momentous decision wrote Robert, the craftsman, Frost — way back when,

in letters, painstakingly, numbered. Woe may be, me; I once considered tweeting Kim; and following him. Perhaps, I ought have done so — way back, when.

Kim threatened US with annihilation, nuclear. I answered with sanctions. But I ne’er tweeted him anything, other than threats — and inanities.

Two roads diverged. One’s sign read: America First; the other’s, America Last. Sure that the signs had been switched to fool me, I took the latter — cheerfully.

And it’s made a big difference. The road not taken; the one to America First would have been a model for the the nations, not ISIS.

It is what it is. I went the wrong way and it has made all the difference in the world. But it’s like all these old folks dying. It is what it is. Witness, ISIS.

It is what it is. The legacies of Gandhi, King and Madiba are the ways of truth, of non-violence, justice and mercy.  It is, as well, the Jesus way.

My soliloquy is a cosmological and anthropological, history. A subplot, tiny; a sit-com, rom-com; reality TV; live, or replayed, by the viewer, each day.

Not science fiction. Nonfiction. But one, of His really, countless, stories. My soliloquy is an ontology and an algorithm;  it’s a yellow brick road to peace

and elusive, general, prosperity. An epic poem, to our legatee-children. On how to get from epigrammatic couplets, via alchemy, to peace.

Don’t misunderstand. There is a law on the books prohibitive of diplomacy, by citizens, private. Ne’er enforced, it is, nonetheless, there;

an abridgement of speech against citizen, activists; the citizen-activist-twitter-diplomats of the republics and the nations, everywhere.

Nonetheless, in order to correct my original error — my original sin, I may look askance, everywhere

as my estranged brother Arthur Everman calls upon the visionaries — the children, especially, to take the lead, tweeting epigrammatically, from everywhere.


Photo-poetry is yet fledgling, presently — but in the future that Art hails from it 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 most eventful 2020 — the year of the rat.

An Earth-shaking event shook Beirut yesterday and in its effect a supreme irony I found. Whilst viewing the explosion’s effect

consider the date. Atomic-bomb-like was the force of the blast yesterday in Beirut. One of … Jung’s synchronicities, in effect.

A ground-shaking event shook Beirut yesterday, MAYDAY 1751. And I found it supremely ironic viewing the blast’s effect on the filmmaker recording it,

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

One of Jung’s synchronicities, I surmise was — yesterday’s explosion A ground-shaking event shook Beirut just yesterday

and in its effect a supreme irony I’ve found. Consider, the date. Atomic-bomb-like, was the force of the blast, in Beirut, yesterday.

Consider the proximity of the dates of the two atomic bombs and the blast yesterday; a synchronicity; a warning. Bombs

beget bombs. A supreme irony I’ve found in Beirut. I move that the UN convene in emergency session; to be rid, of the bombs.

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.

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.


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.


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.


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; 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.


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? On Earth we too watch twits like me, on TV, all the time. Lord knows I’ll forever be cashing in, on royalties, residual.

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

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

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

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

Who’s who, what’s what and what’s happening. I’ve been asked by Art to lend my bully pulpit to serve as a platform for him.

I’m ghost-writing MAYDAYS, my Nobel winning verse; publicly, disagreeing with my public statements — and publicly, agreeing — with Him.

My future Nobel winning verse publicly disagrees with my public alter-ego and publicly agrees with Him — Who’s The Creator — these days.

He’s the One Who knows what’s what and what’s happening. And so I’ve agreed to lend Art my bully pulpit, to serve as his platform, for our great, MAYDAYS.


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

History and our human natures mitigate against humanity being somehow, miraculously saved by tragi-comic, sovereign, governments.

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

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

A thin veneer of civilization masks savage beasts lurking, within us. Behavior mod works instantly sometimes in individuals. Why not try our behavior, modifying?

In yet another supreme irony, Penemue’s been commissioned to re-introduce man to verse he first taught to mortals, when of age — for his own oats — sowing.

Youth they say gets wasted on the young. And the proof is in the pudding. Between the virus and me — humanity’s devolving more rapidly — than it’s, evolving.

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

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

One was Penemue; a rebel sentenced to forever watch, carnage on Earth; watching TV re-runs perpetually; sounds like Hell to me, actually.

He’d long longed to die; But now that it’s up to him to help a pitiful creature, write prose-like, groundbreaking, epic poetry he too has reason to live, indefinitely.

The commission: Have an already pre- stationed Art teach children Twitterese and epigramming. Let 280 characters teach children about, potential energy.

One frenemy’s already here. Another, on its way, lingers. A novel, is here. Unknown others, cometh. Of necessity sometimes,  cometh, opportunity.

Of necessity cometh opportunity, if one’s lucky. Sometimes, one’s luck, runneth out. For all my money — I can’t buy a break in this year of the rat — so unlucky.


“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.


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

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

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

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

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

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

Timing is everything said Andre; the proof of the pudding is that the utility of Twitterese and epigramming isn’t limited to — advertising.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the rest is history, past, present, or yet to be written. Art’s poetry is meant to reminds Kim and Vlad’s guys of what we dreamt about, the prior evening.


“What ten words do you, to humanity, bequeath?” A daunting question; the inception to Art’s introspection, evolution — and transformation.

That question was telepathically posed to Art on Friday, 12-20-12. “Who,” asked Art, “are you?” “I am one of 400 fallen ones,” he replied.

“Your counterpart,” said he, “am I; I am a fallen one; one of 400; 200 princes — and 200 followers,” he in turn — cryptically — replied.

Nephilim, the giant men of renown in Genesis were improvidently, fathered. Judgment, reserved. Of 400, all but three of us are in chains, awaiting — Judgment.

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

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

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

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

In reveries, dreamy and in settings, lunar and Earthly, soirées, Victorian; wining and dining, together in the company of, history’s, luminaries.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The signs followed in short order. A tall tree falling did injure Arthur, cuing — from a clear blue skies a strike of rare — ball lightning.

Extraordinary events in the normal course of events are, all too often, not at all, very extraordinary.

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

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


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. 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.


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.


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.


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.


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 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.


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.


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.


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.


Antonio Guterres: 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.


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.


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.


Some say that I don’t care. But I really do care. Of course, I care about the pandemic and it’s ravaging effect on our economy and on our society, at large. It’s not — that I don’t — care

about anyone, but me; it’s just that I care, even more about me. Ergo, in order not to go to prison, I care very much as well about my presidency. Believe ye me — I deeply — care.

Throwing cash at societal problems; that’s been the oft problematic behavior of the Democratic Party. Hardly, Republican. Lately though, even my Republicans balk at these most costly

stimulus packages. The price tags are swelling; trillions have been run up in a matter of months, lately. Verily, everything that’s happening seems calculated to embarrass me.

An apprentice war-time president, I’m a germophobe battling a pandemic who’d rather be golfing. And I’m loathe to lockdown my economy with my reelection, soon, upcoming.

I’m battling a novel virus and COVID-19, the disease by the virus, caused. I don’t rush to judgment. I’m presidential. WHO says it’s pandemic. But I knew, what I’d been, denying.

Rapidly arising levels of infection and illness continue have begun to overwhelm and grind down our health care systems. Stretched to their limits have been beleaguered health care

workers and lest we forget, the people who are, hospitalized. They say the battle to contain the virus, is lost. And they say furthermore — that I don’t care. But I care. I cynically — do care.

I really do need to stay out of jail. After all, who would pardon me? After me, there may never again be, a Republican president. And the incoming Democrats, I gather — don’t like me.

Democrats don’t like me much. Once in, there’s a possibility, I’ll die in there. I never chanted, “Lock her up!” Those are doctored, fake tapes on social media meant to reflect badly, on me.

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.


The latest in a long line of domestic Kremlin critics to suffer an apparent poisoning, Navalny’s lawyers are requesting an investigation into his attempted assassination.

Navalny has suffered physical attacks in the past. Vlad as ye know is ex-KGB, as expert as any state agency at assassination; and the consensus is that Vlad’s assassination

of Alexander Navalny is just a matter of time. Vladimir will eventually kill him. Vladimir’s got the longest arms on the planet. But a smallish man’s surreally long and surreally strong arms

have taken impunity to a level, lower. I call for marches on the Kremlin. The Russian people need to show their President Vladimir Putin that they can flex, their very own, strong arms.

