Imagine a Twilight Zone-like, Brave New World; a post-dystopian, dystopia, further devolved. An Animal Farm some time, post-1984. Imagine us. Then imagine a sure way forward; a tall tale
story with a joyous, happy ending. For this too shall pass, just as surely as pass time’s seasons and seconds. And albeit ye may not believe me, true actually, is what some say is — a tall tale.
Tragic, as ever. Comic, more recently. And tragi-comic, still. Until Kim and Don’s falling bombs, perhaps some day, leave ye with a day’s remains — for the rest of yer life — sustaining.
Tragic. And comic. And near idyllic, for one, percent. And for the remaining, struggling ninety-nine, percent, fifty shades of intolerable, tolerating. A tipping point — has been tipping.
Ye who so obliviously race, through space, are as a consequence of your obliviousness, literally racing now, against time, so inexorably, relentless. Time takes its time. It’s not — racing.
Prologs, to epilogs, are actions. And omissions to act. Ominously, the Donald’s revealing, gaffes, less comically than tragically, to ye, revealing. Ominously, the Donald is revealing,
his colors, and his color, to ye. Red, white and blue. And white, respectively. His father’s KKK sympathies aside, their discrimination against blacks in housing show that the Donald’s allies
favor some, over others. Donald clearly favors some (white nationalist) citizens, over others. Considered objectively, Kim does so too. Cyber spy-fly, Buzz, Arthur’s crime-busting, insect ally,
has their taped words and acts, confirming as much. Both feel trapped. Both are unfit. And neither of them can be trusted, to do the right thing. Feeling ever trapped and unfit — they lie
a lot; even to their allies. Friend and enemy alike know better than to unduly trust them. It has nothing to do with right and wrong. It’s about juvenile bragging rights between allies.
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 have been, 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.
GOOD, NOT FAKE, NEWS
I’ve got good news for ye; really, good news; a surreal surprise for a modern man, reprised. The virus is a present, a surprise opportunity disguised as a predicament. A really lucky year
of the rat, surprise. But wise men know that it’s just nature’s way; as when an aged forest burns only to give way to a renewed pristine forest only to once again in stages, age over the years.
Bombshell tapes and bombshell books are of no effect against me. I’ll just deflect and deny and genuflect and parry. And self-defensively lie if I have to. In my autobiographical satire,
MAYDAYS, though, I shall get the better of me. Using my own words and thoughts; to slice and dice and savage me; so, coming soon to a coffee table near ye, a most compelling, satire.
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 have been, 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.
I’ve got good news for ye; really, good news; a surreal surprise for a modern man, reprised. The virus is a present, a surprise opportunity disguised as a predicament. A really lucky year
of the rat, surprise. But wise men know that it’s just nature’s way; as when an aged forest burns only to give way to a renewed pristine forest only to once again in stages, age over the years.
A SURPRISE ENDORSEMENT
Tuesday, March 4, 2030: Because it is both a calendar date and a command, I’ve got a date in mind for Urantia‘s citizens’ inaugural celebration of their first, Global Citizenship Day.
On Tuesday, March 4, in the year of Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. 2030. A perfect fit. And the surreal irony of it all, is not at all, lost upon me. From America First, a Global Citizenship — Day.
No, ironies are not, upon me, lost. Magnificent, is His timing; Carl Jung’s synchronicities serve to accentuate that magnificence, suggesting that perhaps, indeed, that’s their purpose, everyday.
The synchronicities are clues; clues to what’s happening; clues to this incomprehensibly baffling mix of predeterminations, free will, miracles aplenty and magic apparent everyday.
That — speak volumes. For I’m either an idiot, or an idiot, savant. A wrecking ball or wrecking ball precursor, antecedent to a transcendental, transformation’s — belated — reconstruction.
With Election Day fast approaching, I want to speak clearly, as I often don’t do to my sallow, fellow, Americans. TV has had a dramatic effect on me; a chronic condition; my prevarications.
Not as threatening to me as it is, believe ye me, to the nation. Too much TV-watching has had a tragi-comic effect on me. Witness; much taken was I with my hero the eloquent sailor, Popeye.
Popeye‘s why I like to say I ams what I ams; that’s part of the comic part. Then — there’s Iran. The made for TV — 444 days. Verily, TV hath left an indelible mark on me, bye and bye.
The point of this verse, inter alia, is to declare my unfitness to hold the office I do in fact hold. Pursuant to my agreement with Arthur; to say, unequivocally, I’m sick and tired of being unfit.
Too sick and let me be perfectly clear; indeed, too clinically mentally ill am I, to be a president. Indeed I have been from the very beginning of my presidency, all along, mentally 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 the president of a nation — mind ye — any nation, I am — most supremely — uber-unfit.
And so in lieu of resignation, I offer instead an unequivocal endorsement of my esteemed opponent, the most honorable most Sleepy, Joe Biden. Personally, I don’t sleep but I am, unfit.
Sign me in closing, your favorite president, President Tweety Trump; and post-script it, Sorry, Sleepy, about all that Ukrainian-Hunter, stuff. I was just kidding. Don’t even bother to
investigate me; nor investigate anybody in my family; not Barbie; not Ken. By the way, I’ve taken the liberty of offering and accepting from myself, 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. But if I somehow win in November, all bets are off.
This epic poem I hereby gift ye, explains, a lot. Not just why I’m undertaking the risk of leaving DC’s unlucky Chinese year of the rat to ye but also why I’m undertaking to take some time off.
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 Bush 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 measured
different from the follower rest of ye. Most follow where leaders, lead. But some are their own leader. Leaders like Greta. She may well, in due time, lead us to, a brand new, perspective.
There is a vast potential, not in plain sight, but hidden. Hidden as if in the bowels of an algorithm. Almost perfectly hidden. Things placed in bowels, are well hidden, irrespective.
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 Arthur, a second class, American citizen — persuasive.
Enter the dragon. No; the dragon’s not the so-called, novel, coronavirus. The dragon is Arthur and he has entered as dragons are wont to do; spitting — hot ash and spitting — hotter, fire.
Abraham Lincoln earned his eventual political stature to due to an ability to compromise and supreme confidence. George Washington, a close reading of history — reveals — a higher,
calling. To my chagrin, I’d done no real work to earn my wealth. Been getting enrichened, since I was a toddler. Like Citizen Kane, my wealth had been a mere stepping stone, to my power.
But what good can power really do? Indeed, what good can power do, I have often thought even as I have done, wrong. Now, however, second thoughts — empower me — further.
I’m having second thoughts. Excellent, second thoughts. I’m studying composition at Arthur’s very much besought School of Poetry. He in turn, studied ethics at my Trump University.
Now defunct, once upon a time, it was as well,
much besought and very highly, regarded, amongst the subset seeking an e=mc2-type formula to success, once upon a time, formerly.
THE PLAN IN A NUTSHELL
Whether or not Arthur’s alleged electrocution actually happened I can’t say. I wasn’t there. Nor can I say with any certainty that that’s when it happened that Arthur began versing.
And I wasn’t there either when Arthur alleges he had his Archimedean, EUREKA moment, in his bathtub and then promptly went and got himself arrested, by a policewoman, arresting.
The arresting policewoman, a good-looking one also, indeed did Arthur arrest. But I’ll say this, if only to end any debate as to what’s happening here. Arthur’s verse, truly is, miraculous, verse.
Dissolve the UN; one nation, reconvene. One Rule per nation; each nation its own; everybody gets her or his Basic Income, Universal. What pray tell is the globally, universal Rule, in verse?
The universal Rule that the nations need rule and be ruled by — a poetic verse itself — is none other than our very much beloved albeit, our very much underutilized — Golden Rule.
Dissolve the UN. One nation, reconvene. And decree the Golden Rule to be the Law in every nation. And everyone on the planet gets his or her Universal Basic Income — pursuant to Rule.
In these crises multi-task, efficiently. Follow the data. And the science. Let’s let tech help us to crunch the numbers. Let us aspire to well use everyone. And aspire — also, to lose — no one.
It’s 2020. Set 2030 as the inaugural GCD; the 1st global citizenship day. I’ll be there, God willing; and never mind Congress. Because March 4th is both a date and a command — to everyone.
March 4th; both a date and a command; 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 discomfortingly digestive than battlefield — instinctive. A man, has his limits.
