In support of my application for a space at the Center for Scholars and Writers; a space and a place unbeknownst to me, even a month ago, I submit to the Center, this space-limited verse.

It’s verse some say, channeled to me; it’s verse, in any event drawn from and extended from the verse of MAYDAYS, that larger work that’s the subject of — my proposed project’s, verse.

Tweeting campaigns not coordinated by the government aren’t diplomacy; in any event such campaigns would be constitutionally protected, free speech. And even blank verse

in the public interest may be, newsworthy, verse. Verse; it’s utilitarian; useful beyond advertising’s, jingles. It may tap into hitherto untapped reservoirs of potential energy. Verse:

It’s an all-purpose tool; a tool we might well use beyond selling and gossiping. And we might yet bring it to bear upon our looming crises, toward a new paradigm whilst yet, there’s time.

The significance of the study lies in the possible modification of the behavior of billions; a sovereign paradigm, needs to be exchanged for a Golden-Ruled paradigm. And there is no time.

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 ending. For this too shall pass, just as surely as pass time’s seasons and seconds. And albeit ye may not believe, true in large part may be, what some say is a tall tale.

Tragic, as ever. Comic, more recently. And tragi-comic, still. Until Kim and Don’s falling bombs, maybe some day, leave ye with a day’s remains for the rest — of a miserable 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, race now, against time, so inexorably, relentless. Time takes its time. It is by no means — racing.

Prologs to epilogs are actions and omissions to act. Ominously, by now, my gaffes seem less comically than tragically, revealing. Ominously, I have been steadily, unsurprisingly revealing,

my colors and my color, to ye. Red, white and blue; and white, respectively. My father’s KKK sympathies aside, our discrimination against blacks in housing show that my web of lies

favor some, over others. I clearly favor 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. We feel trapped. And unfit. And neither one of us can be trusted, to do the right thing. And so, feeling ever trapped and unfit — we lie

a lot; even to our allies. Friend and enemy alike know better than to unduly trust us. It has nothing to do with right and wrong. It’s about bragging rights between allies and staying alive.

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.

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.

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.


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.


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.


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 statements this Independence Day, made, the first, global, such day. One such plot device is the atmosphere, lunar. Only truth is spoken on Luna 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.


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.

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.


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.

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.


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.


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.


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.


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; reality and surreallity; physically equivalent, still — metaphysically, distinct. ‘Tis an effect of our consciousness, our 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 often aren’t, extraordinary. He uses the weak to dramatically accomplish His purpose. But ye 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. 


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.

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