WHO once said Russia was doing well. WHO now knows that Russia and China too, to name just two, less than forthcoming — have been. Vladimir Putin too knows, he can’t make fiction,

with virtual immunity, as he recently has become, so accustomed to; the blowback from the botched Navalny operation has given Vlad pause. Everybody learning on the fly. Fiction,

Vladimir knows, blends easily, with nonfiction. Still, he’s painfully aware that there’s no sovereign immunity nor plausible deniability sufficient to summarily dismiss as a fabrication

of the enemies of the state, the coronaviral, stigma. A huge planet, of a sudden, smaller; a huge planet, grown smaller, albeit with more problems, more fuel and more conflagrations.

The virus seemingly takes pains not to discriminate between its victims. We of the Cabal; Vlad, Xi, Kim, Mo and me assure ye that the microbe — only seems to take pains not to,

discriminate. Our intelligence agencies, working together, have determined that the coronavirus is not an intelligent, extraterrestrial invader. It’s just an, uncommon, terrestrial — just trying to

propagate. Unemployment rates; due to mass layoffs and a sputtering reopening of a degraded economy remain, elevated. This is worse than the Great Depression.

No supplies for our responders. Still, my chances of re-election to a second term seem, implausibly, incredibly, great. The stock market’s on record-breaking track again.

Chilling; Fauci’s telling, somewhat fuzzy, choice of words; specifically, the certainty of the outbreak clashing with clearly uncertain mitigation issues he says may fortunately

go a long way to prevent us from becoming, an Italy. Darkly funny were Fauci’s words about Italy. Darkly funny and fuzzy have been Fauci’s words about the Republic of Italy.


My condolences to Italy. Who could have imagined a second Vesuvius in a virus, novel? WHO knew. The CDC too. And who knew about the bad luck of the Ides of March — this year?

WHO knew. The CDC too. Both knew. And worse yet for me, Obama too — knew. Still, the officials charged with pandemic preparedness were amongst the first Americans to feel fear

for America; fear — for her future. Who knew about the especially bad luck of the Ides of March this year? And who could have known of an extension beyond China and Italy, this year?

Beware, Urantia. The coronavirus, to a theatre near ye, with a vengeance, cometh. Obituaries in Italian newspapers run dozens of pages and piles of coffins stacked in parking lots for fear

of further contagion. 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 in Italy?

just left to die? Rationing care; making heart wrenching decisions about who goes on living and who dies. There’s 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. We’ll go our own way here in America. And it’ll be my way or the highway here in America. Because in America,

it’s America first since I’ve been the president. An airborne virus runs roughshod over the nations but not over America. Because I’m a chosen one, we’re doing it my way, in America.

And so I naysay those who say that this virus may overrun President Vladimir Putin’s worldwide cabal of nations, the real deep state, in fact. Indeed I do — naysay, them — And I

aim, furthermore, to gainsay them. My eloquence; my grandiloquence in the art of language I dare say is in part what makes MAYDAYS, compelling. ‘Tis by MAYDAYS that I

aim to infect everyone with a medicinal art, in a more holistic, tradition. It’s poetry. Not at all any medicine, traditional, but part, in the future (where Art’s from), 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 — for today,

I’ll just buy time. Time; except for me it waits for no man. But my continual and continuous denials of responsibility are ringing hollow, over time. More denials, treated as, more lying.

Still, the hero of Vietnam’s Bone Spur Ridge, won’t need much time to beat the coronavirus, to a calypso beat, in time. Don’t buy in to that. Remember — If I open my mouth — I’m lying.


Most folks overcome the illness; unless they’re older; or have compromising, 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. 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 real mess still. And Arthur

shan’t survive contracting the virus unless — some antibodies, he acquires or a miracle — otherwise, saves him. Rest in peace Art — Mary’s less than dear ex is the brother, of Iris,

God-blessed. The women in Art’s family have it all over the men. Art’s sister, like her mother, share their personalities one, with the other. As selfless as was the mother is her daughter, Iris.

Covid-19 is spreading uncontrollably because many people, especially our young people, are not abiding by my guidance to stay home unless ye are essential. Then, get thee, to work.

Seriously; wear masks; practice, social distancing. There are not enough people taking this seriously. Please, everyone: If ye aren’t working, please go home! Or return — to work.

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. 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 simple medical problems, microbial — slay me.

‘Tis a death by a thousand cuts, this new, Black Death; this novel, coronavirus. And I’d do well to emulate the mother and sister of my brother Arthur and be selfless whilst, I’m the president.

Indeed, I’d do well to emulate the mother and sister of my brother Art; and be selfless while the president. The highest calling of self — is indeed — selflessness; witness, the president.

The highest calling of self is selflessness; that I can tell ye. Witness me — the president. And witness — in context, my erstwhile selfishness, transformed into my now, holy — selflessness.

Allah. God. Jehovah. Yahweh. By whatever name, He is best characterized as having, like us, personality. And our personalities are idealized, if best characterized by, selflessness.

Personality is idealized if best characterized by selflessness. Selflessness. It’s indicative. Selflessness is indicative of a person — whose path to Heaven is far shorter — and far faster.

Short and fast is the path to Heaven for the selfless; those who, like some women in Art’s life and unlike the women in mine, nurtured him. I’ve not been nurtured — by my father.


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: The nation needs ye. To undo what I’ve done. I rue what I can’t undo. And so I do endorse ye. Take the reins and guide the country to greener pastures, on the other side.

Make no mistake. ‘Tis none other than your aspiring dictator Donald John Trump who regales. In lieu and in substitution of Art who’s hiding out. In isolation (officially) — is Arthur.

Officially in isolation, Arthur’s practically, hiding out. He knows better than anyone on Earth, what’s happening. His story, like mine, is a big bit part of this American tall tale — of Arthur‘s.

Political correctness has met its match and its match — is me. Along with my stunted Twitter Diplomacy, rank political incorrectness now passes for less than civil — civil — discourse.

Less than civil, civil, discourse. A stunted Twitter Diplomacy and — as its turning out a one and done, single-term, presidency at a crossroads — of roads taken — and not taken — of course.

Wouldn’t ye know it? How fitting. Fitting that the unfittest chief executive in American history pen muse upon the consequences of decisions. Fitting that my muse Melania — can’t stand me.

Not that Melania matters much, anymore. All lives matter of course; many more than others, I’d qualify, of course. Sure, I’ve cheated on her. Still, she should be faithfully, standing, by me.

Consider Urantians, predestination. Consider the purpose predestination serves in the administration of His seven Universes. And consider — in lieu of Art’s verse — my verse.

Septuplet Universes comprise the vast Kingdom of our Almighty Creator. Consider, dear lector, the predestination I consider in verse. It’s not like — the Greeks’ — epic verse.

Like Melania, most folks don’t like me; just like her tho, they don’t matter. This is why, I ally, with bullies, especially, the whiter ones. I’ll fake it with the others but I unabashedly revere my

Vladimir Putin; my Alexandr-Dugin-mentored, mentor. I couldn’t have been compromised by a nicer guy; and he’s white. Melania knows but she won’t say, who I’ve been, compromised by.

I am still, a chosen one. I know what to do; when to do it; and how to do it safely and effectively. But just like everybody, Joe’s been chosen too. He too knows, just what — to do.

Joe too knows just what to do. And so I’m endorsing him; and it’s not full-throated only because I’m feeling a tickle in my throat. Pardon me whilst I gargle. I know what to do.


Volatile am I, to be sure. Recklessly impetuous and maddeningly indecisive — I alternate — between the two. But volatility, no matter how it’s sliced, remains, ever potentially, explosive.

Penny wise and pound foolish are Wall Street’s businessmen. Wall Street’s foolishness, says the sage of Omaha, is wisdom, actually. Hang in for the long term — for profits — explosive.

Secretary General Antonio Guterres: This is war. To win we’ll need an appropriately, war-like, wartime, plan. To figure out how best to completely surround and defeat a wily enemy,

already, surrounding us, in soirée on Luna last night, I turned to my Generals, namely my Carthaginian, Hannibal and my Chinese Sun-Tsu. Very humbly, I implored them to help me.