Notwithstanding a cacophony of bellyaching sounds, sounds most unbecoming to many, my approval ratings are rising again. Coming soon; dramatic plot twists — in an American tall tale;
of four antiheroic dictators and a More-Mart greeter — hero. Four for humanity we’d have ye believe we are. But with Art — we are five not four, looking for Nobels for we four, failed,
antiheroes. I know I’m not paranoid because I know they’re really out to get me; the deep state; other states too. China and Iran go out of their way — especially to bedevil — me as well.
Dissolve the UN. One nation, reconvene. Decree the Golden Rule to be the Law in every nation. Everyone on the planet gets his or her UIB pursuant to Rule. It’s the plan, in a nutshell.
A PILGRIM’S PROGRESS
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 am going there directly and that I am going there alive, 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. Some say nobody believes me. But who believes that?
What makes an inhuman act immoral if ye lose and not immoral if ye win? A question as relevant today and in today’s wars as it was about Hiroshima and Nagasaki. History is not
written only by the victors, who win. History no longer is written exclusively by the winning victors. Progress; albeit too little, and perhaps, too late. What makes 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. It’s progress.
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. And if ye are reading my soliloquy, I’m already, halfway there. Only I, Donald John Trump, dare say that I’m going to Heaven; there, 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 orders where there
is no legislation, or legislation‘s too slow. I know that to be true because I too was there with the Lord and with the Founding Fathers. In the spirit, anyway. 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 am going there directly and that I am going there alive — at that. How dare anyone gainsay
or naysay me? Lock him up. Lock her up too. Lock them all up, Because first they’ll come for the rich; then they’ll come for the white nationalists; then for real estate developers.
I’ll neither hang nor go to jail. I’m helping him that’ll put in a good word for us when they come for us. But for now fear of viruses pales next to the wannabe assassins, stalking Arthur.
Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in Hell, on 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 — my
alter ego’s earlier statements made on this Independence Day, the very first global, such day. One such plot device is the atmosphere, lunar. 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 and call out whatever in the Hell on Earth, is there
actually, happening. My true account of my soirées on Luna with my frenemy, dictatorial, friends, especially characterized by a sing-song, musical cadence, conducive to epigramming.
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 fascism.’ It’s a philosophy, political, movement or regime (like the Fascisti)
that exalts nation and often race, above, the individual. And I do seem to be, as virulently fascist, as any former — Fascisti. They came first for the Gypsies — then Jews — then me.
Weeks ago, an asteroid exploded over Tokyo; a smaller version of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs once upon, a long time, ago. We don’t actually know where and when in the Hell
the smaller asteroids are coming. When they get here they often let us know. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to blow the whistle on what’s happening in 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 from going to — or merely becoming — Hell.
I am anxious to tell, within the larger story, the previously unknown story of how Kim has helped me craft a plan, to save the Earth from going to — or merely becoming on Earth, Hell.
Kim’s helped me craft a plan to save the Earth from going to, or God forbid becoming, on Earth an unholy Hell. And so I’m calling on the children to tweet to Kim yourselves, personally.
I’m calling on the children to tweet to Kim their personal messages; in groups; and individually. Tweet to him; and Xi; and Vladimir. If they did so that would be some would say, newsworthy.
THE LESS THAN GRATEFUL DEAD
Three clashes. Three problems. And for me and my friends three golden opportunities. The fate of Earth depends on me and my four strange, and oh so — strangely estranged — brothers.
Predetermined is everything; everything that’s happened; everything, happening. And saving everything has fallen to me and strange and my oh so strangely, estranged — foreign, 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; we who don’t survive it are — the less — than grateful, dead.
Less than grateful have been many of the denizens of Urantia (Earth, hereinafter, interchangeably). Others, in marked contrast, knowing why the caged bird sings, sing instead.
My lover Kim can attest to his opinion that for one so extraordinarily, extraordinary, my singing voice in the shower sounds, quite uncharacteristically for me — boringly ordinary.
Personally, I know my singing, like everything about me, is great. God bless my roly-poly lover Kim; if he’s got a defect it’s just that, just like everybody else he — me — unhealthily, envies.
Everyone envies me — my life my success; and my personality. Still, it has come to pass that my not reading may be the proximate cause of an all too possible — future, human extinction.
Implausibly, near incredibly, it has come to pass, in an irony, supreme that my not reading may be considered causal to, an all too possible — catastrophic — human 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,” in English. From one revelation — an epiphany.
Treason’s in season, at my White House. And Russian agents, white supremacists and even a Neo-Nazi, for this post-American homeland, are driving, my ill-advised — reactionary — policies.
Note well the dates: September, 11, 2001. December 21, 2012. And an unknown date in 2060, prophesied by Isaac Newton. Time — my fellow Americans, critically — is of the essence.
It’s always just minutes from midnight on the Doomsday Clock. It’s a travesty of justice; crimes against humanity; 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 Vladimir and his henchmen, in the end, screw me in communist — camaraderie. But better dead — than red.
I think therefore I am. A vision, a revelation and an epiphany is what follows; it’s reality TV, universally, universal; complete with an Apocalyptic four horsemen, repentant, instead.
US-1: MY WRONG WAY, HIGHWAY
Two roads diverged. As often happens, taking one or the other makes all the difference. Of a momentous decision wrote Robert — the craftsman — Frost — way back then — when,
in letters, painstakingly, numbered. Woe may be, me; I once considered tweeting Kim Jong un and following him. Perhaps, I ought have done so — and sought peace — way back — when.
Kim Jong un, once upon a time threatened US with annihilation, nuclear. I’ve answered with crushing 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, switching them back I took the latter — most cheerfully.
And indeed it has made a huge difference. I regret my road not taken; the one to America First would have been a model for the nations, not ISIS. But ‘tis what ‘tis. I took the one to ISIS.
I went the wrong way and it’s made all the difference in the world; and I’ve been reminded by all these old folks dying. It is what it is. Witness my decision to take the road — to ISIS.
It is what it is. The legacies of Mahatma Gandhi, Matin Luther King and Nelson Mandela are the ways of truth, of non-violence, justice and mercy. It is as well I might add — 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 roaming universal viewers, each and every day.
Not science fiction. Nonfiction. But one, of countless, stories. My soliloquy is an ontology and an algorithm; Dorothy’s yellow brick road to an elusive general prosperity — and peace.
MAYDAYS: An epic poem to legatee-children. How to get from hate to peace and prosperity by the conversion of love’s potential energy to kinetic energy — for a miraculous — peace.
There is a law on the books prohibitive of diplomacy by citizens, private. Ne’er enforced, it is nonetheless, there; it’s still on the books; an abridgement of speech against citizens, there.
The citizen-activist-twitter-diplomats of the republics and the nations, everywhere. In order to correct my original error; my original sin, I may look askance in all directions, everywhere,
as my estranged brother Arthur Everman calls upon the visionaries the children, especially, to take the lead, tweeting epigrammatically, from all points on the planet — near — everywhere.
Art calls upon visionary children especially, to take the lead, tweeting epigrammatically from all points on the planet, near everywhere. They, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh willing, get us there.
Photo-poetry is yet fledgling, presently, but in the future that Art hails from it has evolved into a form of communication, multi-dimensional. Neuro-scientific applications make my poetry,
multi-functional; in business; in marketing; in education and, increasingly again, in recreation. It was in 2020 when in the face of a daunting synchronicity of events, I first wrote my poetry,
disarming. It all began in that most eventful year of 2020, the lucky year of the rat, turned unlucky, as ye may recall. And it’s not over. An Earth-shaking event shook Beirut recently
and in its date and its effect an irony, supreme, I found. Atomic-bomb-like was the force of the blast in Beirut. One of Jung’s synchronicities — in effect. It has had a profound effect on me.
One of Jung’s synchronicities, I surmise, was the Beirut explosion. A ground-shaking event shook Lebanon’s Beirut and in its effect a supreme irony I’ve found. Consider — the date.
Atomic-bomb-like was the force of the blast in Beirut. A ground-shaking event shook Beirut, recently. And I found it ironic viewing the blast’s effect on the viewer — in view — of 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. 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 the states
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 timely
events ends up destroying the GOP It may amend itself and form an austere conservative wing of the Democratic Party. Alas — I didn’t have time enough to everything — end, finally.
Poetry’s power, understated, is transcendental, potentially. Witness my call to all: Opportunity, unrecognizably disguised as a virus, calls upon us to tweet directly to our leaderships — 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. Velvet, Kim and I propose, in lieu,
of revolution, violent. Our plan we’ve named, the Kim-Don Plan. In honor of two flawed men; a plan modeled on Madiba’s, groundbreaking, South African — Truth and Reconciliation, Plan.
