Monthly Archives: October 2020

MAYDAY 1838: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2020

VOTE FOR JOE — NOT FOR ME

Help me steer America away from dictatorship. Help me write a ghostwritten, tall tale. A novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Not at all your dear father’s, old time — satire.

Satire, autobiographical, but both, fictional and nonfictional; slipping in and out of my realities. Satire sounding of blind men feeling for seams (borders) they can’t see — tragi-comic — satire.

MAYDAYS: Arthur and I, recommend it; it’s the antithesis of whatever it is that one might fairly call a mumbo-jumbo, hodgepodge, man-made, stew. A panacea — for Pangaea — is MAYDAYS.

MAYDAYS; it’s destined to be on Earth, a film. A film, a cartoon and a Lin-Manuel, Hamilton-like, Broadway, staged, adaptation. That’s just for starters. A Hollywood film may be — MAYDAYS.

MAYDAYS; written by Pen (Penemue), Art and me. It’s simple. Pangaea is become, fractured, United Nations. And only glasnost; and only perestroika — lead to Truth, and Reconciliation.

Gorbachev’s landmark glasnost and perestroika may lead us yet to Nelson’s similarly landmark, Truth and Reconciliation. A no-brainer; Nelson’s landmark innovation, Truth, and Reconciliation.

My fellow Americans: It’s taxing; sacrificing, to pay your fair share. I take solace in knowing that my base knows that it’s not that I didn’t pay my taxes. I’d already prepaid them, in fact.

It’s taxing, in fact, for ye. All your sacrificing, to pay your fair share. I take solace in knowing my base knows that it’s not that I didn’t pay my taxes. I’d prepaid them, all that time — in fact.

In 2021 I shall have unveiled to Urantia, a novel idea; not mere words; bland pieties and harsh recriminations but mechanisms and real tools. To finish off your comeback from the Rebellion.

By that time, we may have, from the Rebellion, begun, our come back. Recall that I’m the best-selling author of The Art of The Deal and The Art of The Comeback. I’ve sold, many millions.

By next year’s Nobels, the 2021 version of the Prizes, I shall have unveiled to Urantia, a novel idea; not just mere words; not just pieties and recriminations but mechanisms and, real tools.

MAYDAYS is one; TwitterEzE another. One, a tome; one, a blueprint way, to your spiritual, home. Both are real tools. One, a ghostwritten, guide. One, a color-coded map. Both, real tools.

Twitter and Twitter Diplomacy; like peas in a pod, they go naturally together; as naturally together as dictators and kleptocracies. I am so looking forward to next year’s — 2021, Nobels.

Twitter and Twitter Diplomacy; like dictators and kleptocracies, they go naturally, together; I‘m looking forward to next year’s Prizes, Nobel and to my everlasting, legacy, of Prizes, Nobel.

MILITIAS

October, November and December surprises shall go on surprising us, reprising surprises, previously, already, too surprising. But I am not surprised about a coming clash, of civilizations.

Dear lectors: My fellow, American, sycophants. On the cusp of my reelection and forthcoming dictatorship, a clash of civilizations, threatens. Help me defend — the white man’s, civilization.

The biggest problem we have is if the liberals cheat with their ballots. That is a problem, I’ve told my sycophants. Cheating with ballots is the only thing that I‘ve been, worrying about. Not,

the virus. I ain’t afraid of no stinking virus. I ain’t afraid of nothing except for maybe, my Melania and fake ballots. But I’ve got a good feeling that my militias are itching to check on, fake ballots.

And just like that — here we are — at a climax. But for the virus and Nancy Pelosi and WHO, everything was cool. The Deep State, I’ll defeat with a Supreme Court, packed, conservatively.

A clarion call has been my 3 a.m. tweet this morning, as if imploring or cajoling, justices, conservative, to do me a favor and throw me a bone; to take action; to save — my presidency.

Amy, my self-proclaimed originalist, embraces theoretically a constitutional theory she shares with two of my currently sitting, conservative, justices: But our constitutional amendments,

aplenty, belie that once outlier, theory. Still, Justices Neil Gorsuch and Clarence Thomas do look forward to the addition of Amy Barrett to the brethren. A very conservative, amendment.

Republicans; although we are generally more conservative than the lion’s share of our lying Democratic counterparts, we know civil rights can’t be right unless, it’s fair to we, on the right.

BOLLYWOOD AND HOLLYWOOD

MAYDAYS; it’s destined to be on Earth, a film. A film, a cartoon and a Lin-Manuel, Hamilton-like, Broadway, staged, adaptation. That’s just for starters. In MAYDAYS wake, a Hollywood film. 

In MAYDAYS wake, Bollywood, and Hollywood, films. And all the anti-hero, merchandising; the bold action figures; the coloring books. All of these things must come to pass from a filming.

All of these things must come to pass. From a prestigious platform, a book, a movie and a social media platform. Less about selling and gossiping, it’s more about spiritually, growing.

From an academically prestigious platform, the multiple launchings of a book, a talkie movie, a Broadway play and a brand new, social media, platform. All prose — is poetry — potentially.

Amidst a historically climactic unraveling, duly reveal themselves, the golden, opportunities. Golden opportunities to teach and to reach for the stars. And one key is Art’s School, of Poetry.

And there shall be, only seemingly, everlasting, consternation for the ne’er repentant, Trump haters; the never, Trumpers. For our Maker, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, is all about, mercy.

Accordingly, a bittersweetly happy ending has in store The Almighty for our four, hapless, antiheroes; Kim, Xi, Vladimir and the Muslim Mo; murderer and desecrator, of dead bodies.

In a climactic scene near the end of MAYDAYS, THE MOVIE, our four antiheroic horsemen of the Apocalypse, vault from their horses, join hands — and skip like schoolgirls, into Heaven.

The MAYDAYS phenomenon. A movie about the wayward stewards of a planet. A make-believe phenomenon is predetermination; a fake story. The real story, is in our decisions.

A self-proclaimed originalist theoretically embraces a constitutional theory she shares with two of my currently sitting, conservative, justices: But constitutional amendments,

aplenty, belie that once outlier, theory. And Justices Neil Gorsuch and Clarence Thomas look forward to the addition of Amy Barrett to the brethren. A very conservative, amendment.

ALL PROSE IS POETRY — POTENTIALLY

All prose is poetry, potentially. Short and sweet; and succinct. Epigrammatic; like tombstones, in the old days. All prose, is akin, to poetry. A fine slogan for a free, elementary, school of poetry.

An elementary high school of poetry Arthur has founded. He’s its headmaster and one of two pupils. Implausibly, the other’s the president of my old grand dad’s adopted American, country.

Officially that country is US; the United States of America. But many wonder and whisper in the hallways of power, whether or not, I have been co-opted altogether, by another country.

Americans wonder about me. Not about the wonder of me, but rather whether we have been, by our president, duped. They wonder about Vlad and Russia. They wonder, about me.

A gift; a present; the precise adjective used in the Urantia Book by beings unknown and unnamed is bestowal. And there are indeed but five bestowals cited, in the most extraordinary,

Urantia Book. First are the teachings of the Planetary Prince, Caligastia and his staff of 100 from 500,000 years ago til his betrayal 200,000 years ago. Secondarily, Adam and Eve secondly,

 beginning 35,000 years ago until their fall by default. Third was Melchizedek of Salem, the teacher of Abraham who went on to teach all the oneness of God, around 4,000 years, ago,

eventually becoming the father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Fourth; Christ Michael’s incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth 2,000 years ago. A fifth and last great bestowal not long ago

has been the relatively recent, so-called Urantia Book of the 1920s and 30s. It teaches seven superuniverses comprise the grand universe. And our planet, Urantia (Earth) is awesomely,

physically located at an outer fringe of the 7th, newest, superuniverse. On the fringes of the youngest of the superuniverses, evolving and devolving, are we, primitive — evolutionaries.