This is war, they intoned, in time, together. 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 plans,

extraordinarily, deceptive. And their advice to me was extraordinary. Carpe diem, they said. Seize today, the day. They certainly won’t be expecting to be surrounded. Ye need to plan

contingently; ye need plans safe and effective. Ask to be taken to their leader. Tell a lie to the leader of the microbes. Tell him ye have his forces, surrounded. Carpe diem! Seize the day!

Sun-Tsu and Hannibals’ counsel is that, given that my three priorities are me, me and me, I ought employ a dual strategy. Bluffing’s Plan A; Plan B actually disarms the virus, unlike Plan A.

The Generals counsel that when boxed in my options are few; just two really; to die on the enemies terms, or yours — or — alternatively, aggressively turn the table and seize — the day.

Break out! But — break out — to where? We’re in disaster mode. I act like I don’t know it yet. I know tho that I can commune with others on Luna and I know now that I’m unfit — everyday.

What a difference a day may make. What a difference, the passage of time. I can’t go, like Arthur can, back and forth in time. But I can set an example by just standing up — to Vladimir.

I’m standing up to Vladimir; demanding, he stand down. Gone too far with Navalny, the difference between Putin and Stalin is that Putin is deadlier. We’ve had it — with Vladimir.

We’ve had it up to here — with Vladimir Putin. What a difference a day may make. What a difference makes, the passage of time. There’s always hope for — miraculous — interventions.

On the advice of my Generals, I’m putting Putin on notice. And in the space of a half-couplet, putting on notice, the planet: Take it easy; it’s what, in Nola we do, for spiritual, intervention.


I lie easily. Not glibly, mind ye; quite 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, jobs — and all,

in exchange for a life of longing and grief. Chaotic. Chaotic is my presidency. Time heals not all wounds, equally; and not all men are equally created, no matter — the law — of all.

And everyone asks: What have ye done for me lately? Will trillion of dollars be enough and in time? Will Republicans stand by me? No, I’d say. They’ll ask anew: What have ye done — for me?

What have ye done for me lately? Trillions may easily, not suffice. My Republicans are turning against me. Will enough Republicans vote for me? Methinks not. Mark my words of prophecy.

I’m no prophet; nor even no Homo sapiens, wise man; just a wise guy from Queens; not a wise man, at all; still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t clarion call my dear sisters and my brothers.

As the November presidential election looms, increasingly, I’m losing the support of my own Republicans; party heavyweights like Kasich and Romney aren’t falling over one another

to support me. And who can blame them? Probably WHO will. WHO, if ye ask me blames everybody but the Chinese. But I see things; I see things others don’t see. I see the returns

of the long dead Haunted; haunted am I. And although I won’t admit it much less publicly say it I’ll forever be haunted by haunting images; I can’t sleep. I want the Devil, my soul, to return.

Many Republicans are saying that, come November, they’ll vote for Joe Biden. Needless to say, it is really extremely embarrassing that so many of my very own party, don’t want me.

Greater than The Art of The Deal, MAYDAYS may be. And I say ‘may be’ only because I’m humble. Most people don’t know how humble I am. And as the news flashes flash before me

informing me that we have the most cases and deaths, I see the handwriting on the walls I once upon a time, might have, most surreally, built. But He worketh His miracles — actually.

I see news of our surge into the lead among the infected nations. I see everywhere, the handwriting on the walls, between the lines and even on Fox News: my beloved, formerly.

Greater than The Art of The Deal and The Art of The Comeback, as fate may have it, may be my MAYDAYS; it is making a splash; going viral, out of New Orleans — I was reminded — suddenly.

Out of New Orleans; out of the Big Easy comes a public pronouncement; a public, proclamation of an of a planet-saving, algorithm; a precursor to planet-saving, poetry.


I see handwriting on the walls. I hear things. And I see dead people, not on TV, all around me. The 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, thank God, won’t let me go. In nightmares I’ve been having, zombie-like, hospital-gowned ones reach toward me as they

approach me, then suddenly, lunge at me, wanting to grasp my hand. With mouths wide open, as if wailing, I hear no sound coming from them; they seem clearly unhappy — too.

So-called experts may dispute my claim that an economic downturn may be more deadly than a pandemic. So what? I dare say, who cares? Anyway, from the looks of things we’re due to 

get both. In any event, who cares? I dare say, not my muse, Melania. Remember her jacket? A  jacket which asked, written on her back, “I don’t care. Do U?” Excellent, First Lady, I dare not say.

She slapped at my hand again just the other day. Moody. Sullen. Resentful. Unforgiving; my muse, Melania. She looks Russian. I’d whisper — “mother Russia,” to her — in the old days.

People are dying. And with each day that passes I dare think to myself, tho I dare not publicly say so: Community spread viruses are both terrifying — and terrifyingly — inevitable.

Far more terrifying than the gowned ones is the fact that, I am still the President, of US. And it’s sad; it’s sad to see the televangelist-in-chief, leader of the free world, offering, in my cynical

way, hazy tall tales, of miraculous cures. Offering hope so cynically ought be considered an abuse of power. Fodder, for investigation; for an impeachment — (lol) — against me.

Still, my Supreme Court may protect me. And by so doing, by a ripple effect, save the country — and the planet, from the radically liberal agenda from Kamala Harris’, Democratic Party.

I see dead people. Wailing silently, they appear to be. And they lunge at me and clutch at me even as my Secret Service agents tug at me, reactively. Everybody — wants a piece — of me.

The economy is in deep recession; it’s been echoing the Great Depression in the way it has devastated our once great businesses; triggering mass layoffs; threatening — me.

I’m feeling threatened by all this business, unusual. Chain reaction bankruptcies; floods of  red ink; losses for companies large and small. It’s bad for business. And it’s bad — for me.


Curiously, in this supremely unlucky, Chinese year of the rat, it appears that the Italian Ides of March has been extended into the rest of the year this year. An astonishing irony,

so purposeful, so 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 purposely

purposeful that all of this is happening precisely in this supremely unlucky Chinese year of the rat; precisely when — as fate would have it that I’m the president — of our nation.

‘Tis me this year, even more than the virus, that ye need to respectfully, fear. ‘Tis me this year, even more than the virus, that ye need to respectfully, fear; and fear — for the nation.

Unemployment. Disability. Death. The scale of the devastation wrought to the economy and the national psyche — increasingly now, is becoming clear. Millions of Americans citizens;

millions have filed for unemployment. The jobless may file for unemployment but needless to say, if ye’ve already died ye can’t file for unemployment as an American citizen.

There is a disconnection between me and my governors and mayors. There’s a disconnection also between me and my — international, governors — and mayors. I miss — my soul.

I miss — my soul. And I know that Vlad, Xi Kim and Mo miss theirs’ also. We each made a deal with the Devil; bargains, Faustian; comfort, power and riches in exchange — for our souls.

We say all the right things in soirée at night on Luna; then — the very next day, forgetting all that was ere dreamt, we just slip back into our roles; our bit parts — outsized — as dictators.

Soulless dictators are Vlad’s guys; the Cabal, they call themselves. As ye know, we are me and Vlad of course and we include, moreover, Kim and Mohammed. We are — the dictators.

I don’t lie. And I resent the insinuation that I’d lie for the US. It’s truthful hyperbole. I felt it was a pandemic long before WHO finally called it, pandemic. Albeit I’ve minimized the pandemic’s

effect, as is my wont, I’ve tried to shift the blame to state and local leaders as case counts and death tolls and the toll on my stumbling economy — all rise, due to — the pandemic.

How could it not be purposeful that all of this happen — precisely — this year? Who knew that my instincts would fail me? I’ll bet WHO knew. I’m mad at WHO. And insanely mad, too.

I’m betting WHO knew. I’m mad at WHO. And I’m insanely mad, too. A clear and present danger am I — to myself and to the larger, global — community. And I’m mad — too.


When will things return to normal? The answer is simple, if not, satisfying: The simple and unsatisfactory answer is when enough of the population is resistant enough 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. Actually, no one can know if we’ll ever in fact — 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 a novel opportunity

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

Tweets, 280 characters long, serially linked into Grecian, poetry, epic; tragic; comic; dramatic; and ironic. Ironic is the story of the wise man, who, deeming himself, truly wise, names a fool,

Homo sapiens and then disproves it, over and over again, over the ages. Man ought have named himself, not wise, but hot-headed man; that characterization’s much better descriptive

of the mankind that I know. Verily, it’s as if the wise men went, like Neanderthal-man, extinct. Only hot-blooded men, remain; hot-blooded still, the name’s descriptive — and prescriptive.