Nelson Mandela’s Truth and Reconciliation is 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 our Plan,
at the tail end, of the year of the rat is fitting, given that my fitness; the direction the country has taken and my rash clash of the civilizations mentality, have conspired against me — a plan.
The plots are thickening; even as whistles atop pressure cookers, begin to whistle; even as the sheep-men graze, unconsciously. It is in the timing of everything that hints to us — His Plan.
As the sheep-men graze the sheep herders worry. What may become of them when the sheep men discover what’s likely, really happening. When they discover — the scams?
In chat rooms, near everywhere, miraculously, reprise whispers of velvet revolutions. Witness, Belarus; perishing from a virus and and being impoverished because of the herders’, scams.
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 time.
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 announcement in September. So even if we lose an election in November, Nobels we may win — come Christmastime.
I tell ye a secret. Come Christmastime — if Nola acts in time, I’ll reveal, tippity-top, top secrets of mine. I’m unfit and voting for Joe and blowing a whistle on Vlad’s Cabal, if — Nola acts, in time.
Poetry’s power, so potentially transcendental is understated if not totally unrecognized and it remains, near wholly, unrealized. But if Nola
acts in time, mankind may also — act in time.
If Nola acts in time, mankind too, may act in time. To dump a paradigm, sovereign in favor of the Golden Ruled one I favor. Nobels, Vlad and his guys may win — come Christmastime.
SURREAL TALL TALES
2016 through 2019; three years in the ebbing, best of times. Three years in my presidency. 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 ye shall hear, when I tell ye, the very tallest tall tale, of all time. It’s my highly acclaimed, GOAT, 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; in contrast it’s really, unfairly advantageous, being born in, America.
Figuratively, not literally, incredible, is the GOAT tall tale I’m telling about when I saved the Earth and won Prizes Nobel for peace and literature. It’s been an advantage, being born, in America.
‘Tis the tallest of tales, this GOAT tall tale. ‘Tis the greatest story ever told, I’m often told. And I’m proud to tell our story; more importantly, I’m proud, mostly — about telling — my story.
His story; history; my story and your stories; adding energy and matter — that’s everything. And everything’s infused with His Personality; and His Personality lives in, our personalities.
One such personality was Hosea, the prophet of doom but underpinning Hosea’s gloom and doom was a promise of restoration. The Jewish Talmud says — it was Hosea’s gloom and doom
message that was greatest, of his generation. One of Twelve Prophets of the Hebrew Bible and viewed by Christians as a Prophet, Minor. Still, like him, I see a ton of — gloom and doom.
Unlike Hosea, I’m no prophet. But I’ve seen the videos of our alternative destinies, thousands of times. I’ve seen our alternative fates play out before me. The fates are two; gloom and doom
and peace and prosperity. I’m a man for the ages; for Earth, the man of the hour. I’m no prophet. But I’ve seen the videos of our fates and the fates are but two — Doom and gloom
or literally zoom to revelations and discoveries and epiphanies therefrom. I’ve seen the videos of our alternative fates. ‘Tis supremely ironic that it’s still up to us in fact as to whether we
bankrupt or profit. As a test of reality pinching oneself is often misleading; that it hurts and even bleeds is no proof of reality except, possibly — circumstantially — metaphysically.
A surreal tall tale is this GOAT tall tale; surreal, not real. Or is it? Or does it depend? Perhaps it depends on whether MAYDAYS is fiction or nonfiction; whether or not, really, or surreally.
Clearly, more goes on here than meets the eye. Clearly, the Golden Rule yields to, eyes for eyes. Clearly, the ayes — have it and for the GOP, I’ll run. But for Joe, I’ll vote in November, surreally.
TRUE TALL TALES
Pinching oneself as a test of reality tends to be misleading. Ye can feel the pinch; make it hurt; make it even, bleed. Still, that’s no proof. That’s no proof of reality’s existence. In metaphysics
there are no proofs — not circumstantial. This poem’s an algorithm; an Occam’s Razor; to help ye modify, your behaviors, barbaric. This poem, implausibly, is an Occam’s Razor — algorithmic;
a useful tool to help us modify our barbaric behaviors. Karma certainly works, mysteriously. But it isn’t, trust me, as mysterious as it seems. What is happening on Earth is not — 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, seemingly
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. But it’s less mysterious if everything’s scripted and choreographed. It’s less mysterious once one understands that everything fits and everything’s — miraculous.
Everything fits; everything is connected. Everything, in stasis; and changing, constantly. Surreptitiously, rule the dictators, whilst we Earthling sheep-men — graze semi-obliviously.
People want to know why I lie for Vladimir; he who allegedly compromised me with sex, lies and videotaped, Goddamned, orgies. Sex, lies — and videotape. Had I just watched the movie
none of this would have happened. Sure, all lives matter. But white privilege won’t die easy. It’ll take a generation. That’s why the plan that follows is designed for March fourth — in 2030.
Surreptitiously rule the selfless dictators, whilst we benevolently ruled sheep-men graze, semi-obliviously. Fat and happy were the sheep men til recently — and humming, their economies.
We are sick now but by March 4, 2030, our nations, will be ready. White privilege won’t die easy. It’ll take a generation. That’s why the plan that follows is designed for March fourth, 2030.
Or not. It all depends on the decisions we make, or alternatively, [lol], the decisions that have been made for us, previously, already. Prepare to march forth on March fourth, 2030.
The Kim-Don Plan has been designed to officially inaugurate on March fourth of 2030. We can’t wait until then tho to implement the changes, we’ll commemorate on March 4, 2030.
We certainly can’t wait until then to implement the changes that we’ll commemorate on March 4, 2030. Or not; it all depends on what happens at the end of the year of the rat — that is 2020.
Occam’s razor; it has been hailed as an invaluable tool in the discipline of problem solving because the simplest explanation, in the usual, case and in the usual, eventuality —
is the right one. And the simplest explanation, bar none, is that predetermined has been each and every, actual, happening; predetermined has been — each and every single, eventuality.
The simplest explanation, bar none, is that predetermined is each and every day and each and every eventuality that actually happens during the course — of each — and every day.
In an irony, supreme, we are the universe’s must see — reality — TV; we are the daily fare for a universal viewership; watched live, in living color or on replay, each and — everyday.
We are the universe’s absolutely must see TV; daily fare for a universal viewership, often viewing the action on the edge of their seats, live or replayed, daily. The viewing universals
binge-watch, just like we do — back episodes; rooting for their favorite heroes. And rooting against their favorite villains. Heroes like Kim, Don, Xi and Vlad, Mo and me; heroes, universal.
Antiheroes actually are Kim, Don, Xi and Vladimir Putin; antiheroes, universal. Art is the only hero. 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; and against their favorite villain. Imagine Kim all the possibilities for ye and for me. I’m excited about the possibilities.
Imagine Kim the possibilities should ye and I make a blockbuster deal at the last moment; just imagine how grateful I’d be if such were the impetus — for my re-election, blockbuster,
and for Nobels for Peace and Literature, very possibly shared by all of us, come what may, come December, once passed, is November. Come December, once passed, is November,
share Kim the stage with me and the others; in December, once passed, is November. preview 2020’s Nobel-winning, MAYDAYS; unlike Arthur, I have in my bully pulpit — a gigantic, platform.
It’s the platform, Art lacks. I’m trumpeting MAYDAYS because I’m cynically repenting. As are also, Xi Vlad and even the fake Muslim, Mohammed, I am so very pleased — to inform.
Arthur’s serial tweets, ghostwritten by me. Allow me to introduce myself; I’m a man of wealth and fame; a complex simpleton; simply, a genius — an idiot savant — some others, say.
More importantly, many are indeed saying that the simplest explanation is that this existence is my big bit part and your smaller bit part in this larger Globe Theatre’s morality plays, everyday.
A SIMPLE EXPLANATION
All the world’s still a stage. And all the men and women still merely, players; players though in a much larger morality play than ever played on any Globe Theatre stage in Shakespeare’s day.
Seek, explanations simple. Art Everman’s artful plot device is helpful; it has heroes forgetting what they dreamt about on Luna the previous evening — when back on Earth — the next day.
The plot and the subplots following are the stories of three children of The Creator; three strangely, estranged brothers and billions of others, similarly — estranged — and deranged.