No crowning creation are we wise men. Far, from it. Hubris-afflicted, prideful men; easy prey, for the sophistries of Lucifer, Satan. That was that. It is, what it is. It is, what’s happening.

Up Shit Creek with no paddle and increasingly, louder and louder rumbles in the distance, the sound of everything, hurtling over, a precipice. That’s that. It is what it is. It’s what’s happening.

What’s happening are crises, multiple. Nobels are lost; I’m gonna lose too by a landslide, my election. Alas, people seem, not to believe me. Gotta get Art another platform so he can tell

his stories; our stories; The Almighty Creator’s stories, one way, or another. I’ve gotta get Art another platform so he go on telling the story I’ve been ghostwriting, on his behalf — to tell.

THE GIFT THAT EVER GIVES

I bear gifts. And as I am a gift myself, I may say, and ye shall see, that the world has never seen the likes of one, like me. Eight billion brothers, have I but I alone am the lone — alpha brother.

My malignant narcissism; it’s distinguishable from Arthur’s narcissism, benign. A distinction, illustrative; a good starting point from which to view, the death struggle ‘tween me, and Arthur.

Once upon a time two brothers, one womb, did share. And one of them was me; Donald John Trump; the 45th and the greatest president, ever. Once upon a time a womb with a brother,

did I share. Instinctively, I kicked him. Destined to be intolerant was I; and aggressive. And it’s uber-ironic that my hubris has landed me in, soirées on the moon, with a rejected, brother.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there — terrified, try to proactively — avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

Ye can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time but ye can not fool all of the people all of the time. Or not but we Urantians have been fooled, always.

We Urantians though have been fooled, always. Fooled fools, have been, the Urantians. Ever since Satan, Caligastia, fooled. Ever since Satan, Caligastia, fooled. Ever since then — always.

My fellow Urantians: Let us take full advantage of the Zeitgeist spirit of the times to help Art breach firewalls; the Chinese and the Russian firewalls that will be in the way, along the way.

Let us take advantage of the spirit of the times to help Arthur breach the firewalls; the Chinese and the Russian firewalls that will ever be in the darn way — as duly designed, all along the way.

ALEXEI NAVALNY — AI WEIWEI

Given my karmic vulnerabilities it’s a good thing that my defeat is to be by such a landslide. So we can move on to more pressing issues like changes like climate change; a really, big deal,

real changes in migration and linchpin changes, in human governance. First things, first. Given karmic vulnerabilities, I’m worried an asteroid strike at the White House my guilt, may reveal.

No matter; I’d just deny it. More importantly, if today is MAYDAY 1837 then only five days til Election Day and 84 days til Joe’s Inauguration. With only 65 days left in 2020, I’m on my way

to fleeing the country. A stay out of jail, strategy, continuing; continuing education, I’d say. Let there be no doubt. I’m learning them more, than they’re learning me — by the way.

As ye shall read later in an upcoming chapter, I am outta here. Gotta go check with my concierge about passports and arrangements with my brothers Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei.

Gotta go check with my concierge about my passport and travel arrangements with Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei. I need to tweet Xi and Vladimir via the Global Times and Russia Today.

I pray I tell Alexander Navalny and Ai Weiwei all about my plans. Correspondence copying them by Twitter Diplomacy. I’ll tweet Xi and Vlad via China’s Global Times and Russia’s Russia Today.

Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei; Urantian heroes; the former, a Russian Urantian Vlad keeps trying to kill. The latter’s a Chinese Urantian; the rags; the Global Times — and Russia Today.

Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei; Urantian heroes; the former, a Russian, Urantian Vlad continually is trying to kill. The latter is a Chinese, Urantian; the rags; the Global Times — and Russia Today.

Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei; the Global Times and Russia Today. Alexei, Vladimir keeps trying to kill. A similar dynamic share, in the Republic of China, Xi — and dissident artist — Ai Weiwei.

Visionaries, are Alexei and Ai; foils these days are they to the Global Times and to Russia Today. Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei; they are foils to the Global Times and to Russia Today.

Visionaries, are Alexei and Ai; real, live heroes. To the Global Times and to Russia Today, the government rags, dissidents, dangerous. Ai’s in exile from China; but Alexei — won’t stay away.

Ai’s in exile from China but Alexei won’t, from Vladimir Putin in Russia, stay away. Profiles in courage are, Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei. I call upon — Alexei Navalny — and Ai Weiwei.

Profiles in courage are Alexei and Ai. I call upon them; I call upon Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei to take advantage of the Zeitgeist, spirit of the times, to help Art breach firewalls — in the way.

A RUSSIAN PROVINCE — THE UNITED STATES

How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it’s a trick question. As there is no one single, answer, one or more is technically one, correct, answer. One may be one answer to the tricky,

question. More likely, however, an epiphany, if one doth ever comes, follows hundreds or even possibly, thousands, of revelations. Epiphanies are a sum of constituent revelations, generally.

Take me, for example, and my relationship with my mentor, Vladimir; and our relationship with, Hillary’s e-mails; my hotel project in Moscow and my summit with him in Finland’s, Helsinki.

Recall my relation with Vlad, my relation with Hillary; a hotel project in Moscow, a suspicious summit in Helsinki, when my translator’s notes, I kept to myself — unusually and unexpectedly.

I can hardly believe what, to me, has happened; not to mention, what’s happening. It’s been a blur, largely. With mom and dad absent, an original TV kid, early on stunted by screen time.

An incorrigible child who early on learned the utility of a tantrum, I threw fits, routinely. And I learned, not to read. Not learning to read. Sad. A grown man, a president but I read at no time.

Un-freaking-believeable! An out and out traitor to my purported country; a double agent, for Vladimir; a man who may enjoy, being urinated upon; a man who abhors, reading and learning.

It’s hard to believe I’ve done all these things; not so much that I’ve been a double agent and betrayed my country as much as being that man, less than a man who likes, being peed on.

It’s so unfair. I’ve helped construct kleptocratic alliances. Our whole goal is the privatization of power and we already control, the three great poles; the US, China and Vladimir’s — Russia.

We already control the three great poles; the US, China and Russia. I’ve helped construct the money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is his privatization of power — in Russia.

The US, China and Russia, thanks to me, Xi and Vlad, we already control. I’ve helped to build, money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is the privatization of power — in Russia.

Russia. Land of the Cossacks, the Czars and the Sputnik’s. The greatest land mass on my planet. Vladimir would have Russia regain her glory but a front for Vladimir Putin is this — new Russia.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievement in all of a sad, human, history: secretly controlling the president of US is President Vlad Putin, all the way from Russia.

In the most stunning intelligence achievement of all time; secretly controlling the president of an enemy nation is President Vladimir Putin, all the way from the new sheriff in town — Russia.

COUNT ME OUT — NOT

Had I not been so near perfectly unfit, I’d have been a contender for the greatest president. Alas, ‘twas not to be. But don’t count me out for the count — just yet. I’ve yet, Nobels — to win.

Implausibly, I have Nobels, yet to win. Had I not been so near perfectly unfit, I’d have been the greatest president, ever. Alas, ‘twas not to be. But don’t count me out for the count; I may win

still, Nobels. There is good reason for why Allah God Jehovah Yahweh says He knew us ere even when we were yet to be, still in our mothers’ wombs. Don’t — count me out. I may yet, win.