Hot-bloodedness, mammalian; morphologically descriptive, still, it is morally — prescriptive. Hot-bloodedness; and human, volatility. We’d do better if we proscribed — human, volatility.

Proscribing human, volatility; that’s not a matter of just legislating and implementing the Golden Rule. It’s a matter of neuroscience; and behavior modification — neuroscientifically.

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, when doctor’s orders consign the critically ill, sadly, 

to palliative care — to death, in other words, the patients might as well resign themselves to death too. Palliative care. That’s when doctors speak in terms of finality — sans — recovery.

Palliative care. That’s when doctors speak in terms of finality; of dying, without recovering. It is what it is. America’s first in total deaths and well on our way to total — herd — immunity.

And because I see in calamity, opportunity I’m tagging by this tweet Nobel, Committees and my co-authors, Vlad, Xi, Kim and Mohammed bin Salman also — by correspondence — copy.


What say ye to the children? Begin by saying that unfair as it is — it is what it is. Bad stewards of Urantia, their forebears have been. With us — the forbears of the children — begin.

Conflicts of interest, malfeasance and corruption taint and give an apt bad name to bad governance. What say ye, to the children? Begin with what’s easy; tell them ye love them.

Telling them ye love them. That’s the easy part. The hard part’s explaining their fate; their fate; being born on a planet, abused by the children’s forbears; such is, the children’s fate.

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. Bad governance by corruption seems ever our fate.

Ironically, if we flip but a switch, we might well, a paradigm, shift. Just flipping a switch may go a long way towards resolving some of our problems. Imagine a vote, changing our fates.

Call on technology’s algorithms and artificial intelligence. For a paradigm shift, on Urantia, with the forbears of the children, the awful stewards, begin. We can shape yet — our fate.

Begin with bad stewardship of a planet, entrusted, preceding even, the Industrial Revolution. Conflicts of interest, malfeasance and corruption — taint and give a really bad

name to, bad governance. As bad as it, bad governance suddenly is, only seemingly, the least of our problems. We got a virus, really, bad. And an American president, really, mad.

I declare that if less than a million Americans die from the virus then I will have done for ye, a damn good job. A job well done I shall have done if I can defeat the coronaviral microbe.

before it gets done infecting and weakening and even killing us. I am happy to tell ye that I see a golden opportunity for mankind in the novel, transformational, coronaviral, microbe.

In Africa and India, men like flys, are dropping. Africans, Indians and Americans all dying on me; and all, concurrently, at the same time. But it is — what it is. It is — survival — of the fittest.

Witness Vlad sending medical supplies to US, to help US survive (lol); Covid-19; it’s the beginning of a paradigm shift away from the survival of the fittest to the — the survival of — the poetic.

Art suspects that this isn’t even his poetry, actually. He believes Penemue channels it to him at 8 hz; the alpha wave rhythm vital to synchronizing the brain’s — hemispheres.

Pray tell the children that hope springs eternal. Don’t give up hope. Believe me; not my alter-ego. I may be a genius but I’m unfit to be the president. Vote for Joe Biden — this year.


We’ve been fools. Me, especially. Just witness lately, my shift, in attitude. Accepting as reality what previously I’d characterized as a hoax. I’ve been a fool’s, fool. An uber-fool — have I been.

Now April, the Ides of March extended through the end of the month are ended. On Earth, men like wingless flys, are dropping. But Arthur Everman’s no fool. He’s gone into — isolation.

Actually, that Arthur’s no fool isn’t true, either. In his time on Earth, he’s been a fool, near exclusively. Unlike me, eventually, he came around, albeit, not until he’d been by lightning,

stricken. In the interim, I’ve accepted as reality, my lies and my hoaxes. And I decry that my alter-ego continues to lie and deny — and decry, himself — a venerable — Constitution.

Fools indeed, have been Arthur and me. And this economic downturn may be far more punishing and long lasting than feared; enduring, perhaps, into next year — apace.

And beyond even then; it’s hard to say; as governments amp up restrictions to slow — or halt the spread, of the contagion; even as fear of the virus completely redefines, public space.

Babies with bathwater oft get thrown out. This stock market’s volatile; and the balloons it fosters mask that the market itself is a gigantic balloon; and balloons pop — catastrophically.

Not so fast; it need not be — yet. Sell offs provide ambitious and visionary managers with visionary, groundbreaking, opportunities. Investing in artificial intelligence, may well be,

for more prescient investors, an enterprising opportunity. If asked to grade myself I’d rate myself a 10. I think I’ve done great. Reasonable men — might however disagree — some say.

And although I am in fact unfit, lie routinely and am a danger to myself and the community, I shan’t resign. I shan’t resign my office, no matter how many Americans may die, I’d say.

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 the beasts within us. Poetry’s music, keeps the beasts — at bay.

There is great power in lyric, poetry. And this  coronavirus, I believe, may draw it out from within us; if we just seize the day and meditate on pressing issues — on Luna — in soirée.

Indeed, there is great power in lyric, poetry. And neuroscience’s behavior modification. And there’s no sound reason why we can’t all meet on the moon every day — technologically.

Moving hath been, lyric poetry. Powerful too, sometimes. ‘Tis time Art tells me that Penemue told him that poetry embark on a Renaissance; more powerful than the sword — finally.


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 fiction and nonfiction. Witness too, the UN General Assembly unanimously approving a resolution that very same day, recognizing, in these ancient, modern times,

the unprecedented devastation wrought by the pandemic and the cooperation needed amongst the nations to foster cooperation and discourage — undue competition — in time.

I don’t understand why every state hasn’t issued stay-at-home and economy-reopening,  orders. Why isn’t that happening in an orderly manner? But, that it’s not happening in time

bodes poorly. It’s hard to see anything positive coming from this calamity, arising. Implausibly tho, near incredibly, that may be precisely what is, in predetermined existences — happening.

States and cities are restricting movements in response to a fast-spreading pandemic likely to claim, worldwide, millions of lives. Still, 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 and too soon. I’ve got to stop doing that. That’ll be the day that I quit breathing. When I can’t breathe — I’ll 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 sly,

viral, microbe. For these deaths I’ll surely be blamed it seems. And so coming soon to a theatre (of war) near ye. Protocols to decide, absent euthanasia, who lives and who dies.

Euthanasia, sanctioned in some countries, remains illegal, in Spain. And we in the United States too, all too soon, may also be, soon deciding, who dies and who goes on — living.

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 would suggest, on behalf of the living,

that saving resources for the living requires, letting the dying — die. It’s what the dead, would, had they their druthers, unselfishly do — for their beloved, still living. 

Do as I order. Be, like me, socially, distant. Stay at home. Except only going to work. Protocols about the sanctity of life aside — it is what it is. Just let the dying — go on ahead — just, dying.


I’d be uncomfortable, wearing a mask as I met with presidents, prime ministers, dictators, kings and queens. I don’t know. I don’t see it for myself. And that is as it should be — I’d say,

my fellow Americans. For I am, akin to a king, your president. And so it is incumbent upon ye to do as I say and not as I do. Do as I say and not as I do unless otherwise — I instead — say.

I’m out. I’m gonna leave shortages in supplies to the governors of the states. I’m leaving it to them to decide whether to shut down their states. I need the governors to step up actually.

I’d rather not be the center of attention with the virus; it’s such a loser issue; I’ll let Mike take the lead on that issue. I’m a wartime president. Leading — real battles against — real enemies.

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

desperate; my lies, so transparent, everybody, sees right through them. Everybody sees the emperor hath no clothes, no credibility and worse, everyone’s seen his member, publicly.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, conflicts, more or less, lessen, with flare-ups and dust-ups, ongoing. And disasters, natural or otherwise, sometimes even occasion, even rivals, working together.

I’m sorry. I didn’t sign up to fight to join no stinking, tag-team, microbial, wrestling match. I am The Don, antihero, American. But disasters sometimes even bring rivals, to work together.

I’m sorry. I didn’t sign up to fight no stinking, microbial, virus. Donny, the antihero American, am I; the hero in Vietnam, of Bone Spur Ridge. And I won’t fight no stinking — invisible, virus.