Kim, Don and Art; three megalomaniacals; three lazy liars. Kim and Don became leaders of nations. Art became a leading drinker, becoming thereby uber strangely — deranged.
As is increasingly evident, the plots are thickening in The Creator’s great morality play; a universal showcasing of what is supremely 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 my royalties, residual.
What’s so astonishing about being watched by extraterrestrials? We watch twits like me all the time on TV. The simplest explanation, happily, is that our existences are mere plays on stages;
with plots, luridly, unusual; what’s not to expect from creatures made in the image of Celestials. Witness creatures just like us; all around us just as viruses surround us virtually on, every stage.
Plots are thickening; simmering; threatening to boil over. Plots, lurid and unusual; Epstein’s dead and Ghislaine’s woes are now also, my woes. She’s got really really long toes as I recall.
The goings on nonfictional on Urantia, read, like fiction. But now that Kim, Don and Art (and Vlad and his guys too), in dreams conspire to inspire, lines blur. When the lines blur, recall,
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?
Asked by Art to lend my bully pulpit to serve as his platform, I’m ghost-writing MAYDAYS; my Nobel winning verse; publicly disagreeing with my public — statements and publicly, agreeing,
with Him. Because I’ve reconsidered, my future Nobel winning verse publicly disagrees with my public alter-ego and publicly agrees with Him Who is, no doubt — The Creator — these days.
He’s the One Who knows what’s what and what’s happening. And so I’ve agreed to lend Arthur my bully pulpit, to serve as his platform, for launching planet Earth’s SOS — MAYDAYS.
Behavior modification; tis the modern human imperative; ‘tis so because conflict between brothers is by definition — violence, domestic. By all means — separate — the combatants.
History’s record and our very human natures mitigate against humanity being somehow, miraculously saved, by these tragi-comic, sovereign, keystone-cop styled, governments.
Accordingly, MAYDAYS; my tome on ontology, realism, fiction and nonfiction; with a ready remedy, in neuro-scientific, science-fiction. ‘Tis a red herring, whether it’s fiction, or nonfiction.
What needs to be read by everyone on Earth can not be so read whilst bottled up in Twitter Streams. But placid Twitter streams, toweringly destructive tsunamis, become — in nonfiction,
and fiction. Thin veneers of civilization mask savage beasts lurking, within us. Modification of behavior works (instantly, sometimes), in individuals. Why not try behavior — modifying?
In yet another supreme irony, Penemue’s been commissioned to re-introduce man to verse he first taught to mortals, when once upon a time, he’d been 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 has been devolving more rapidly than it has been progressively, evolving.
Islam‘s Jinn the disembodied spiritual counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim of Genesis; progeny of the rebel angels who rebelled then against the Creator of everything.
Three of them fathered not Jinn-Nephilim. They were granted mercy; not chained to await their Judgement. Penemue was, however, sentenced to watch over Urantia, albeit — not perpetually.
Penemue; a rebel sentenced to forever watch, carnage on Earth; watching re-runs or live-action TV. A cruel and unusual punishment; it sure sounds like a proper Hell to me, actually.
He’d long, longed to die; it’s depressing when one’s immortal not to have a reason to live 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 Twittereze and epigramming. Let 280 characters teach children about, energy
potential. One frenemy’s already here. Another, on its way, lingers. A novel microbe is here. Unknown others, cometh. Of and from necessity sometimes, cometh — opportunity.
Of necessity cometh opportunity; if one’s lucky. Sometimes, one’s luck, runneth out. Witness: For all my money; I can’t buy a break in this year of the rat, seemingly, supremely, unlucky.
A PANACEA FOR PANGAEA
“IN THE MINDS of Urantia’s mortals there’s confusion about meanings regarding God, divinity and deity.” So begins the Urantia Book (sometimes, hereinafter — merely — the UB).
Of my three works my uber magnum opus is this MAYDAYS alert to Urantia; my take on what‘s happening here, based on an unknown author’s or authors’, UB. To it — I refer thee.
Because all’s predetermined, a Republican once a Democrat, is reborn, an egalitarian. An egalitarian (of all things), have I become in my very own — autobiographical, allegory, novel.
Still, unfit to rule may be, even a noble-minded, egalitarian. And indeed, I’m unfit to rule. Still, fittingly, Someone I pay but lip service to, has me deluding myself about winning — Nobels.
Two settings hath MAYDAYS; Earth and her long-time companion, the moon; Luna and Earth. Settings of character, feisty. They met once, living separate and apart — thereafter.
Settings with character; personality, have Mother Nature and Lady Luna. Mother Nature’s, tempestuous; stormy. Lady Luna’s more reflective — 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, not surprisingly — to an even far greater, story.
On goings-on on Urantia and Luna and the space, about them; two cosmic rooms with a view. On history, past, present and future. On peace and prosperity. A great story, about me.
Earthlings: Humor me. Imagine that ye are all brothers. Just imagine that! Imagine further that even a liar, pathological may have his behavior — modified — one way — or another.
Arthur; a layman lover, turned lush, turned lyrical philosopher, learned of truth and wisdom not in no school but rather as a dreamer — in Nola — and on Luna, atwitter.
To prolong Urantian anthropological history, Arthur urges that we use this virus. The Devil long ago made Kim and I offers, we couldn’t refuse. Faustian, bargains — bargains, costly.
We accepted. The terrible truth is that Kim and I, for power and wealth, our God-given souls, bartered and bargained. And make no mistake; Vlad, Xi and Mo — bartered theirs — similarly.
Thus, to the end of realizing Penemue’s plan to awaken ye sheep-like men, in lieu of Art (who’s isolating), heed me. Arthur and his dead poet pals, want to arm ye. In lieu of Art — heed me.
Arthur Everman and his dead poet pals and I want to arm you, with weaponized, poetry. Only poetry, weaponized (and me), may free us from — these really, most surreal — realities.
TO BE OR NOT TO BE
It’s been feeling like man’s final turn at bat. For nuclear powers cannot risk even a single, old-fashioned conventional war, sparking — a conflagration, catastrophically — much larger.
To be or not to be? The threshold — question. But mathematicians long dead all agree that, algorithms may well counter authoritarianism, so seemingly — really, surreally — taking over.
The Watcher Penemue, for salvation’s sake (for Urantia’s and his own), googled for weaklings; and his hits were the Kim and the Don and Arthur Everman. He googled also, for the dead
luminaries; the great poets, scientists and philosophers; to allow for collusion 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
“Tweet 280 character epigrams into pacific, epic poetry so that what ye write, may be read. Timing is everything, Andre once said. That said, the proof of the pudding is that the utility
of Twittereze and epigramming isn’t limited to advertising. He googled too for great writers of prose to collaborate with these unlikeliest of authors to inject prose-like drama into poetry.
“Thoughtfully tweet blog and pen, alchemical poetry,” the Watcher Penemue commissioned Arthur. Tweet concisely. Collate your tweets in a blog and pen — thereafter, my epic — story.
“Tweet blog and pen, Art in the Twittereze I, Penemue, hereby impart to ye; an Esperanto-like hope, an Esperanto-like prayer. Set aside your bottle and your self-condemning 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, right on your head — bye and bye.“ Imagine then, when on 12-21-12, when Art by lightning was stricken, something similar to Kim
and Don, also happened. The rest is history, past, present, or yet to be written. Arthur’s poetry is meant to reminds Kim and Vlad’s guys of what we dreamt about — just last evening.
Pundits, first, then historians will opine on my trajectory, my presidency and my legacy. Some will say that my pivot to egalitarianism belies a cynicism underlying but I don’t that, at all, deny.
Better late than never; and supremely fitting that from America first arise a battle cry crying, black lives matter. From Nola via Luna; New Orleans by way of Puerto Rico — bye and bye.
“What ten words do ye Arthur — to humanity, bequeath?” A daunting question posed; the inception to Arthur’s introspection, evolution and his eventual — surreal — transformation.
That question was telepathically posed to Art, Thursday, 12-20-12. “Who,” asked Art, “are ye?” “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; pausing then, for Art’s reply. But Art, momentarily speechless, had been rendered; rendered unable, to reply.
The Watcher, by way of introduction, went on. The Nephilim, he said, the giant men of renown in Genesis, were improvidently fathered by my companion, rebels. That is the reason why
of the 400, all but 3 are in chains, somewhere; their sentencing, reserved until the Day of Judgment. Chained because they married and commenced in unions — with human women;
and they taught them, moreover knowledge forbidden, — not presently — forbidden. The unchained three indeed married, but they fathered not, Nephilim; I was one — of them.