Too little, too late; a sad epitaph, it seems. Still, it need not be. Verily, it need not be. I work, miracles; witness one who by his benevolence, has reaped benevolence from his bankers in

Germany. Too little, too late; a sad epitaph. It need not be. Not if I just accept that in this year if the rat I’ve come to be, reviled. Reviled, am I. But even one reviled — plaudits may have won.

But even one reviled may Nobels ignobly, win. Witness me; as ignoble as a man can be. A fine example of an ugly American; the ugliest ever. My ugliness and ignobility pale — next to none.

With my ugliness and ignobility paling next to no one’s and popularity hard to come by, in a pandemic, it’s soothing to my ego to know that I’m still favored — a genius; a gifted, visionary.

Soothing to my ego it has been; to know that I’m favored; a genius; an extraordinarily gifted, visionary. I’m a freaking visionary, world-widely calling upon — Urantia’s, planetary, visionaries.

It’s been soothing to my ego to know that I’m still smart; and wise; and that I’m a visionary, smart and wise enough to know, that I’ve got to call upon my base, of deplorable — visionaries.

What a turn of events for Urantia! What a turn of events! What abrupt, thickenings — of plots! Once upon a time, when abnormal was normal came visiting upon the Urantian evolutionaries,

a virus, novel. And once upon some future time perhaps, we may recall when, even as I drained Swamp Washington, the virus drained me. I took the blame and the heat and tasted defeat.

I took the blame and I took the heat. At the hands of Joe Biden, I’ll taste defeat. Transition of power won’t be the issue it might have been, had less of a landslide been, my sound, defeat.

Given my karmic vulnerability it’s a good thing that my defeat is to be by such a landslide. We must move on to pressing issues; like changes I’m bringing — changes, like — climate change,

changes in migration and linchpin changes in human governance. First things first. Given my karmic vulnerabilities. An asteroid strike in the Rose Garden — my prospects — may change.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings; Earth and Luna and its characters and its plot devices, are meant to illuminate whatever in the Hell on Earth, here, is happening. That is the reason of the why of my

long-winded, soliloquy; the minutes of our soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly 280 characters. I denounced and renounced not Proud Boys this day and so I denounce and renounce my

alter ego’s statements made on this Independence Day, the very first global, such day. One such plot device is the atmosphere, lunar. Only truth may be spoken in the absence of oxygen in the air there.

In sad, stark contrast, on Earth lies daily fill the air,. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to illuminate and call out, whatever in the Hell on Earth, is there actually — up there,

happening. A true account of my soirées on Luna with my frenemy, dictatorial friends, notably characterized by a lyrical, sing-song, musical, cadence. Much akin to singing is my epigramming.

MAYDAYS is my soliloquy about soirées on Luna, concerning our forever troubled Earth; with my frenemy characters in characters, 280 even as weak men — against 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 namesake Fascisti),

that exalts nation and often race above, the individual. And I do seem to be, it seems to me to be as virulently fascist, as any former Fascisti. They came first for Gypsies, then the Jews then for me.

Weeks ago, an asteroid exploded over Tokyo; a smaller version of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs once upon, a long 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 damn whistle on whatever happening in this Hell

on Earth. More importantly, it sets forth and tells a previously unknown story of how my lover Kim has helped me craft a plan, to save the good Earth from going to, or merely becoming on Earth, Hell.

I am anxious to tell, within the larger story, the previously unknown story of how Kim has well 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: Why not 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.

ALL PROSE IS POETRY — POTENTIALLY

All prose is poetry, potentially. Short and sweet; and succinct. Epigrammatic; like tombstones, in the old days. All prose, is akin, to poetry. A fine slogan for a free, elementary, school of poetry.

An elementary, high school of poetry Art has founded; and he is its headmaster and one of only two pupils. The other is me, the president. I am President of my old grand dad’s, adopted, country.

Allegedly, and officially too, that country is US; the United States of America. But many wonder and whisper in the hallways of power, whether or not, I’ve been co-opted altogether, by another country.

Some Americans wonder about me. Not about the wonder that is me, but rather whether we have been, by our own president, duped. They wonder about Vlad and Russia. They wonder — about me.

A gift; a present; actually, the precise adjective used in the Urantia Book by beings unknown and unnamed, is bestowal. And there are indeed but five bestowals cited, in the most extraordinary,

Urantia Book. First are the teachings of the Planetary Prince, Caligastia and his staff of 100 from 500,000 years ago until his betrayal 200,000 years ago. Secondarily, Adam and Eve, secondly, 

beginning 35,000 years ago until their fall by default. Third was Melchizedek of Salem, the teacher of Abraham who went on to teach all the oneness of God over 4,000 years ago, eventually

becoming the father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Fourth; Christ Michael’s incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth 2,000 years ago. The fifth and last great bestowal has been the amazingly, relatively

recent, so-called Urantia Book of the 1920s and 30s. It teaches seven superuniverses comprise the grand universe. And our planet, Urantia (Earth) is really awesomely and near incredibly, physically

located at an outer fringe of the seventh, newest superuniverse. On the fringes of the youngest of the superuniverses, evolving and devolving are we Earthlings; we, oh too primitive — evolutionaries.

No crowning creation are we so-called, wise men. Far, from it. Hubris-afflicted, prideful men; easy prey, for the sophistries of Lucifer, Satan. That was that. It is, what it is. And it is — what’s happening.

Up Shit Creek, with no paddle and, increasingly, louder and louder rumbles in the distance, the sound of everything, hurtling over, a precipice. That’s that. It is what it is. It’s — what’s happening.

What’s happening are crises, multiple. Nobels are lost; I’m gonna lose too by a landslide, my election. Alas, the people seem, not to believe me. I’ve gotta get Arthur another platform from which to tell

his stories; to tell, our stories; The Almighty Creator’s stories, one way, or another. I’ve gotta get Arthur another platform so he go on telling the story I’ve been ghostwriting, on his behalf, to tell.

AN ASTEROID STRIKE, ELECTION DAY, EVE

God forbid, I can still win, however narrow, the path. And very easily, I would have won had it not been for the Kung flu and all of these, dark skinned folks. I can still win though. An asteroid

may be striking us the day before Election Day. If the remnant of a refrigerator-sized rock indeed strikes the White House Rose Garden, its impact may delay, the next day’s, election. An asteroid

may buzz-cut Earth on Nov. 2, the day before the Presidential Election. As big as a household refrigerator, it is not big enough, the scientists calculate, to cause truly widespread, planetary,

harm. It’s impossible to tell, where, if anywhere upon the face of the planet, the asteroid may impact. But given that this is the year of the rat, odds are, it’s coming — straight for, The Donny.

So if the world indeed does end in 2020, it likely won’t be the fault of the Universe. But it may be my fault. It may well be the fault of The Donald. It may well be the fault of none other — than me.

The problem is I can live with that. As long as I’m the top dog; as long as my buttons are the biggest, I’m betting big on me; and I’m doubling down. And I can live with that — spiritually — genocidally.

Republicans are targeted more than Democrats by comedy writers, but what underlies all the reasons why my personality attracts the most comedic attention? It’s nice guys like me that oft suffer

the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and so we outrageously lie, and so implausibly, deny. And it’s funny to writers and readers; that the people being lied to — and made to — suffer.

But beyond funny, it is tragic that the history of Urantia needs to be portrayed as an account, comical. It seems that nothing will awaken the Urantians to the gravity, of a very grave, reality.

It’s funny; everything seemingly angers them; still, they seem totally oblivious, to a looming, climax. It’s time to evolve beyond the Godless nations to a single nation; to one single — global, community.