I’m really sorry. I didn’t sign up to fight no stinking, microbial, virus. The virus is beneath me. Mike will handle it. That way, I won’t have to fight the stinking invisible, coronavirus.

Elsewhere, 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-dead.

With no place left to put them the dead are left on the street and not taken to the morgue. And  so the streets too are become a temporary, final resting place for Guayaquil‘s — dead.

As the world knows I’ve ignored, dismissed and otherwise downplayed the pandemic, even as it’s become one of the worst crises in history. I’m a fish out of water, unfit to be the president.

Even in the best of times, I can’t meet the moment. I am dangerously unfit to be the president even in the best of times, pacific. Unfit in every crisis this far is the president.


I wonder whether I’m on the verge of a breakdown. Not one, governmental. A physical, spiritual and emotional, breakdown. Actually, what I’m wondering is whether I might win

from the people a vote of sympathy if on live TV I just go to pieces and hysterically, like a schoolboy, breakdown. I’ve been wondering whether I might in such a contrite way — win.

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 the warnings until the enemy had already 

stricken. I keep my own counsel. Everyone knows that; and everybody knows that to sound advice I am completely stone deaf; and I’m inclined to — screw up — completely.

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

The letters of our alphabets; and Aristotle’s numbers; It’s a brave, frightening, new world out there — and I’m the man; the only one that can, lead America to innovating — renovation.

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 using, lethal force. Sunlight, bleach, disinfectants and chlorohydroquinone; various and sundry — are our, lethal — defenses.

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 an unexpected and unprecedented catastrophe except to the extent that the unprecedented catastrophe

was neither unprecedented, nor unexpected. But epidemiological concerns were amongst the first casualties of my administration, setting up this unmitigated and ongoing, catastrophe.

What do I know? I’m no doctor. But I have, genius, common sense. And I have enough common sense to know that sometimes ye need to ask yourself, what have I got to lose? 

What have I got to lose? If I were of Covid-19 dying, what have I got to lose — myself — I might reasonably, ask. And because the answer is everything, it’s imperative this election, I lose.

I’m no doctor. But I’ve got, genius-level, common sense. And I have enough common sense to know that sometimes ye have got to just ask, yourself what have I got to lose? Hope

is medicine, powerful. If I were dying what have I got to lose, I might, myself, ask; and because the answer is everything, I’m endorsing Joe Biden. Vote for Joe Biden and lose not — hope.


As I chronicle in my MAYDAYS, the celebrated hero of Vietnam’s Bone Spur Ridge (me); an anti-hero in my MAYDAYS warning, adopts a cynically heartless — and soulless — strategy.

Info-wars feature the eternal battle of fiction, nonfiction and in the coming election, science fiction. To play on my ability to inspire the nation, I shall call upon my cult of personality.

I’ll say. Brace yourself for a 2020 campaign, dominated and denigrated by disinformation shamelessly posted and planted and whitewashed by the fake media, assiduously.

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 the slings and arrows of my family

and from my countless frenemies. Verily, in my second term I shall propose (as I’ve previously hinted) that I just continue to be the president, of these — our United States — indefinitely.

A panacea for Pangaea in time for Earth, née Urantia. Heed me: To save the planet and its people, use the enemy to come together, timely, in time, like the 7th Cavalry — on TV.

It’s hard. It’s hard to be humble when one is — as great as I am. It’s so hard I don’t bother, trying. I’m a visionary. I’m betting big with your money on my businesses and business,

as usual. But in the event the social order unravels uncontrollably, I’ve found an algorithm in 280 spaces, in time on Twitter, I believe can help — get us 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: Verily, live long — and prosper.

Don’t get too close to me. Don’t shake my hand. Don’t even think of hugging me. Just return the gesture. The less said, the better; follow these protocols to live long and prosper.

Live long and prosper. But please, don’t get too close to me. Don’t shake my hand. Don’t hug me, either. Just kindly return, my heartlessly felt gesture. Henceforth, in the upcoming

commemorations of Passover, Easter and Ramadan we should extend to all, and start getting used to using Spock’s split-fingered gesture to extend our warm greetings

Heed me: To save yourselves and the planet for your children use the enemy coronavirus to come together timely, just in the nick of time, just like the 7th Cavalry — before, reality, TV.

It’s hard. It’s hard to be humble when one’s as great as I am. I don’t bother trying. I’m a visionary. And I’m betting big with your money on business and on my businesses, especially.


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 states’

surging death tolls fail to capture the scale of our pandemic-infected national states. It’s of little consolation to me that we are first in total deaths — amongst the international — states.

Hospitals across the country face dire shortages of vital medical equipment amid the coronaviral pandemic, with testing kits and thermometers, in short supply. It seemingly

appears that hospitals can’t ensure the safety of the workers needed to adequately treat it. No one can ensure the safety of the workers; not the queen bee with her colony; and not me. 

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. He Who creates everything, spares, nothing. Plan; and prepare too. No one can ensure the safety of all the workers — no colony‘s — queen bee;

and not even me, with ye. Darwin’s survival of the fittest ought not be our purpose; nor aught it be any purpose, corollary. There’s no need for hunger games. Amen. Indeed, let — it be.

Amen. Let it be. And shout it from the mountaintops. Survival of the fittest ought not be our purpose — nor any purpose, corollary. My plan all along has been to irrevocably

fashion the world in my image; to not know any thing and still, save the day. To ye mourning your loved ones — cynically, I say — I’m sorry. I say I’m sorry but I don’t mean it — sincerely.

I am not really very sorry, at all. 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 just meant — but chosen, by Him to be, less

the president to all than the great white hope, to many. This confluence of people and events is less coincidence than His predeterminations, holy and great. My mission — He

has blessed. Who can dispute that I’ve been chosen and that my model now predicts that as few as 81,766 people will die through early August. Keeping our total fatalities

under 1,000,000 may be, a winning electoral strategy. This, I shall do for ye. Keeping fatalities under 1,000,000. That shall be my brilliantly simple, election-winning — strategy.

Who can dispute I have been chosen? Who can dispute that my legacy, beyond Jared and Twitter Diplomacy may be the top to bottom dismantling of international — agencies.


Who can dispute, I’ve been chosen. And who can dispute my model now predicts that as few as 81,766 people will die through early August. My model suggests that keeping fatalities

under 100,000,000 may be, a winning electoral strategy. This, I may do for ye. Keeping fatalities under 1,000,000. That shall be my brilliantly simple — election-winning — strategy.

Who can dispute I have been chosen? Who can dispute that my legacy, beyond Jared, and Twitter Diplomacy, may be the top to bottom revampings of the UN, FBI, CIA and WHO, too.

Re-envisioning my national and international agencies and institutions, notwithstanding the deep state never-Trumpers at the — FBI, CIA and the UN — and the — WHO, too.

But first things first. Keeping deaths, under one million. That’ll be the strategy. And that’s not even the half of it. I shall still have to lead America surreally through the fate of destiny’s

clash of civilizations. But first things first. Keeping our fatalities under a million. That’s, the strategy, going forward. Leaving for later axing agencies, institutions and destiny’s

clash of civilizations. I shall be our greatest president ever; and my legacy shall include 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 too close to me. And do as I say and not as I do. Be socially, distant. Wear a mask. Going forward — that’s the strategy.

Both Fauci, the country’s leading health official and Birx, the White House’ coronaviral invasion response coordinator state, in error, possibly, that mitigation efforts may well lower

the death toll from 1,000,000 to a more manageable, number, lesser. They don’t understand as well as I do that the lesser numbers are for our economy — better.

Lower death tolls; they’re generally better, for the economy. Still, we’ll need to have a contingency plan if, notwithstanding my leadership, I might lose — in November.


The whole world is in a bad state. As far as the future goes, nobody has much confidence. Nobody but me, that is; I am, as is my won’t — bullishly — confident.

l’m the cheerleader-in-chief for my country. So don’t expect the truth from me. It’s my job to protect ye from the truth. Indeed, I am — the president.

Change. It seems — ever constant. There may be stillness somewhere; motionlessness; I don’t know. That is well beyond my top-tier, pay-grade. But change

in the human experience, I know, is constant. And I know that in the future, if we’ve stopped shaking hands, that’ll be — a relatively — insignificant, change.