“I am The Watcher: I watch — still. I do not intervene. And to Him, I still answer. To wit, while 397 of the fallen, lusted after, married and procreated Nephilim, three albeit fallen,
only revealed to woman knowledge forbidden. Imagine then when on 12-21-12, nothing cosmic seemingly happened, that actually the MAYDAYS co-authors Kim, Don and Art then
began dreaming, together. In reveries, dreamy and in settings, lunar and Earthly, soirées Victorian, enjoying; wining and dining, together, in the company of — history’s — luminaries.
The illustrious luminaries of history; wining and dining and, more importantly, discussing, what on Earth is happening. What on Earth is really happening? And what’s happening — surreally?
And what’s the difference really between what’s real and surreal? Are they mutually exclusive or two sides of a coin? I’d argue that indeed, like faces of a coin — are reality — and surreallity.
Like the faces of a coin are reality and surreallity; physically equivalent, nonetheless, they are, metaphysically, distinct. ‘Tis an effect of consciousness, circumstances and His Holy
timing. Consciousness, circumstances and timing. The dual nature of existence, our circumstances and His magnificent timing. No wonder we’re clueless about what’s happening.
And so we must imagine; imagine like ne’er ere. With open minds and open hearts. Imagine what we might do if we focus like a laser, on us. Imagine dropping everything — and changing.
The long poem. Like the ancient epics. Like Homer’s, Iliad. Like his, Odyssey. Actually, at 1.8 million words, the Indian Mahābhārata is, by far, the very longest epic poem, ever written.
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, making Vyasa’s epic, the longest written.
It’s roughly ten times the combined length of Homer’s twins, the Iliad and the Odyssey. And it’s not just chopped liver for all along its length— it features content — totally — compelling.
Vyasa wrote the Mahābhārata to enable the common people to understand the highest knowledge, more easily. To be, or not to be? But — is humanity — its humanity — losing?
Arthur Everman’s 40 years in a delusional wasteland have been terribly educational; in the course of them he’s learned everyone seems crazed. Everyone — it seems — but him.
Everyone seems crazy; everyone, it seems but him. The proof is in the pudding. That the Godless nations’ rules makes sense to nearly everyone. Everyone — that is to say — 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, a state, intervention.
But there are remedies, remedial even to the most intractable of man’s conflicts. Domestic violence has remedies, in law and in fact. Among them, a few main ones 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 sky a strike of rare, ball lightning; from a clear blue sky, a strike of rare — ball lightning.
Extraordinary events, in the normal course of events are, all too often, not 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.
Garcia Marquez, Mo Yan and many others see what they imagine may be magical realism. But what they characterize as magical, is actually, miraculous. Miracles, not magic are what I see.
MAGIC AND MIRACLES
Amazing Grace; how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. Once lost, I’ve since been found; was blind; now, I see. Indeed, Garcia Marquez and Mo Yan saw — and wrote
about Jung’s synchronicities attributing them to magic. I beg to differ. All things happen, miraculously. And predeterminedly. I should know. Arthur told me so. And so — I wrote.
Art tells me that he 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, contrasts; and it’s ironic that it’s in Luna’s atmosphere’s airlessness, where hope is harbored, up there.
Attention Jew, Christian, Muslim, agnostic — and atheist. Read your Scriptures in the context of one another’s Scriptures; so that ye may thoughtfully — compare and — contrast them.
Woe to him without wisdom enough to read Scriptures nor smart enough to read them, thoughtfully, in context. Finding astoundingly eye-opening — nexuses — between them.
Recall Penemue’s commission to Art: Tweet. Blog. Pen, to the children, epigrammatic, Greek poetry. Teach them about algorithms; and Google Translate. There’s alchemy — in poetry.
Money, it’s often said, is of evil, its root. Money makes the world go round. Certainly, much evil is done, incident to money. ‘Tis the devil’s, currency. However, it needs it not. Surreally,
if anything makes the Earth go round, it is His love, sweet love and not vile, evil. Currency is moot, if one has His love, all encompassing. “Before God, all stand on an equal, footing.”
A fascinating words choice of words. Equal footing and standing; they were in answer to Ganid’s asking, “What think ye Master, of India’s caste system?” The Master wisely answering,
“Before God all stand on equal footing.” Words, these wondrous units, may be spoken, written and indeed, woven into art; making verse, beyond aesthetic, multi-facetedly — utilitarian.
The presidency; soirees; golf outings; this virus; the Russians; the Chinese; reelection strategies pending, Nobels. Everything demanding my attention, gets none from a master contrarian.
There’s alchemy in education, especially, in its digital instruction manuals — our algorithms. Witness in MAYDAYS — an inspiring algorithm; it’s Twitter’s (Jack’s) algorithm — proprietary.
That Jack’s been so shortsighted about the untapped potential energy in his algorithm is distressing. Minds and algorithms are awful thing to waste; And therein too — opportunity.
I SEE DEAD PEOPLE
I see dead people. I can’t handle that. I made a Faustian bargain with the Devil; a bargain, Faustian, I’ve made. But had I read Faust’s story — I might not have made it. Alas — I don’t read.
I don’t like to read. So I don’t read. If only I’d read the story, I might not have made a deal with the Devil; but I don’t read and so I made it. My faults are many; prominent is: I don’t read.
It’s why I’m haunted by dead folks. Had I read, they might not now, be dead. And so dead people, frighten me. Anyone of them might be the Devil in disguise coming, to close the deal.
Still, 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 with Google Translate, real
time translation’s something we can count on. And so we’ve got to move on. And be quick about it. The timeframe of the 10 year plan I propose began running this past March fourth.
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? Henceforth,
more often. Twits are taunts. To twit is 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, isn’t the point; the point is I’ve been, of late, a most annoying, twit.
The twit that tweets promised that if I duped ye a wall I’d build, a swamp I’d drain and women, I’d cherish. I’ve kept all my promises. Don’t be so sad. And look at the bright side. My legacy
still unfolding may include the formation of an as yet unknown new party or form the conservative wing of an evolving, Democratic Party. Be careful my fellow Americans who ye
elect for America, for this tweeting twit of a president is an opportunist, extraordinaire, and, I am, in this tragi-comedy, no mere wannabe bad guy — criminal — apprentice.
I’m criminal, already. What is humorous may be concurrently, gravely serious; to wit, an ugly-American-in-chief who aimed to be President — and now is — a Presidential — apprentice.
Gravely serious already is my predicament; the nation’s also. My priorities must be me, me and me and so I tailor my plans accordingly.
What is humorous may be concurrently, dead,
serious. The ugliest American, now president of the nation. And the presidency is changing me. And Paula, my fake spiritual adviser believes that I’m developing an empathy for the dead.
PRELUDE TO CRISES
Pray tell me; I riddle ye Earthlings another. How many revelations to an epiphany? And feel not threatened if in truth ye know not. For there is more. There is much more that ye be needing
to know. Begin on Urantia; begin at the Great Library at Alexandria; ye wouldn’t have found there the Urantia Book, ye likely, don’t know. Begin not with the burning but with the sinking
of books. Presidents and policymakers like to politic; playing chess: Thinking ahead; wisely identifying possible outcomes; always planning for contingencies. But if I play by my own rules;
if I just cheat then it matters not at all what games, if any, all the others are playing. If I just make up the rules as I go along then I can still insist that all play fair; that all play, by my rules.
We are eventually going to see evictions and foreclosures; very likely at a rate we haven’t seen since the Great Depression of the 1930s. Homelessness; hunger; 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, in 2020,
of crises, geopolitical. How those tectonic shifts crystallize will shape the constitution of the post-virus era. I like to project that I thrive in crises but in fact I what I do best is drive 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; surrounding us; and him blaming US — at that. And Chinese crises,
I’ve driven, like a teenager, recklessly; and all that even ere began, the Ides of March; and we’ve had, ever since, uncommonly bad luck 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. Terribly 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 and its survival of the fittest, premise. Ask me about Darwin. I’ll answer: Cash money — buys fitness.
I’m a big believer in the theories of the scientist, Charles Darwin. And I’m a believer in the survival of the fittest. More importantly, I’ve come to believe that when it comes to fitness,
a loose cannon with loose lips am I; everybody knows, loose lips, sink ships. So I’m amending my plans; in anticipation of losing in November, but still winning — in December — my Nobels.