Funny; it’s a funny word, sometimes; and it can be sometimes, more ominous, than it is, humorous. The Urantians are funny but in a really bad way; sometimes; ofttimes, fighting, at the drop of a hat.

A single community. 7,800,000,000 people, as of March of 2020. That’s just shy of eight billion; and the eight billion struggle to live in the failed state of Urantia; in the year 2020; in the year, of the rat.

It’s 2020; a year of the rat; a year unlike any other year, ever. 2020; a memorably, round number. And it yet remains to be seen if disintegration awaits, my pipe-dreamt, Earth-saving, asteroid.

We shall see. We shall soon see if the asteroid disintegrates in the atmosphere or a freezer-sized fragment impacts the earth or more likely the water, somewhere. Cometh, my heroic, asteroid?

A LEFT TURN TO THE RIGHT

“What 10 words bequeath ye, to humanity,” the Watcher tasked Art when he asked Art so damn, cryptically, one sweltering summer evening; one evening; perhaps — the worst week — of his life.

That was when, Art has told me, he got tasked with a mission, only seemingly, impossible. To save, with poetry, the Earth even its non-white and non-English speaking, citizen genetic, phenotypes.

Fatefully, one sweltering Puerto Rican, summer evening; one evening, in what must have seemed then as perhaps the worst week of Arthur’s life; that’s when Art’s life, took a left turn, to the right.

Arthur’s life took a sharp left turn to the right that God-awful week; the week that must have seemed then as perhaps the worst week of Arthur’s life; or at least so hath Arthur said in our soirées at night.

The Watcher bade Art save with his poetry, Earth and its denizens; even, to my surprise, non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school, (wo)men and children, in the art of poetry.

Thus founded, I found out later, was Art’s School of Poetry. I found out later as well that I’d be in dreams with Art; nightly, lunar soirées; eating, drinking and jiving. Not distancing then, socially,

were we. But the virus has been a grand slam, game-changer. For the first 1500 or so MAYDAYS after I, as if from some Heaven, descended, it was an unknown, yet to be, reality. But now — I know.

Now I know. The virus has been a game-changer. For the first 1500 or so MAYDAYS after I, as if from some Heaven, descended, it was an unknown, yet to be, reality; a heartlessly cruel twist of fate; no

mistake, exclusively, of the Chinese; now, I know. I know so much more than I did before; before the virus; before the plague. Still that says, not much. I knew little before; and still — little do I now, know.

I know now so much more than I ever did before; before the virus; before the plague. Still that says, not much. I knew but little before; and still little, do I now, know. I know too I can’t help but say no.

A PLAN — TO FLEE

Surprisingly, some yet wish to vindictively, jail me. But no extradition treaty with Russia means that I I I may flee there. A passport secure, I’ll be needing. And circumstances dictate, that I move — quickly.

No extradition treaty with Russia means that I may soon be fleeing there. My passport, I must, secure. Under the circumstances, I’ll need to move quickly because — some may wish to, vindictively, jail me.

My passport I must, forthrightly and immediately, secure. I need to move quickly. More quickly even than the Sovereign State of New York which state shall move to secure my passport — immediately.

My passport I must immediately secure. I need to be quick. Quicker even than the State of New York. As quick as the state is moving to stymy my super quick, getaway, securing my passport, and quickly

We did not observe then, way back when then, social distancing, like now, we do. As ye know, it’s all the rage; some say, it’s not a new normal. That, even as many fear — we’ve got a new fear, to fear.

We have had a new fear to fear this year; some refuse to acknowledge it; some, purposely or not, mischaracterize it; others, while acknowledging it, refuse to it, surrender; surreality too — is to fear.

There’s a stark contrast between our eastern and our western societies, as measured by their relative success, or their lack of it, in combatting the virus. October, November and December, fear.

It ought give us pause; the stark contrast between frenemy societies; a measure of their competition has been their success, or lack of it, against the virus with still two months to go yet — this year.

Seven days until Election Day, 86 days until Joe’s Inauguration Day. And with only 67 days only left in 2020, I’m well on my way to having to flee the country, in my life long, stay out of jail, strategy.

It seems I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vladimir would protect me. And as the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

I may indeed be needing to flee the country and Russia seems logical. Vladimir would protect me. And as the knowledgeable President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

We have no extradition treaty with Russia a I soon may be needing to flee US. My passport I must, secure. Under the circumstances, I’ll need to move quickly. Because we have, with Russia, no treaty.

My passport I must, forthrightly and immediately, secure. I need to move quickly. More quickly even than the Sovereign State of New York which state shall move to secure my passport — immediately.

The Watcher bade Art save with his poetry, Earth and its denizens; even, to my surprise, non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school (wo)men and children, in the art of poetry.

1835 SOIRÉES … AND COUNTING

Thus founded, I found out later, was Art’s School of Poetry. I found out later as well that I’d be in dreams with Art; nightly, lunar soirées; eating, drinking and conversing, distancing, socially, only

recently. For 1835 consecutive nights now, we’ve dreamt and soiréed on Luna’s surface. There really is water, up there. Arthur needs me to protect him from Vlad so I’ll be ghostwriting for Art, his poetry.

Shacked up with a thin man in Moscow. It could have been worse. I could have been sentenced to stay married to my asexual sexual sham, third-chosen, First Lady. My tall, Russian looking, sham.

I’ll be damned if everything ain’t really a God-damned, sham. Unless of course, none of it’s a sham; none of it, at all. It just may be, as is typical in life, a reflection of The Master’s, Masterful Plan.

And I won’t even bother asking if ye can imagine that. Ye need not know how; just that He does it. Know that the secret to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh’s Power, is in His Personality, per His Plan.

It matters not that ye can’t imagine that. Ye need not know how He does it; just that He does it. And know also that the secret to His Power is in His magnificently — life-creating Personality and Plan.

Place in perspective, everything, that’s happening. Adjust your perspective as necessary, or desirable. Keep it simple. Multi-tasking aside, we mortals do things best, when we doth do them, one at a time.

Aside from the important matter of perspective, it’s important too to keep things, simple. Multi-tasking aside, we mortals, mere human beings, do things best, when we doth do them, one at a time.

Multi-tasking, as important as it is, is secondary, in time to the lesson we learn in learning, that we (wo)men doth do things best when indeed, we have the luxury, of doing them — singularly.

We do things best when we have the luxury of doing things, one thing, at a time. Unfortunately, we don’t have that luxury anymore. Multi-tasking is become a matter of survival, of sheer necessity.

Multi-tasking hath become a matter of survival. I’ve become quite good at it; I’ve been practicing those skills, since I was a kid; walking along, even as I patted my fat head and rubbed, my full belly.

The Watcher bade Arthur Everman save, with his poetry Urantia (Earth) and its denizens; even its non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school the (wo)men, in the art, of poetry.

Thus was founded the whistleblowing Arthur Everman’s, Chachomanopapa School of Free Poetry. And so long as he needs me to protect him from Vlad, I’ll be ghostwriting for Art, his poetry.

Arthur needs me to protect him from Vladimir’s clutches. And so I’m going to shelter and protect him; notwithstanding that he’s Puerto Rican. In the meantime I’ll be ghostwriting for Art — his poetry.

DAMNED, IF EVERYTHING, AIN’T A SHAM

A stunning White House claim: The government is just giving up controlling, the fast-worsening, pandemic. And it’s overshadowing my last-ditch efforts to get re-elected with but eight days, to go.

Getting re-elected. It was my go-to, stay out of jail, electoral strategy. Now, it’s not even that. But, I get it. It’s 2020’s, year of the rat. Now, I see how truly helpless I am; and that it’s time, past time, to go.