Giving up on shaking hands in greeting pales next to other changes awaiting us. Like an ever fast and threateningly, encroaching — climate change.

There may be changelessness somewhere. I don’t know. Spock’s gesture tho makes shaking hands no longer available, as a means of microbial, carrier — exchanges.

Giving up on shaking hands in greeting pales next to other changes awaiting us, far more, significant. Changes like — human migrations — and climate change.

Changelessness may be nonsense. Spock’s gesture of greeting tho, makes sense. Our shaking of hands: It’s a microbe’s preferred 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, in a world within a world, they

often greet one another with a hearty, ‘live long and prosper!’ The Vulcan greeting would suit man well, perhaps —maybe — some fine day — one 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 it’s important all understand:

When one microbe meets another down there they often mimic us, greeting one another with “live long and prosper,” shaking not — one another’s — 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 to be nonfiction.

It’s too weird. That the virus spilled from an animal to a human and back somehow to an animal. That’s, science fiction. That just can’t be — real — nonfiction.


It’s way too weird. Too weird-science-like, science fiction, to me. That the virus spilled from an animal to a human — and back somehow — into an animal.

That, my fellow Americans, only seems, like science. I am afraid, nevertheless, that it has turned out that the virus itself, notwithstanding its route, is nonfictional.

The coronavirus pandemic has crystallized several long-standing undercurrents of my governing ethos: My refusal to accept criticism, my

seemingly insatiable need for praise and my abiding mistrust of independent entities and individuals — ever too lightly, calling me out — on my flagrant, lies.

I want to impose my version of events and discredit and disable any arbiters of fact who may deign to disrupt my self-aggrandizing — overall — storyline.

That has been my instinct in business and in the business of politics. And ye can see it once again on full display — in this parallel coronaviral, subplot — storyline.

My instinct in business and in politics is to keep my intentions close to the vest; stick to my version of events. Questions, I’ll skillfully ignore — or skillfully — parry.

Questions regarding my plans and proposals, I’ll skillfully ignore, or parry if my plans and proposals I regard top-secretly or controversial, constitutionally.

It’s my way or the highway. I’m a dictator, see? Leaders like me see any questioning as an insulting challenge; as a real threat to my authority; a threat — to my power.

It’s a crude mentality; either ye are with me or ye are against me. My advice is: Don’t tread — on me. Cede to me, all authority. Cede to me — all power.

There are rumors of discontent in the GOP; but it’s not discontent with me. It’s discontent with what some say is the Harris-Biden, hidden agenda, socialist.

It’s an agenda too friendly to foreigners. Too, egalitarian. Think, man! We’re all foreigners to most! I call on my cult of personality to stand up for we capitalists.

It’s not entirely my fault; the shameful unpreparedness; but in a plot twist for the ages, I’ll make it up to ye. For I have been — and I am — an egalitarian,

up until recently, self-closeted. Now, hear this! I’m coming out. To be to everybody, fair, I’m coming out of the closet. I’m a proud, ex-closeted — egalitarian.


Indeed I am Urantian. And a proud American. And in a plot twist for the ages, the president of America. And because everything’s unraveling at warp speed,

I’m proclaiming: Now, hear this! I am coming out — as an egalitarian; to rule by a Golden Rule. And to be to everyone fair, I’ll be implementing, at warp speed,

a Golden-ruled planet. Imagine, a Golden-ruled planet. A planet where programs of artificial intelligence administer the planet. Leaving its citizens to pursue,

pursuits, spiritual and recreational. Sudoku-like pursuits, like epigramming. Epigramming; it’ll be all the rage someday for Urantia’s future citizens to pursue.

We’re near a peak thanks to the social distancing — star — of my virus, response. It’s my haphazard strategy, methinks, keeping the virus, wondering.

But it’ll spike again if we too soon stop, being socially distant and too soon start leaving, our homes. All in all, it’s an ideal time, for epigramming.

It’s been heartwarming to hear Barack Obama opining on something; anything, at last. He’s been virtually biting at the bit to gang up on me, ye know.

to speak to us about empathy as the part of my governmental response that’s been missing in action; referencing my Vietnam, wartime experience, ye know.

I’ve got problems with Obama. A ton of them, It’s not just his youth or the airs he puts on; it’s that the prize he won in his first term really painfully,

sticks in my craw. If he speaks of a lack of empathy in my coronaviral response, I may disqualify him from ever gracing the face of Mt Rushmore, officially.

Usurping the plan of governors, former government officials, disease specialists and nonprofits and pursuing a strategy that scientifically relies on today,

the three pillars of disease control; that’s my plan today. But by tomorrow I may unwisely supersede, this plan, of action with one not as scientific — as today’s.

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 really, surreally,

convinced that his is an ideal way to build rapport and solidarity between parts of, or all, of the community. Networking is my poetry, even as I ravage, the country.


Indeed, I’m no prophet. But I’m a believer in Arthur’s epigramming ideas; they seem an ideal way to build up solidarity within our provincial communities.

To change the paradigm, poetry. Wisdom, in verse. To return to Earth, peace and prosperity. And to reprise — our once most fashionable — poetry.

My anti-heroic mission: To pen the wisdom-infused, often scriptural verses that might yet inspire mankind to change his behavior — and his paradigm.

Wisdom, in verse. Peace and prosperity and poetry. Arthur’s epigramming is an ideal way, to build up solidarity, within our communities, over time.

My allegorical MAYDAYS is a poetic love letter to every citizen of the Earth, mixing cosmic, geological and socio-anthropological history (politics)

with socio-political current events (politics) to save us from ourselves, at least for a while by yet even more (God help us), God-fearing — politics.

To save us from ourselves a love letter I’ve written to everyone on Earth; in Emily’s honor — for her — writing some, also. Evidence of two pilgrims in progress;

her letters and mine; invisibly connected to our hearts; leave a trail as we move along space time circuits, in the fashion — of pilgrims — in progress.

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. Let there be an answer. Amen. Let it be.

Let it be. Amen. Let it be; that we might be yet saved; at least for a while. And I may surreally yet win in both November and December. Amen. Please — let it be.

Last night l as I laid my woman down — multi-tasking, I wondered whether switching from a success story pitch — to an underdog, comeback pitch,

pitched to voters in November, might be better for me, given our changed, circumstances. I’ll just do it again, making US — once again — filthy, rich.

I’m multi-tasking; juggling, issues of policy. It’s not easy being me. Especially, when one’s a genius. But it’s far worse when one is a genius,

germaphobic; with a microbial problem, moreover, complicating, everything. But if I reopen the economy too early, I won’t ever again be — no celebrated — genius.


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. Not his duty to not worry and just be

happy but rather his duty to say that whatever’s not OK today will be OK tomorrow. That sure sounds like a gigantic — big fat 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, many millions of times;

it’s hard to remember. It’s hard to remember all the times that I’ve lied. I really can’t remember how many I’ve pathologically — lied to — all time.

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 often say — I just — can’t remember.

It’s so much easier that way. And so ye shall often hear me say “I’m sorry. It’s hard for me to recall. I’m afraid I just don’t — surreally — remember.

Nothing less than Red Dawn on steroids; that’s what this is; with the Chinese, beyond the Russians — with designs on US. What with an insidious coronavirus,

novel, invisibly wafting in the air or invisibly lurking on the hands of who knows who. This may end badly for US and worse for me — this coronavirus.

Indeed this looks to be ending badly, for US; worse, it looks to be ending badly for me. This microbe lurks on US, invisibly. On the hands of who knows who.

On whose hands, who knows who; and wafting about in the air, invisibly. The novel virus spreads like wildfire, in the air and on the hands, of who knows who.

There are a lot of things that go into executive decisions like that; decisions based on a lot of facts — and instincts. Verily, whether ye

like it or not, there is a certain instinct to it. And whilst I hope I’m making the right decision, if I’m not ye can’t sue me if someone — just up — and dies, on ye.

I tell ye secrets: Normally humble, I put on airs sometimes: especially if I think I’ve got insight into what’s really happening. Relying on animal instincts

over reason to make wartime-like decisions, defies good reason. Nonetheless to a war-ravaged, brain-washed, citizenry — I’ll sell my fantastic — animal instincts.