I’m amending my plans in expectation of losing my reelection in November but winning in December my much-coveted, Nobel Prizes. And I’ll be sharing with Vladimir’s guys, my Nobels.
GOT CONTENT? ADD CADENCE
I’ve got good news for ye; really, good news; a real surprise for a modern man, reprised. The virus is a present, gift-wrapped; there is great opportunity — in predicaments — we occasion.
But make no mistake; and make a note of this; albeit poetry, beyond its function as a tool, is an art form too, still it remains a tool of the master tools of language and communication.
Nothing less than a miracle is the opportunity this virus, presents. 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. And be duly disseminated — all over the Earth.
Invading men? No problem. Mother Nature, too slow? But the crisis this novel virus presents, promises to be a real, game-changer. Ironically, I loathe, microbes. But it’s not about the poetry.
It’s more about communications, newsworthy. The crisis this virus presents promises to be a game-changer. I loathe microbes. And 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. If one knows what no one else knows sharing is caring — persuasion.
Got milk? Water? Toilet paper? And Lysol? I do believe in communication and the understated power of poetry in the art of persuasion. Ad-men’s jingles prove the power of — persuasion.
Got content? Add cadence. As in my poetry. Arthur has truly taught me about the time-honored art of timely, friendly, persuasion. Persuasion’s pursuit — ought be — friendly.
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 — Vladimir, Xi, Mohammed — the Kim — and — the Donny.
Then London happened and Kim, previously unsure about whom to honor first (in translating the preface) the west’s Willy or the East’s Rumi, decided, it’d be England’s — Willy.
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, by our Creator, originally intended, to be.
Take heart! That Art’s been sent from the future to heal US and show US how to shift the paradigms we need to shift to implausibly, near incredibly, transform US is proof — miraculous,
only seemingly counter-intuitive; the fact that Art‘s been hosting the Cabal and me in soirées lunar is the proof of the pudding that what’s happening, is less magical — than miraculous.
RECONSTITUTING NATION LANDS
Thanks Penemue. Thanks too to the great men of the nations as we gather in soirée on Luna to consider the haphazard state of the fate of the outdated and now — anachronistic — 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. But first, the outdated and now — anachronistic — nations.
Nations are the constructs by which men, in vain, attempt to govern, themselves; a natural evolution from nuclear families, clans and tribes, aboriginal, if not actually, the originals.
Pangaea now numbers 196 nations (not including Taiwan, and Puerto Rico), 4,200 religions, and 6,500 languages; evolving to a single nation is — highly — recommendable.
English is but Mother Earth’s second lingua franca. Its rich vocabulary rhymes easily, easily feeling at home in song, psalm, prose and in the poetic verse — of Wordsworth and Shelley.
English isn’t just for Englishmen, any more. Still, no one language can end all the babbling. Aided by Google Translate, however, the languages sundry may well be — intermediary.
To be, or not to be? That is, for humanity, the constant, threshold, question. High-technology algorithms, Albert Einstein agrees are key to unlocking the secrets of the alchemy of poetry.
Ironically, it is in our Scriptures (the Testaments, Qu’ran, et. cetera) wherein lives wisdom and the Golden Rules ubiquitous, honored in their omission, all too — commonly.
The cross-cultural commonness of Golden Rules evidences their significance. This repair manual, my MAYDAYS, written in the spirit of that significance is to highlight that significance.
Is to be or not to be ever to be a question, unanswered? This soliloquy of mine, in answer, asks ye consider the significance of the original question as well as the corollary’s significance.
Think! Think, ye Homo sapiens. Allah God Jehovah Yahweh created ye to be brothers and sisters before Him. It matters not at all to Him our provincial tribes religions and nationalities.
Arthur’s poetry acculturates! Acculturation is but the modification of behavior. And a group’s behavior may be modified as easily (more easily, perhaps) as individuals — theoretically.
Theoretically, behavior modification is not limited but to individuals; surely, our communities too are subject to it as well. Why not put to the test then, Art’s dramatic, theory?
That is to say, behavior mod is not limited to individuals; communities too, to it, are subject; it is, indeed, a relatively simple science, the simple science of habit — neuro-scientifically.
A SCHOOL OF POETRY
Fear of Muslims in the United States; fear of Muslims in a Union, European; there’s fear of Muslims seemingly, near everywhere; even, sometimes in nations, Islamic, overwhelmingly.
Must it forever be us, versus them? Happily, it may be, that visionaries, step up. Arthur Everman’s poetry, a letter to the nations, echoes the poetry of his dearly departed, Emily.
Arthur’s Everman’s poetry is a la Emily’s Dickinson’s, akin to her letter to the world; a la Willy’s, plays on words and ruminations, a la Rumi’s, on life and love and — their mysteries.
Art has drawn inspiration from the lives of the poets; from the westerners Emily Dickinson and Willy Shakespeare, to a prolific easterner often known simply and affectionately as Rumi.
From history’s poets, philosophers and scientists Arthur doth draw, secondarily, inspiration; drawing it initially, primarily from Allah God Jehovah Yahweh’s — magnificently
created, creations. Arthur’s 280 character tweets metamorphose into concise blog logs only to metamorphose, implausibly, in turn 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 a second line, end. No matter the tongue — a formula, for poetry.
Dear lector’s may confirm, were they to persevere through so many tweets, that (errors aside), each tweet’s length in space is precisely, 280 characters from end to end. 280 — exactly.
At Arthur Everman’s School of Free Poetry the composition of epigrams is Arthur’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 Free Poetry it matters not the tongue of the citizen. Except to the extent that Earth’s lingua franca is now, incidentally, the King’s — English.
We’ve come a long way since Tipperary; and the Tower of Babel; since babbling incoherently to one another first began. We’ve a long way yet to go. But Art’s made a fortuitous discovery.
A discovery significant has Art, by a feeling, intuitive, instinctively, made. Human intuition — not as automatic as animal instincts but useful to a creature, pensive. Arthur‘s discovery
bodes well for Urantia as well as those dwelling upon her. At least in the short term; what Allah God Jehovah Yahweh has wrought, no germ alone — may tear, asunder — so improvidently.
Art’s been astounded; by his discovery and by mankind’s ho-hum reaction to it; but the proof is in the pudding; in a pudding miraculously supplemented by Google Translated — poetry.
WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES
What a difference 1 single day may make; like when Yellowstone, Krakatoa and Santorini did blow their tops, on unknown dates — in unknown years — sky-high, super, volcanically.
What a difference 1 year may make; as when the tots of their moms and pops — grow, in fits and starts; in learning — ebbs — and flows; growing, ever inexorably — ever, fascinatingly.
What a difference 25 years may make; as when computers digitally ushering in an information age, rife, with disinformation alternatively, informative; uniting and divisive, concurrently.
What a difference 250 years may make; as when machines and engines, dramatically upped our consumption, supply and demand and our two-sided — smokestack, productivity.
What a difference 12,000 years may make as when glaciers receded, slowly allowing us greater, creativity. And slowly but surely we fatefully took creativity — outside successfully.
What a difference some millions of years, may make; as when from cosmic dust on the ground on Earth, in His image, He created us, omnipotently created us — most miraculously.
What a difference one day may make as when meteorites, comets and a fat man and little boy slammed into the planet and incinerated a fat man and little boy, along with — their families.
What a difference one day may make; as when a mutant motormouth, uncouthly stigmatizes Islam, polarizing, thereby, an entire planet, pitting Muslim against Christians, insensitively.
“What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?” A daunting, question and ever since, Arthur has been haunted by both the answer and the question for forty years — near continuously.
Thus began the dreamy soirees in which revelations begat veritable epiphanies, that in turn begat an epic quest to answer poetically, profoundly burning, questions — truthfully.
Why poetically? That one is easy to answer, for while harder to compose than prose, poetry is elegantly, far and beyond — 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 is most favored by Him, Personally. It’s all about — His — Personality.
Arthur and I compose on 3 levels, using 280 character tweets metamorphose into blog logs which in turn metamorphose into manuscripts; a poor man’s publicity; a rich man’s — poetry.
Twitter’s 280 character algorithm has been, for Arthur and me a useful revelation, surprisingly utilitarian in marketing, education and in composing, our novel-like — novel — poetry.