It appears I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vlad would protect me. As the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no — extradition, treaty.

From Snowden I learned that we have no, treaty for extradition with Russia. That’s the main thing. Whatever country I consider going to, it can’t have with the United States, an extradition — treaty.

Edward Joseph Snowden; many, may recall him. And I’ve called him myself on many, an occasion. To pick his brain on our stay out of jail strategies, Russian women and expense sharing — possibly.

And I would pause here — to marvel in — and revel in — the ironies. That I end up in Vladimir’s Russia, shacked up with a fugitive from Obama, none other than — the whistleblowing — Eddie.

Better tho to be shacked up than shackled up, I‘m wont to say. Eddie agrees with me on that. And agrees with me physically, not, politically. He’s a Democrat at heart; a God-damned, whistleblower.

Edward Joseph Snowden; a Democrat, I suspect. A whistleblower, for sure. But when life throws me a lemon, I make lemonade. A flannel shirt, I’ll pack. And shack up with my thin man — whistleblower.

Shacking up with a thin man, in Moscow. It could be worse. I could have been sentenced to be with Melania, a woman so cold she coldly tells me to my face that I’m far, far too old for her — sexually.

Man — that — was cold. And as everyone knows, she slaps my hands silly whenever one of my hands is silly enough to try to grab, one of hers. Needless to say, she wants nothing to do with me.

Needless to say, the First Lady wants nothing to do with me, intimately. She says I’m disgusting to her. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly, making a belated, campaign appearance for me. It’s a sham.

My First Lady wants nothing to do with me. She says I’m disgusting. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly finally making, a campaign appearance for me. My marriage — like everything, is a sham.

My First Lady wants nothing to do with me. She says I’m disgusting. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly finally making, a campaign appearance for me. My marriage — like everything, is a sham.

So I’m shacking up with a thin man in Moscow. But I know that it could easily have been a lot worse. I could have been sentenced to stay married to my Russian-looking lady; my asexual, sexual — sham.

TRUE, CRIMES — TRUE, CONSPIRACIES

Conspiracy theories; they’ve gotten themselves, a bad name; but touting them is just one of my claims to fame. And when I tout them, I often haven’t even, a shred of evidence. Conspiracy

theories; my base just loves ‘em. I see them at my rallies, gleefully yukking it up; high-fiving, one another. And my reptilian brain, records, the image. In the news are — my conspiracies.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievements — ever. A Russian, Manchurian, candidate; at least so, it appears. But deeper even than that, run — conspiracies.

Deeper than that run my, off a wall, wall to wall, conspiracies. Vladimir Putin has pulled off a stunning intelligence achievement. And no one believes in any — unimaginable — conspiracy.

In the absence of smoking guns, circumstantial evidence, notwithstanding, no one (excepting Art) but I myself, dare spell out, I dare say, an actually happening, unimaginable, conspiracy.

Notwithstanding lots of circumstantial proofs, no smoking gun, smokes. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence documentary, or otherwise, ironclad, that might document, the conspiracy.

Nonetheless, none shall be, as it shall turn out, necessary. No smoking gun shall be necessary to tie me to Vladimir’s, Russian, bureaucracy. I admit to being a conspirator, in his conspiracy.

I freely admit to being a conspirator, in Vlad’s conspiracy. Make no mistake. I conspired with Vlad of my own accord, freely and willingly. To build a hotel in Moscow, I betrayed my country.

I freely admit to being a conspirator, in Vlad’s conspiracy. Make no mistake. I conspired with Vlad of my own accord, freely and willingly. To build a hotel in Moscow, I betrayed my country.

I know no shame; I actually don’t understand what shame is, nor know what it feels like. In fact, I feel none still. Still tho, I understand I’m making mistakes, mistaking, my opportunities

in business; feeling as unconstrained as I ever did in my Wall Street dealings. I wish I’d there, stayed. Had I stayed in my comfort zone, no Uskagrad would there be, in Vlad’s, vocabulary.

Uskagrad; it’s what Vlad calls US; Uskagrad, he calls us, when we speak on the phone. And he laughs when he says it. And I’ve laughed along with him. I’ve laughed about this — conspiracy.

I’ve laughed too soon. Just 8 days to go until Election Day; 86 days until Joe’s Inauguration Day. And with just 67 days only left in 2020, I’m well on my way to having to flee — the country.

It appears I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vlad would protect me. As the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

A RUSSIAN PROVINCE — THE UNITED STATES

How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it’s a trick question. As there is no one single, answer, one or more is technically one, correct, answer. One may be one answer to the tricky,

question. More likely, however, an epiphany, if one doth ever comes, follows hundreds or even possibly, thousands, of revelations. Epiphanies are a sum of constituent revelations, generally.

Take me, for example, and my relationship with my mentor, Vladimir; and our relationship with, Hillary’s e-mails; my hotel project in Moscow and my summit with him in Finland’s, Helsinki.

Recall my relation with Vlad, my relation with Hillary; a hotel project in Moscow, a suspicious summit in Helsinki, when my translator’s notes, I kept to myself — unusually and unexpectedly.

I can hardly believe what, to me, has happened; not to mention, what’s happening. It’s been a blur, largely. With mom and dad absent, an original TV kid, early on got stunted by outsized, screen times.

An incorrigible child who early on learned the utility of a tantrum, I threw fits, routinely. And I learned, not to read. Not learning to read. Sad. A grown man, a president but I read at no time.

Un-freaking-believeable! An out and out traitor to my purported country; a double agent, for Vladimir; a man who may enjoy, being urinated upon; a man who abhors, reading and learning.

It’s hard to believe I’ve done all these things; not so much that I’ve been a double agent and betrayed my country as much as being that man, less than a man who likes, being peed on.

It’s so unfair. I’ve helped construct kleptocratic alliances. Our whole goal is the privatization of power and we already control, the three great poles; the US, China and Vladimir’s — Russia.

We already control the three great poles; the US, China and Russia. I’ve helped construct the money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is his privatization of power — in Russia.

The US, China and Russia, thanks to me, Xi and Vlad, we already control. I’ve helped to build, money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is the privatization of power — in Russia.

Russia. Land of the Cossacks, the Czars and the Sputnik’s. The greatest land mass on my planet. Vladimir would have Russia regain her glory but a front for Vladimir Putin is this — new Russia.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievement in all of a sad, human, history: secretly controlling the president of US is President Vlad Putin, all the way from Russia.

In the most stunning intelligence achievement of all time; secretly controlling the president of an enemy nation is President Vladimir Putin, all the way from the new sheriff in town — Russia.

PRELUDE TO CRISES

Pray tell Earthlings: Answer me a riddle. 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 next December my much-coveted, Nobel Prizes. And I’ll be sharing with Vlad’s guys then, my Nobels.

MY NOBLE, NOBEL, THOUGHT EXPERIMENT

Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and an innovative way, with Google Translate, to compound the global effect is nothing less than a source of potential energy, by algorithm.

TwitterEZE he calls it so that it works no matter how, one pronounces, it. A good name; a good, start. And so he postulated to Jack (Twitter’s, patent-holder, proprietor), his rich algorithm’s,

potential to be, far richer still. TwitterEZE; it’s an amalgam alloy, of Twitter and easy. It would’ve been easier to reverse with my verse, all these adverse events; and trends — also — adverse.

It would have been easier to timely arrest, our untimely devolution, had Jack been more more receptive to my suggestion. But that he hadn’t been should have begotten him, by now, verse.