It’s time that we ally. So o/b/o Vladimir and his guys, I proclaim the UN to be our one and only nation and egalitarianism its Golden Rule and only rule,

in law. The plots thicken on Urantia even as they twist; and twisting too are those trapped in my allegorical story of lies and the lying — allies — that rule.


On Passover this Easter during the month of Ramadan and thereafter, all who would be like me, heroic, now hear this: In meditation, an epigram

per day keeps the doctor away, they say. I appeal to all religious leaders to join forces. And to say so, too. Why not, in meditation — daily, epigrams?

We’re all in shock. Still in denial of what has happened and what may be happening next act. The facts show that 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 an important clue to what’s happening, as a matter of fictional — nonfictional — fact.

Tough crowd, the Earthlings, Art tells me he was told about we Earthlings. Worse now that all are in shock and in denial of what’s happened and what’s, happening.

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 in denial of what’s happened and what’s happening.

Why not, daily epigrams? On Passover and Easter and during the month of Ramadan and thereafter, all who would act for their children, in time.

Now hear this: Do as I say and not as I do.See in my hypocrisies and a super flu coronavirus your mistake, once upon a time, a long time ago. To act in time

my fellow Urantians, see in this super flu coronavirus not just the grave mistake ye made with me, once upon a time — only seemingly, a long long, time ago.

Why not, daily epigrams? Do as I say and not as I do. On Passover and Easter and during the month of Ramadan, o/b/o children; that they, may love, in time. So

see my fellow Urantians, in this super flu virus not just the grave mistake ye made with me once upon, a really, surreal time only seemingly, a long long, time ago.

See, in the virus, opportunity. On Passover and Easter and during Ramadan, o/b/o the children that they may love in time and so

that they may duly learn that what the right hand giveth, the left hand oft taketh. I really surreally can’t help but say the self-defeating things — I do, do — opine.

My bit part in this tragi-comic West Wing parody is too little comic relief to offset tragic events ongoing. But an about face timely, may give the children, some time.

LUKE 12:48

But an about face timely, may get back, for some of the children, some lost time. Often, what the right hand giveth the left hand doth — slyly,

taketh. The self-defeating things I say and do are too little tragi-comic, relief. And too late, maybe. We’ll just have to wait and see, what happens — We’ll see.

We’ll see. One’s fates, alternative, are many. Imagine wildly, I feel so provoked by a reporter’s question, that I throw my expensive Gucci loafer at her,

— or at him. They would say that I’m thin-skinned. But if I throw it not they may say that I’m too soft to take on our Russian and Chinese competitors.

Herd mentalities whip us back and forth, to and fro. It’s up to individuals not the 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 God-given rights, inalienable. And I’ve got it on paper, in the Constitution, too.

No one knows what l’ll do with my power. Often, not even me. It’s hard to run a country run-down by deep state — Obama-herd-style, mentalities.

Avoiding taxation shall ever be hard, skirting and evading all those legal technicalities required lots of planning. But I’ve got fixers and I’ve got groupies.

I’m no groupie. But I’ve got groupies. And I’m a gadfly; a, social butterfly, venomous, flitting table to table, at fundraisers, unable later, often, to arise. A Plan B

contingency plan is become necessary, because, as everyone knows no Plan A survives first contact with the enemy. Accordingly, a plan — in contingency.

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 abundantly

blessed with talents, wealth, knowledge, time, and the like, it is expected that we in turn, benefit others, in due time and proportion, accordingly.

I’ve been given lots. I’ve taken lots also. I know that a lot, indeed, is expected of me. To whom much is given, much will be required. Luke 12:48 means we

get held responsible for what we have. I’ve been blessed. And so I’ll reopen our economy too quickly even as I complain, we’re reopening, too slowly.


I’ll reopen our economy against my wishes, slowly. And, perhaps, it’s all for the best; sometimes, I want to move — rashly, too imprudently — too quickly.

— Now, tho, I’ve no choice. A virus, unlike me; smallish, unintelligent — and extremely rude has worn out its welcome and my all-American, hospitality.

The contagion’s spread has made moving about Urantia, problematic;  but impossibilities and physical limitations, to Penemue, the ever watchful Watcher,

present obstructions ephemeral. And it was poetry that he channeled then to his lover, forbidden. And some say this verse is that of none other than the Watcher.

He’s very observant; I’m special; irresistible; untouchable; irreplaceable. Still, a virus has put me in my place. And things are bad and getting worse.

I’m not good, at death. It’s beyond me. Still, I’m getting blamed for death. And expected to respect the deceased. Things are bad and they’re getting worse.”

Things are bad and getting worse. I’m not good at death. It’s beyond me. And it makes me sad. I’m especially unhappy about 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, these days, everyday — the toll of deaths.

Don’t be alarmed. I have total authority. It’s in the Constitution, somewhere; my total authority over national lockdowns; everything national, really.

Republicans are joining Democrats in a growing backlash against my comments about my total authority over deciding when to lift totally,

stay-at-home orders. It’s my call all the way. I’m the president. It’s within my authority. It’s mine and it is, indubitably, total in a pandemic.

The emerging consensus: Had I embraced the multiple early warnings I timely received about the tragic potential of the coronaviral pandemic,

I likely would have saved lives and been favored to win an election. As it is, I sing a song with a sad refrain, lamenting the dope I’ve been, throughout the pandemic.


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. It is a genius, uncommon, this common sense, of mine.

The plot thickens. The Chinese reaction, I imagine shall be swift — and furious. Even inconclusive evidence that the so-called novel coronavirus

originated at a Chinese research facility in Wuhan leaves the Chinese less than inscrutable to US. Xi’s been irate even tho I’ve told him — it’s not about us.

Our militaries are bracing for an indefinitely long struggle against the coronavirus; and one another; looking for novel ways to maintain an advantage.

Looking too as well to sustain troops’ health without breaking their morale, whilst, all the while, sustaining overall, the general, advantage.

And so it has come to pass in the Chinese year of the rat that a virus ‘born’ there, and borne thereafter, near everywhere, naturally, or artificially, came to be.

To be sure no one really believes that this whole situation is anything other than an unfortunate happenstance complicated by  human negligence, most unfortunately.

It’s not about us, If a virus in China is ‘born’ and borne thereafter, near everywhere, there’s gonna be, Xi, naturally, investigations; legal

matters. Pay no mind to anything I say on my campaign trail. In any event it remains to be seen as a matter of law whether Wuhan‘s wet markets are causal.

A virus born in China and borne thereafter, near everywhere on the surface of the Earth, carries with it — Xi — consequences — legal.

It’s not about just about us, If a virus in China is ‘born’ and borne thereafter, near everywhere, there’s gonna be, Xi, naturally, suspicions legal

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad. And Xi’s irate. Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead. Full speed ahead against China; China’s distracting, from the microbe.

Distracting, I’ll be from here on in. We’ll just have to work out later, the fallout. Especially since we found out WHO won’t surrender to the microbe.


It’s the blame game. I blame ye and ye blame me, et cetera. As ye know, I excel at the blame game. But I want us — Xi — to move past that. Noble

Nobels await the men who may make Homo sapiens, for once, noble. And if we bring peace to mankind — then by definition, we as well, shall be — noble.

Let’s speak Xi, as one. Ye and me and Kim and Mo, also. And Vladimir, of course. Let’s speak as one. Accordingly, I hereby proclaim in our names,

a United Nation, staking a claim to the Nobels we’ll earn if we can end these endless horror stories, we keep repeating in our nations’ — and in — our names.

To that end Xi, my 1st foray (in all our names) into ghostwriting, we all having agreed that in any worst case scenario — any sudden devolution

of the world order Arthur shall have no platform like my bully pulpit for his nonfiction, posing as fiction; his allegory. Stories of weakling men — in evolution.

A thought experiment being in order, I ordered a rally, political, tweeting an ill thought out tweet, to accompany it. Ill-conceived demonstrations, endanger,

people’s lives; this is precisely how Covid-19, spreads. Thanks Albert Einstein for the experiment, I tweeted on Twitter — to my followers — in danger.

I’m on your side, I say, all the while, laughing out loud. I’m on my side, really. And in twists of fate smacking of predetermination, how many die,

depends in part on a virus that has stymied mankind but hasn’t stymied me. In fact the virus is why, in part, I’ll survive, no matter how many die.