Epigramming’s cool; for the composition of verse. And for the composition of story-based, poetry. Just divide your 280 characters in half, and start versing. And poetry’s meter, is music
to the ear. My fortunes have taken a tumble this year but I’m coming back; and so I’m on the Comeback Trail; presiding over my country’s appreciation of poetry’s — metered — music.
Deny and distract. I spent more time yesterday honoring yesteryear’s dead Confederates today than I did talking about my 130,000 current confederates (dead at the time) dead — today.
I hardly mentioned those who have lost their lives to Covid-19; nor did I warn Russia off their bounties. Rather, I fed red meat to my modern day, confederates feeding them hate — today.
“The blessings in which ye this day rejoice, are not enjoyed by us, in common,” once said Frederick Douglass on the very day that, that day was as well — the nation’s — birthdate.
“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,” said — on this date’s
anniversary, the slave, formerly. “Henceforth, the Fourth July must be ours and not thine, only.” So that all may rejoice, henceforth, in what’s actually happening. For future dates,
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; and it’s been
approved by Vladimir Putin. A second Velvet Revolution; it’s been approved by Vladimir Putin. And my Velvet Revolution, because it’s mine will be the very best — Velvet Revolution,
ever. Accordingly, I declare this day, the inaugural Independence Day for my Urantia and I declare it to be as well the beginning of a long overdue — second, Velvet — Revolution.
A second, Velvet Revolution. Enter Jung’s synchronicities. How coincidental; that Belarus is in that same situation that the Czechs in 1989 — found themselves in — in revolution.
How coincidental, indeed; that Belarus be — in a situation similar to that that the Czechs —found themselves in, in revolution — in ‘89. Only Occam’s Razor explains — to satisfaction.
Only Occam’s Razor explains to my satisfaction happenstances happened — and happening. And only Occam’s Razor satisfactorily explains, what — in all likelihood, is likely — to happen.
A SATYR’S SATIRE
Time, Urantians, being of the essence, know all men by these presents, that on behalf of humanity I, the one and only President Don do solemnly say and declare that Saturday,
July 4th is Independence Day for all Urantian (wo)men. Begins today the hard work; the ground work in preparation 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, there’s a turning point, coming. Charlottesville has been to white nationalism what El Paso’s been to vile, racism.
A winner of the Thurber Prize for American Humor and the Washington Irving Medal for Literary Excellence only Nobel Prizes for peace and literature do I covet to feed, my narcissism.
Gotta get some for me and my adopted Russians. And my soon to be adopted Chinese. As a low-hanging fruit and a lusty, woodland satyr — I make an easy target — for satire.
Hence my first-person account; from the heights of my descent down an escalator to the depths of my ascent to my bully pulpit; and my acts, while there; I am well suited — for satire.
Bombshell tapes and bombshell books are of no effect against me. I’ll just deflect and deny and genuflect and defensively, parry. My autobiographical satire, however, is nonfiction,
seemingly, fictional. Don’t be deceived. I’ll slice and dice and savage me; coming soon verily, a diary, funny, satirically but ominous in a nasty undercurrent of — allegorical — implications.
Books about me are legion; a dime, a dozen, sometimes. But books by me are by definition, bestsellers. My previous two, monsters in their own right, can’t touch this. This is monstrous.
Universal in scope, this is not just about Russia and China and the sundry nations. This is fiction, only seemingly; it’s allegorically, nonfictional. And — it’s gonna be — monstrous.
A monstrous monster amongst the monster bestsellers about me may be the one by me. And it would be fitting if that came to pass. And it shall come to pass and it’ll be — monstrous.
Books about me, monsters may be; more frequently, a dime a dozen on E-Buy. And it would be fitting if that came to pass. And it shall come to pass. And it’ll be — monstrous.
KEYS TO THE ESTATES OF THE REALM
Really surreal nonfiction, are the historical three estates of the realm; the clergy, nobility and commons; now five, with the media, come lately. It is nonfiction — painted — surreally.
There are now five estates of the realm; clergy, nobility and commoners; the media being, a Johnny-come-lately. Nonfiction, painted surreal; now there are five estates of the realm, really.
The newly added reporters and bloggers, now eclipse, two, of the three. Two of the estates of the realm are reporters and bloggers; would that they jump-start the commoners to a par
with the nobility. I am honored to present the Kim-Don Plan; Truth and Reconciliation; behavior modification, a Golden Rule and a UIB; and His miraculous algorithms are to par,
key. Intelligence artificial we must enlist as we transition, to greatness. Key are the miraculous algorithms. Key to our transition to greatness is the artificial intelligence, I envision, visionarily.
Key to the transition to greatness I envision is intelligence, artificial. Letter-complementing numbers are, the miraculous, algorithms. A virtual fountain of perpetual potential energy.
Use artificial intelligence to transition to greatness. I know not The Truth, The Light and The Way. It’s my way for everyone and the highway for anybody else of 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 their opinions, probably aren’t, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh’s — opinion.
My Republicans and I are all in on my re-election strategy; my stay out of jail strategy; away from the virus — and justice. At least we were, mostly, once upon — a long time — ago.
Once upon a long time ago. I presided over a robust economy then WHAM; blindsided by a microbe. Halfway through the Chinese year of the rat — once upon — a long time — ago.
‘Kung flu’ some are calling this virus. Others simply call it the ‘Chinese virus’. Others some are calling — this virus. I disavow that. I would not — I could not be — so insensitively, callous.
Covid-19. That’s the name WHO gave it. WHO’s afraid of the Chinese or afraid of hurting their feelings. I’d have named it something more Chinese-sounding. I revel in — being, callous.
I’ve reveled in being callous; callousness has been a virtue to me; a key to my success. But predetermination rules, Eureka moments, revelations and epiphanies — Amen! Let it be!
Predetermination, rules. Pursuant to Occam’s Razor, it’s the simplest and therefore, most likely explanation for what’s happening — so near incredibly — implausibly — Let it be!
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. 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 online
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 with rhyme, in time,
this microbial, invader. My people believe me not, no more. I’ve lied too much to them. In lieu of Giuliani I offer as proxy, Arthur. He suggests we engage young poets, as allies — in time.
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 killing the virus and cooling, coolly
the planet and saving us who live upon it alone, won’t earn him the wings he covets. He must replace Sudoku too, with his trademark brand of epigrammatic, Greek-like — epic — poetry.
So get real Donald John Trump (he said, talking to himself). We ain’t gonna be playing no ball for the most part, this year. 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 so seems —
are important tools. Foolishly, I shake hands and won’t wear a mask. And uber-foolishly I boast that I’m absolutely — nobody’s fool. I’ve been wrong about everything — it so, seems.
I’m good at interpreting what’s been said by reading between the lines; much better than I am at reading, conventionally. Just lazy; but I had to put my foot down. I’m not — reading.
Arthur suggests we engage young poets, as allies. And that we do it in time, suggesting to me, that we’re running out of time. Left unsaid between, lines; the tragedy that, is not reading.
WHO VENTILATES; WHO DIES
Uber-foolish am I. I defy the virus. I shake hands. I won’t wear masks. And I don’t ask no one I hug, if they’ve traveled to China, recently. Still — do as I say. Two major factors, I’d say,
fuel this pandemic; that people with no symptoms are so easily spreading the virus; and problems with testing. It’s critical. Please, 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 an opioid prescription.“ And just like that an FDA-approved hydroxychloroquine fell into my lap, as if manna from, high Heavens. A gift from the Heavens; a panacea.
I prayed. Just like that an FDA-approved drug fell into my lap — as if manna — from Heaven. What’s happening may be not real, but surreal. It’s really hard to tell, what’s, happening, really.
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 really happening, when carrier citizens — walk about — freely.
It’s hard to tell what’s happening, when carrier citizens walk about freely; foolishly oblivious to the proximity of death. Indeed I fear what death may do, to my presidency and my legacy.
Sadly; foolishly oblivious to the proximity of death. Indeed I fear what death may do, to my presidency and my legacy. A little social distancing between our rapaciously,
rapist and drug smuggling Mexican brothers and the holier than thou, Canadians. It’s very similar actually to what’s we have already
agreed to on the northern, border.
Critical is social distancing and isolation, between the nations on either side of the two borders to avoid doctors agonizing over who, ventilates — and who dies with 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; this is now. Screw them. I would not be so callous to ye
if I could do otherwise — but alas — I can’t. And so I won’t — to myself — be true. I can’t fake it. I must tell ye the unvarnished truth and in that way (my way) remain true to me.