Epic verse, from my diverse base of frustrated bikers, frustrated Evangelicals and frustrated, white nationalists; frustrated writers, many of them. I should have seen by now, their verse, 

in protest, being posted on the various and sundry, platforms. But it’s not happening. And that it’s not happening, amply evidences that Vlad’s tightening his steely grip upon the Earth.

Vlad Putin is tightening his grip on Urantia. My mentor has made a fateful decision to cut short his Trump, double agent, Russian, experiment. He aims to cut further losses; Russia’s; and his.

Aiming to cut losses, Vlad is considering cutting, me loose. Calculating that my unpredictability, makes me as a double agent, going forward, untenable. Too bad; it’s a fact — it is, what it is.

It is what it is. Or surreally, is it really? Actually, I admit that while indeed, what is, is, sometimes, what seems to be isn’t at all what it appears to be. Witness evidence, in a thought, experiment.

Imagine a line-up; that time-honored criminal investigative procedure designed to allow a victim to reliably identify, alleged, perpetrators. But what if people were in thought experiment,

lined up turned inside out, exposing organs internal, whilst hiding from view, faces, scars and other commonly used identifying, features. Self-evident the goal, of this simple experiment.

Self-evident is the goal of a simple experiment. To witness why I must write that I am unfit; why I can not be the president; why I’m endorsing Biden — and why I’ll vote for him, for president.

An Einsteinian thought experiment, perfectly suited to deliver in its message, instruction and direction: Matters personal are what matters, only — in the pilgrim’s progress — universally.

Matters, personal; only they matter, personally, in the pilgrim’s progress. Universally true, that’s a comfort, going forward. I learned these truths at the Chachomanopapa School of Free Poetry.

NOBLE, GOALS — NOBEL, WORTHY

Like baseball’s Koufax; like football’s, Pelé and Messi; I’ve got weapons; skills, so extraordinary. Witnessed the nation last night on national TV, me, at my best; and revelations’ — epiphanies.

Witnessed the nation last night, me, at my very best; turning the tide that’s been against me —into a tail wind; the stuff of myth; the stuff of, legend. The stuff of revelations and epiphanies.

Legendary, indeed one day shall be my legacy; the stuff of revelations and epiphanies. It is —what it is. Not mythical at all shall be my most storied exploits. Legendary shall be, my poetry.

Legendary one day shall be my poetry. And I thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh for sending my brother Art from the future to teach me his take on poetry so that I might in turn, teach ye.

Peace on Earth; and good will to my (wo)men. It’s a noble goal; it’s a goal, Nobel-worthy. And it’s my goal for all of ye. Peace and prosperity; and good will too. And a key is in — His Poetry.

One key amongst many, is in, I believe, poetry. While I can’t in all honesty confirm that Art was by ball lightning, electrocuted, I agree with him that in Twitter’s algorithm reposes, hidden only 

seemingly, a vast, completely untapped, virgin reservoir, of energy, potential. Potential energy; what energy is, ere it gets, kinetic. Alchemical is, what it is. Transcendentally and metaphysically,

alchemical, has been Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and his innovative way to compound the effect with Google Translate. I’m calling all hands — I’m calling upon, visionaries.

Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and an innovative way, with Google Translate, to compound the global effect, is nothing less than a source of potential energy in algorithms.

TwitterEZE, he calls it. So that it works, however one, pronounces it. A good name; a good start. He has postulated to Twitter’s Jack (Twitter’s, patent-holder, proprietor), his rich algorithm’s

potential to be a far richer platform, far more multi-facetedly utilitarian, than the sales and gossip, it seems currently, too shortsightedly, constrained to. For whatever reason, ironically,

Jack hasn’t acknowledged the common sense in Art’s suggestion for a Reddit-like, sub-Twittit. But he will; it’s either that or lose market share. He’ll move eventually albeit maybe — belatedly.

And so I’ll harass Jack and Facebook’ pizza-delivery guy, Zuckerberger. I’ll threaten them with Section 230 and I’ll call them names, trying not to do, what’s not in my interests, pecuniary. 

I try not to do anything that’s not in my interest. All too often though, I don’t succeed. But at the debate last night I succeeded, well beyond, my expectations, communicating — non-verbally.

A CHANGE OF PACE, DEBATE

A mysteriously magnificent, Almighty, Creator. Irony, in meticulously telling detail, happens, ir not. Like, last night; imagine, had I fallen to the floor; dying next to the podium, from whence,

moments before I’d been viciously and cynically Joe Biden, provoking? Imagine an audience, the nation, transfixed, as chest compressions and artificial respirations usher in VP — Mike Pence.

It’s not so, far-fetched. I’m 74, morbidly obese, and I neither eat, nor sleep, well; and I’ve got a world of problems, between the pandemic, the elections, and Nobels, that unfairly, elude me.

Again, I’m no prophet. I don’t know what’s ever going to happen. And I don’t, read much. But I know this much. Given what I’ve been through, I’ve made a mistake running for the presidency.

I know, more. I know that it’s 2020. And I know that 2020 is the Chinese year of the rat. I know most of all that the year of the rat won’t be over til 2020 ends and 2021 begins, in January.

A banshee wailing; under the circumstances, it’s a bad omen. I fear that if I fail to provoke Joe into physically attacking me, I’ll either fake a coronary or suffer ironically — a true, coronary.

It won’t be til January that 2020, ends when my lame duck presidency ends, finally, also. But every end is a new beginning. So I’m weighing the pros and cons — of fleeing — the country.

I’m assuming, given the wailing of the banshee, that there’s a possibility that I may be the one who soon, may be somewhat, unexpectedly, dying. Just in case, I’ll be skipping, the country.

As it turns out, it appears that at least — for a while I’ll go on living and I’ll go on presiding. A debate, remarkably uneventful, was far less, a game changer than I surreally needed it to be.

As it turned out none of what I’d planned nor none of what I’d feared had come to pass. I was unable to provoke Joe nor did I fake a coronary. But neither did I suffer myself, a fatal coronary.

Indeed, none of what I’d planned had come to pass. Nor were realized, the worst of my fears.
I was unable to provoke Joe nor did I fake a coronary. But I didn’t myself, suffer, a coronary.

I was unable to provoke Joe; nor did I fake, any coronary. But I didn’t myself, suffer one. And most implausibly, I largely managed to temper my aggression and my usual — improprieties.

As it turned out, the changes I made in my strategies and my tactics, won my debate for me against Joe Biden, yesterday evening. And by tomorrow morning, I may be even, maybe.

I won my debate against Joe Biden yesterday evening. And by tomorrow morning, I may be in the latest polls, even, maybe. And perhaps, I’ll even take the lead over Joe, most, implausibly.

IN ONE FORTNIGHT, A KARMIC, RECKONING

Upon questioning incisive and insistent, I toss characteristically childish temper tantrums, this most recent one coming, even as my debate looms, on Thursday. And that coronary, fake

I was planning, may prove to be fatal, if in fact, on stage, I just up and die. Walking out on an interview; it doesn’t just look bad. It looks like I’m cracking. My coronary might be — not fake.

My First Lady has not made even a single public appearance on my behalf, this year. Her non-support of me, well-nigh untenable, has really, become. My better half’s last appearance ever,

on my behalf was over a year ago. I’ll likely have to have Bill Barr accuse her of treason, bye and bye. Later; after the election; sometime during my second term, as the ugliest American, ever.

She’s a lot like me. She does what she wants, when she wants. A stubborn contrarian with the strength of an Amazon — warrior woman. And now she’s taken to wailing, like a banshee.

The mournful wailing of the banshee; believed to foretell the death of a member of the family of the person who heard the spirit. I can’t help but hear, the mournful wailing, of the banshee.