Believe me; I’ll survive no matter how many may die. Why’s another matter; a matter for my Maker or His duly 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 and world peace to me.

Mind your business. Leave the security of the nation and its economy to me. I shall survive, I assure ye, no matter how many of ye may 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. Life is short and then — ye die.


This may be the brave new world some people were talking about; if so, the new normal’s not normal no ‘mo. Tho we be free and we be brave,

still, we’ve got fear, and me to fear. So get back to work — ere ye start coughing — and die. Mind your own business. Be a man. Buck up. And — be brave.

Online conspiracy theories are describing the COVID-19 pandemic as a government-perpetrated hoax. Blame for the pandemic lies, they say,

not only with the American Army but with the Jews and the Chinese, raising the risk of violence against them, especially the latter two, I’d say.

Thousands of Americans; dying needlessly because of my dithering. And how many more have I sentenced to die, due to my scapegoating, of the WHO

over my, very own, failures? But WHO knows — along with China — along with everybody, that I dropped the ball and so that’s why — 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 discourse, nor  civil disobedience, know,

from armed insurrection, then some continuing education is in order. Dying by the thousands, now — whither cometh millions — and pogroms — who knows?

Cometh possibly, the pogroms, anew. And God forbid they be like what happened to the Armenians in Turkey and to 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 blunt force, intimidation.

Once the immediate crush of COVID-19 cases subsides, epidemiologists say a “post-peak” purgatory lies ahead, until the various competing vaccines,

shakeout; and we return to some semblance of normalcy. A lot depends on herd immunities — and the development of effective — and safe, vaccines.

There’s enough coronavirus testing capacity to put in place my great plan to allow for a phased V-shaped, reopening of my American economy,

albeit officials and business leaders are raising alarms about shortages and my shortcomings. I’m not, delusional. Delusional are those disagreeing with me.


It is one thing to be harmlessly, delusional. As one in a daydream oft is. As we all at times, are. But when one as delusional as I am — to such death,

am causal, then my confabulated reality shall collide with the American, all too real — surreality of — my responsibility, for these preventable deaths.

I’ll own these deaths. I don’t mind lying. But lying’s a problem if no one, thereafter,  believes ye. The bare-cupboard — Obama alibi — was an outright lie

— from the outset. My ultimate responsibility for these deaths that verily ought have been preventable, I’ll ne’er be able to — convincingly — deny.

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 of course, a voluminous set, of lies.

Tony: Help me help Art help us. He’s in a safe place; in a safe house, at the moment. But not from the virus; and certainly not from, Vladimir Putin’s, assassins.

Arthur’s in a viral hotspot, right now. And Arthur as ye know is old, slow and medically, compromised. Have ye a safe place in Europe, Tony — for him?

Have ye a safe place, Tony, for Arthur? Safe from Vlad’s assassins. And this new assassin, novel, they say. But Arthur 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. And we’ve got to live, too. Just to keep Arthur alive — also.

Women. Baby makers; Amazons oft when they so need to 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 within this paradigm, we’ll need to start over.

Switching paradigms; and starting over; given a governmental infrastructure already in place, we can do this — and we can do it — 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 — the doctor, ordered.


Gather. Reorganize from the sovereign paradigm to the proposed Golden-ruled one. Bring our vast artificial intelligence capabilities, to bear, in time

for solutions to administrative problems, sundry as we pursue — edification and recreation, in our individual passages, through space and through time.

Still, in your individual passages through space and time pause daily to meditate upon purposes — His — and ours — and the challenge of pressing change,

insistent. In governance, climate and human migration, due to a lack of time, communal, remedial meditations, on Luna are vital, to effect, real change.

I tell ye Art’s story, the Watcher’s story, surreally, Art thinks. It’s a story of determination to effect real change born of a predetermination by The Author.

The Author of Scriptures — He’s The Director of this morality play. Meditation’s key to the modification of our behaviors. So says Arthur.

Did I say Arthur said that? I meant to say I said that. Arthur merely agrees with me. As now also do Vladimir and his guys, belatedly realizing, epiramming’s,

potential; our last opportunity to — in one fell swoop — become one as a planet, our Nobels win — and save our skins, from a fate like an embarrassing, public hanging.

How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it likely varies; there’s no one answer; but in battles between microbes and a germaphobe, a profile in courage,

may emerge. And so take this verse as a spoiler alert only if ye have already astutely determined who is that already, predetermined, profile in courage.

In this battle between numerous microbes against a lone germaphobe, a profile in courage, predeterminedly, emerges. And predictably — he is me.

They say that people get the governors they deserve. My fellow Americans; a nation in crisis deserves a profile in courage. Someone — like me.

Others, on the other hand say the opposite, whatever that may be, on whatever, occasion. Nonetheless, a microbe and a germaphobe,

waging wits, battle; and one, a profile in courage, predeterminedly, emerges. Predictably; not surprisingly, he’ll be me, the germ-killing, germaphobe.


For the time being, for Urantia — happy, bittersweet and bitter endings — also. Ye have been from crazed men — them bipolar, Homo sapiens,

saved. Arthur won his wings. With five planets officially saved, officially retired is he and off to to hook up with his beloved Emily, awaiting him in Heaven.

Thanks to the Watcher Kim got his soul back from Lucifer’s Satan; as did I. Too soon we shall be long gone but we’ve left ye — in our legacies — answers.

Witness the wisdom in threes, twos, and ones. Trichotomies, dichotomies and unities. Witness numbers and letters; the alphabet; and Aristotle’s, “Number

is everything.” And witness my Emily’s letters to a world, unresponsive. Sense in her verse the wonder, common to all of us. Wonderful to Art, her verse.

Witness Arthur Everman’s commission; a universal, mission impossible. And witness the verse. Poetry channeled from elsewhere, somewhere, in the universes.

Witness too, Art’s Saul-to-Paul-like transformation. By lightning stricken, the ever lit up and drunken Arthur, literally got lit up by a light of a ball lightning,

strike. Witness an illumined Arthur with his quill pen analogs penning an analog of his beloved Emily’s lovely letters to a world then — far — less alarming.

To the nations, akin to Emily, Arthur has written as an instructive algorithm, his MAYDAYS. And it is a lettered and numbered — how-to — alchemical;

towards Golden Rule fueled, behavior mod fortuitously mirrored after public health fueled, behavior, modification. It’s not magic — it’s, a miracle.

Remember: Everything that happens is part of His comprehensive plan. Remember also Occam’s Razor. The simplest answer, is 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.

Do this in my memory, when I’ve gone on to Heaven. From your grazing, lift your heads. Stand up to the dictators. Tweet to them. And march upon them.

Don’t worry about those old-fashioned Russian and Chinese firewalls. Just rely on good-old, time-honored, old-fashioned — human, communication.


Make 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 lofty place, high atop — the Nielsen — ratings.

Photo-poetry, is yet fledgling. Yet it may be humanity’s disarming weapon against the armies sundry and their sundry weapons of war. Far more mightily disarming

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

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

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

Thank ye President Vladimir Putin. Thanks to all your efforts at the time of my first term election, now I’m actually able to rig my own reelection.

Between Vladimir Putin and my dad, I’ve been schooled by the greatest cheaters of all time. Thanks VV (my pet name for him). Thanks for being the greatest

mentor of all time. I’m still running; indeed, I’m rushing to be the first Russian agent to be named, of all America’s presidents, its all time, greatest.

A lot can still happen; my name, bandied about for Nobels again. I got Israel to suspend a West Bank annexation. And Kim and I’ll surprise at the UN, Assembly.

Kim and I shall shock the world in September at the UN General Assembly. We’ll announce the game-changing Kim-Don Plan at the UN General Assembly,

and one nation committed to multi-tasking the trichotomy of governance, climate and migration and the dichotomy of the haves and the have nots … finally.

One nation committed to multi-tasking the trichotomy of governance, climate and migration and the dichotomy of the haves and the have nots with a Unitary.

re ye may very well be, more or less, in about six weeks.Shutdowns and school closures will slow the virus’ spread but when lifted, we’ll be right back where we started. Hospitals shall beoverwhelmed. Get thee to a grocery. Thence perhaps to a nunnery. There has already been too much community spread to prevent this tragic inevitability.

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