I must remain true to myself. I’ve just gotta be me. What else can I be — but what, I am? Many attribute those words to Sammy, but actually — I said them — first. I have just gotta — be me.
I’ve gotta be me. And of course, only I can be me. The Creator, in His wisdom consigns to each of us, unique personalities; but there are strings — attached. And so — woe — is me.
Lockdown the nation! Medical and financial systems are folding, like the houses of cards, they are. Lockdown the nation! We’re now 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, from three, crises.
“Where have you been? With whom have you been in contact?” Lest we forget whilst we are overwhelmed by a novel, not unexpected —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: Human migration and climate change go on, unabated.
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.
On the other hand, it’s important that I set an example; being distant; wearing a mask; and reopening a shutdown economy. It’s important;
imperative really. So come on down to the rally.
Take my hand. Everything is gonna be, OK. Life goes on. And if in town, come to the rally. Jostle with the crowd. And shake, my hand. Gone are the rope lines, supporter photo selfies, shared.
and the entourages of the traveling press; all replaced for now, perhaps forever with new digital words: Tele-town halls, virtual fundraisers and livestreamed speeches shared.
But life’s not worth living without hearing and adhering to — my sage words. Which patients get beds? And ventilators? Which patients, die? These cycles of denial and devastation, shared;
then a shared community response, belated, followed inevitably by mutual finger-pointing as the blame is apportioned. To each his or her —appropriate — and proportionate — share.
The blame game’s passé. We may be smart but wise guys aplenty notwithstanding, we’re most, unwise. A wooden social order — rotted, must be discarded — replaced by another, paradigm.
A Golden-ruled paradigm; start planning; setting goals; setting dates; establishing protocols and procedures. It’s why I penned this epic poem once upon a star-struck — time.
Time and again we fail. We fail to understand. We’re on a boat with billions of passengers and millions of captains. A perfect storm cometh even as our captains disagree — all the time.
A ship with more than one captain is poorly outfitted to weather a storm. The captains had best get their shit together. Because there’s but little time left and we’re running out — of time.
SHARING IS CARING
The latest in a long line of domestic Kremlin critics to suffer an apparent poisoning, Alexander Navalny’s lawyers are requesting an investigation into his attempted assassination.
Navalny has suffered physical attacks in the past. And Vlad will eventually kill him. I call for marches on the Kremlin to show Vladimir that the Russian people — also — have strong arms.
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.
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.
THE WOMEN IN ART’S, ART
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.
POLITICALLY INCORRECT BULLYING
Useful generally but especially useful now. Now with the coronavirus front and center and climate change — and human migration — abreast — of the microbe — on either side.
Joe Biden: 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.
DISASTER MODE PLANNING
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 SEE THINGS EASY
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 DEAD PEOPLE (II)
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?
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.
POETRY HATH MUSIC
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.
UNFIT AT ALL TIMES
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.
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
With testing still lagging and 25 percent of those infected showing no symptoms but still spreading the novel coronavirus, understated, is the enormity of the crisis. Even the 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.
I’M COMING OUT
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.
AN EPIGRAM PER DAY
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.
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.
POLITICS AND POLICY
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.
THE BLAME GAME
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.
COME THE POGROMS
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 often 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 demonstrably, very 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 I’ve been intermittently peddling, 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 that’s 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.
EPILOGUE IS PROLOGUE
Let us gather ourselves and reorganize from the sovereign paradigm to the proposed Golden-ruled one. Let us bring our vast artificial intelligence capabilities — to bear — in time
to multi-task concurrent solutions to our geopolitical 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 unprecedentedly pressing change,
insistent. In governance, climate and human migration, due to a lack of time, communal, remedial meditations, on Luna are vital, to effect, surreally real, unprecedented — change.
I tell ye Art’s story; my 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-Creator;
The Author of Scriptures; He’s The Director of this morality play. Meditation is key to the modification of our behaviors. Some call it prayer. Meditate together, by executive order.
Vladimir and his guys are coming around also. They are only now belatedly realizing the connective potential of the combination of Google Translate, Twittereze and epigramming.
And it may be 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 uber embarrassing, jailing — or — public hanging.
How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it likely varies; there’s no one answer; but in battles between these microbes and one antiheroic germaphobe, a profile in courage,
emerges. Take this verse as a spoiler alert only if ye have not already astutely, deductively, determined who it is that emerges as the already predetermined, profile — in courage.
In this battle between numerous microbes against one lone brave germaphobe, a profile in courage, predeterminedly, emerges. And predictably — not surprisingly — he is me.
They say that people get the governors they deserve. My fellow Americans; a nation in crisis has the president it needs. It deserves a profile in courage. A war-time president — 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 the one that’s a germaphobe, a profile in courage, is drawn. Predictably; not surprisingly, he’ll be me, because I’m a germ-killing — germaphobe.
THE END’S BEGINNING
My fellow American Urantians: 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. And if love’s poetry indeed, saves states,
then the stage of the most dramatic events in the history of all the universes; Nebadon’s Urantia shall have earned its lofty, exalted place, high atop, the Earthly Nielsen — ratings.
Photo-poetry, is yet fledgling. Yet it may be humanity’s most disarming weapon against the armies sundry and their sundry weapons of war. Far — far more — mightily — disarming
than a sword may be, ink and pen! Citizens of the Earth; Urantia, really: Study Arthur Everman’s poetry’s potential to mine potential energy miraculously — albeit — algorithmically.
Don’t be like Mike. Be like me. Study the Scriptures or their summaries if ye are in a hurry. And study painstakingly, studied, poetry at Arthur Everman’s School of — Free Poetry.
Art’s School of Poetry is Robert Frost, approved. And my Kim-Don Plan has been approved for publication as well by Russian Federation President, Vladimir — Vladimirovitch — Putin.
Thank ye President Vladimir Putin. Thanks to your efforts toward my first term election, I’m actually, now able to rig, my own reelection. I owe all to my mentor-handler, Vladimir Putin.
Between Vladimir Vladimirovitch 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 very greatest
mentor-handler of all time. I’m still running; indeed, I’m still rushing to be the first American Russian double agent to be named, of all America’s presidents its all time GOAT greatest.
A lot can still happen; my name’s being bandied about for Nobels again. I got Israel to suspend a West Bank annexation. And Kim and me plan to surprise folks, at the UN, General Assembly.
Kim and I shall shock the world in September at the UN General Assembly. We may well announce the game-changing Kim-Don Plan at the September, UN General Assembly,
proclaiming, one nation committed to multi-tasking solutions to the trichotomy of governance, climate and migration and the dichotomy of the haves and the have nots.
Amen. Let us be one nation committed to multi-tasking the trichotomy of governance, climate and migration and the dichotomy, finally — of the haves — and the have nots.
For the time being, for Urantia and its citizens happy, bittersweet and bitter endings — also. Ye have been for the time being from them crazed men — them bipolar — Homo sapiens,
been saved. Arthur won his wings. With five planets officially saved, officially retired is he and off to to hook up with his beloved Emily, already waiting at the end of the line in Heaven.
Thanks to the Watcher Penemue, Kim got his soul back from Lucifer’s Satan; as did I. Too soon we shall be long gone too but we’ve left ye in our legacies, invaluable, 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; witness
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. Witness
Arthur, by lightning stricken; lol; the ever lit up and drunken Arthur, literally lit up by a ball lightning strike. Witness an illumined Arthur with his quill pen analogs, penning an analog,
of his beloved Emily’s lovely letters to the world; a letter to the nations, akin to Emily. I have ghostwritten for Arthur an instructive algorithm. A lettered and numbered, analog.
A how-to — alchemical; towards a Golden Rule fueled, behavior modification 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 — In any event — it’s a miracle.
Thus it bears repetition: Convene the United Nations in emergency session. Exchange the sovereign paradigm for a Golden Ruled one. Reconvene then — a new — United Nations.
Do this in my memory, when I’ve done gone on to Heaven. From your mindless grazing, lift your heads. Stand up to the dictators. Tweet to the nations. And march upon — the nations.
And don’t worry about those old-fashioned Russian and Chinese prison society, firewalls. Just rely on all kinds of good-old, time-honored, old-fashioned — human — communication.
For the time being, for the Earthlings, happy, bittersweet and bitter endings. Ye have been for the time being from them crazed bipolars, been saved. Thank God — for the children.