I have become afraid of my forever indisposed and now my fearsome, banshee-wailing, First Lady. I can’t be sure, it’s her. But I’m too afraid to even knock on her door. So I’m imagining,

the worst. But what on Earth, could be worse? And what on Earth could worsen what’s already happened? Googling my favorite monopoly, I’ve discovered that the banshee wail, when dying,

is someone in the immediate family. Normally, I’d laugh it off; after all, it’s a myth. Given all that’s happening tho, I asked my boy-doctor to measure my vitals and measure my bloody,

blood pressure. A banshee wailing; it’s a bad omen. It’s just occurred to me that it would be tellingly ironic if in failing to provoke Joe’s physical attack of me and faking a coronary,

a coronary, I myself, suffer. Given furthermore that what’s always seemingly happening, it seems, is so implausibly surreal, I’m assuming there’s a possibility, I’ll be the one, who’s dying.

A banshee wailing; given there’s a possibility I’m the one who’s dying, it’s a bad omen. Knowing also that The Lord works mysteriously, how ironic would it be if my most dramatic, dying

moments, happen, as they say live and in living color I shockingly die on the floor next to the podium from whence mere moments before I’d been as planned, been — Joe Biden, provoking.

Given furthermore that what always seemingly happens, it seems, is so implausibly surreal, I’m assuming there’s a possibility, I may be the one, this October surprising — with a sudden, dying.

AN ASTEROID STRIKE, ELECTION DAY, EVE

God forbid, I can still win, however narrow, the path. And very easily, I would have won had it not been for the Kung flu and all of these, dark skinned folks. I can still win though. An asteroid

may be striking us the day before Election Day. If the refrigerator-sized asteroid, indeed strikes the White House, its impact may well delay, the next day’s, election. Cometh, verily, an asteroid.

It may buzz-cut Earth on Nov. 2, the day before the Presidential Election. As big as a household refrigerator, it is not big enough, the scientists calculate, to cause truly widespread, planetary,

harm. It’s impossible to tell, where, if anywhere upon the face of the planet, the asteroid may impact. But given that this is the year of the rat, odds are, it’s coming — straight for, The Donny.

So if the world indeed does end in 2020, it likely won’t be the fault of the Universe. But it may be my fault. It may well be the fault of The Donald. It may well be the fault of none other, than me.

The problem is — I can live with that. As long as I’m the top dog; as long as my buttons are the biggest — I’m betting big on me; and doubling down. And I can live with that — genocidally.

Republicans are targeted more than Democrats by comedy writers, but what underlies all the reasons why my personality attracts the most comedic attention? Nice guys like me oft suffer

the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and so we outrageously lie, and so implausibly, deny. And it’s funny to writers and readers; the people being lied to — and made to — suffer.

But beyond funny, it is tragic that the history of Urantia needs to be portrayed as an account, comical. It seems that nothing will awaken the Urantians to the gravity, of a very grave, reality.

It’s funny; everything seemingly angers them; still, they seem totally oblivious, to a looming, climax. It’s time to evolve beyond the Godless nations to a single nation; a single community.

Funny; it’s a funny word, sometimes; and it can be sometimes, more ominous, than humorous. 
The Urantians are funny but in a really bad way. Sometimes they fight, at the drop of a hat.

A single community. 7,800,000,000 people, as of March of 2020. That’s just shy of eight billion; and the eight billion struggle to live in the failed state of Urantia; in 2020; in the year, of the rat.

It’s 2020; the year of the rat; a year unlike any other year, ever. 2020; a memorably, round number. It remains to be seen if disintegration awaits, my pipe-dreamt — saving — asteroid.

We’ll see. We’ll see if the asteroid disintegrates in the atmosphere; or a freezer-sized fragment 
impacts the earth, or more likely the water, somewhere. Cometh — my heroic — asteroid?

ASTRONOMICAL ODDS

Astronomical are the odds against an asteroid impacting an election. I’ll be falling back on my last ditch, debate strategy. Baiting Joe into an assault on me or God forbid, faking, a coronary.

I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically, attacking, me. If that doesn’t work, I may dramatically have to — fake suffering, a massive, coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on my person; on President Me.

Alternatively, should Joe keep cool and not take the debate, bait, I’ll fall back on my contingently planned, coronary. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do — or die trying, antiheroically.

I’d rather die than lose to Joe Biden and not just because it would be so embarrassing. Losing to Joe would be a setback to my stay out of jail, strategy. I’ll provoke Joe — or suffer a coronary.

My fellow Urantian Americans: It is what it is. It’s 2020; the traditionally lucky, Chinese year of the rat, this year, seemingly, unlucky. Because I’m a visionary tho I see in tragedy, opportunity.

I see in in our common tragedy, a superlative opportunity. Verily, I see great transformational opportunity in the tragedy that has befallen the nations. It’s critical Americans, not, re-elect me.

Don’t ye dare re-elect me. Vote Joe in. It’s not for nothing that I’ve come to endorse him. He’ll undo, all I’ve done. It’s not for nothing I’ll be voting for Joe, and only seemingly, insincerely.

Astronomical are the odds against an asteroid impacting an election. I’ll be falling back on my last ditch, debate strategy. Baiting Joe into an assault on me or God forbid, faking, a coronary.

I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically, attacking, me. If that doesn’t work, I may dramatically have to — fake suffering, a massive, coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s far too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on the person of President Me.

A FAILURE TO PLAN — A PLAN TO FAIL

I’m no prophet. I don’t actually know what’s going to happen. And except for the Hollywood gossips, I don’t read much. But I know this: In the old days, men were men and might, right,

made. Women knew their place was at home, bearing sons. What is happening, is a disgrace. I was the one; the one and only one that by the right of my might, might have made US — right.

Verily, I’m no prophet. Apart from the gossips, comics and obituaries, just a headline or two is about all I can stomach. I’d rather watch TV. TV is why, however, I don’t, read well. Reality-TV;

it’s TV, too dangerous; too deadly and also, too mind-stunting. Verily, the boob tube has made a boob out of me. The evidence is anecdotal, but it appears — my mind’s been — atrophied.

Ye need not be a prophet to know that I will berate and not debate Joe Biden at the so-called debate. It’s the only way I know how to act. It’s the only way I know how to react, verily.

I will be asked to address my fight against hate; race in America, Covid-19, American families, climate change, national security and the leadership of the United States. Substantively,

I’ve got but little, if anything, to say. Still, I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically attacking me. And if that doesn’t work, faking, a massive coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on my person; on President Me.

Alternatively, should Joe keep cool and not take the debate, bait, I’ll fall back on my contingently planned, coronary. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do — or die trying, antiheroically.

I’d rather die than lose to Joe Biden and not just because it would be so embarrassing. Losing to Joe would be a setback to my stay out of jail, strategy. I’ll provoke Joe — or suffer a coronary.

My fellow Urantian Americans: It is what it is. It’s 2020; the traditionally lucky, Chinese year of the rat, this year, seemingly, unlucky. Because I’m a visionary tho I see in tragedy, opportunity.

I see in in our common tragedy, a superlative opportunity. Verily, I see great transformational opportunity in the tragedy that has befallen the nations. It’s critical Americans, not, re-elect me.

Don’t ye dare re-elect me. Vote Joe in. It’s not for nothing that I’ve come to endorse him. He’ll undo, all I’ve done. It’s not for nothing I’ll be voting for Joe, and only seemingly, insincerely.

THICKENING, 2020 PLOTS, SICKENING US

No one ought believe that this sad situation is other than an unfortunate happenstance; an accident complicated tho by human negligence and unfortunately too, to a pandemic, causal.

It’s not about us, Xi. It’s not personal. It’s just that if a virus in China is ‘born’ and borne, near everywhere, thereafter, well there’s gonna be, Xi, naturally — investigations — legal. Legal

matters. Pay no mind to anything I say on my campaign trail. We’ll talk about this later. In any event it remains to be seen, as a matter of law, if Wuhan wet markets are indeed, even causal.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad, as a damn hatter. And Xi’s irate. Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead. Full speed ahead against China; China’s distracting US from a coronavirus, fatal.

Distracting, I’ll be from here on in too. We’ll just have to work out later — the fallout. Especially since we found out that WHO won’t surrender; neither to us, nor to any microbe, at any time.

Apparently the virus, much like me, acts and reacts. We don’t reason. I’ve got animal instinct in common with it. So I’m betting on time. Time, very, shortened. And I am counting on time’s,

shortness, to force the cooperation needed to confront a common enemy. Genius uncommon this common sense, of mine. Rare indeed is a genius (once perhaps, in a creation), like mine.

The plot thickens. The Chinese reaction, my advisers fear shall be swift and fast and furious. Even so-called inconclusive evidence that the virus, once upon an invented — fantastic time,

originated at a Chinese research facility in wan Wuhan leaves the Chinese less than inscrutable to the United States. Xi has been irate with me even though I’ve told him that it’s not about us.

Our militaries are bracing for a long, protracted struggle against a virus and one another; each looking for novel ways to achieve an advantage armed unknowingly, only with, naked, hubris.

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 the center of attention 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.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad, as a hatter. 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; neither to us — nor the coronaviral — microbe.

BALL OF CONFUSION

“IN THE MINDS of Urantia’s mortals there is confusion about the 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.

drrick@ricksheffmd.com: Thank ye, Dr. Sheff. Thank ye for your fine summary. Dr, with your permission, I would weave ye into more of my poem, if ye would, again — agree. Clink on my

link to view a pilgrim’s progress — therefore.
MAYDAY 1824: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16, 2020 https://chachomanopapa.com/2020/10/16/mayday-1824-friday-october-16-2020-2/ It’s no lie.

Verily, it’s no lie. Actually, I can not tell a lie. I’m the president of the United States. And ye may recall that George Washington institutionalized, a tradition of never ever, telling to America, lies.

Be honest, always, with the people. Ne’er lie to them. Check back in, regularly here, for your daily, updates. But if I win in November, all bets are off. In truth, the truth I regularly do — belie.

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 things to waste. Truly — wasted, opportunities.

A fine algorithm, like a fine mind, one like mine, is precious. More precious than any fine wine is my fine mind. Witness a ghostwritten satire of mine, in co-authorship with my brother, Arthur.

As awful a thing as it is to waste a fine mind. As awful as that is, far worse it may be if (wo)man heeds not my counsel; it is the fine counsel of Arthur, as well. Answers, are in the Scriptures.

Answers are in Scriptures. In each of them are answers, provincially, partial. A more complete answer, however, emerges when we view in the context of the UB — our traditional Scriptures.

No wonder then that the UB begins by noting what the Temptations came to call, A Ball of Confusion. Verily, there is confusion about the meaning on Urantia, of God, divinity and deity.

And so it came to pass once upon a time; in 2020 to be exact, in the year of the rat. Once I learned about reality, predetermination and Karmic retribution; that it’s not all — about me.

HIGHER EDUCATION

I am outta here. Good luck Joe. Be honest Joe, 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. Natural leaders, unlike everybody else, are naturally 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.

ANCIENT EPICS

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, making Vyasa’s epic, the longest poem, 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; all along its length, it features content insightful; 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.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. And my proud Boys preen, ever more, proudly.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

What a difference a day makes in nanoseconds; as when Yellowstone, Krakatoa and Santorini, blew their tops, on unknown dates, in unknown years — super, sky-high — super, volcanically.

What a difference 1 year may make; as when the tots of moms and pops grow, in fits and starts; in learning’s ebbs and flows; growing, inexorably, ever exasperatingly, fascinatingly.

What a difference 25 years may make; as when computers digitally usher in information ages, rife with disinformation, or in lieu, alternatively, informative; uniting and divisive, concurrently.

What a difference 250 years may make; when machines and engines, dramatically upped our consumption, our supply and demand and our uneven, 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; when from cosmic dust on the ground on Earth, in His image, He created us. He did omnipotently create 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 a little boy, along with, their families.

What a difference one day may make; as when I, a mutant motormouth, uncouthly stigmatize Islam, polarizing thereby, the planet and pitting Muslim against Christian, seemingly, unwisely.

“What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?” A daunting, question; ever since, Arthur’s been haunted, by both the answer, and the question: “What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?”

Thus began the dreamy soirees and their true 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 far more elegant and fat more emotive than one might ever aspire to — merely, prosaically.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that is most favored by Him, Personally. Verse better expresses, personality.

Composing on 3 levels, 280 character tweets metamorphose to blog logs, metamorphosing, in turn, into a manuscript in hermetic, solitude; 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 innovative novel-like, novel, poetry.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is why my

long-winded soliloquy; the minutes of soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly, 280 characters. I denounce and renounce not Proud Boys but denounce and renounce 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, Art. I looked up fascism.’ It’s a philosophy, political, movement or regime (like namesake 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 for the Jews then for 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 good 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 well 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.

ALL PROSE IS POETRY — POTENTIALLY

All prose is poetry, potentially. Short and sweet; and succinct. Epigrammatic; like tombstones, in the old days. All prose, is akin, to poetry. A fine slogan for a free, elementary, school of poetry.

An elementary, high school of poetry Art has founded; and he is its headmaster and one of only two pupils. The other is me, the president. President of my grand dad’s, adopted, country.

Allegedly, and officially too, that country is US; the United States of America. But many wonder and whisper in the hallways of power, whether or not, I’ve been co-opted, by another country.

Some Americans wonder about me. Not about the wonder that is me, but rather whether we have been, by our own president, duped. They wonder about Vladimir, and Russia — and me.

A gift; a present; actually, the precise adjective used in the Urantia Book by beings unknown and unnamed, is bestowal. And there are but five bestowals cited, in the most extraordinary,

Urantia Book. First are the teachings of the Planetary Prince, Caligastia and his staff of 100 from 500,000 years ago until his betrayal 200,000 years ago. Adam and Eve, secondly,

beginning 35,000 years ago until their fall by default. Third was Melchizedek of Salem, the teacher of Abraham who went on to teach all the oneness of God 4,000 years ago, eventually

becoming the father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Fourth; Christ Michael’s incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth 2,000 years ago. The fifth and last great bestowal has been the relatively

recent, Urantia Book of the 1920s and 30s. It teaches that seven superuniverses comprise the grand universe. And our planet, Urantia (Earth) is really awesomely and near incredibly,

physically located at an outer fringe of the seventh superuniverse. On the fringes of the youngest of the superuniverses, evolving and devolving are we, we primitive, evolutionaries.

No crowning creation are so-called, wise men. Far, from it. Hubris-afflicted, prideful men; easy prey, for the sophistries of Lucifer, Satan. That was that. It is, what it is. It is, what’s happening.

Up Shit Creek, with no paddle and, increasingly, louder and louder rumbles in the distance, the sound of everything, hurtling over, a precipice. That’s that. It is what it is. It’s what’s happening.

What’s happening are crises, multiple. Nobels are lost; I’m gonna lose too, by a landslide, the election. Alas, the people seem, not to believe me. I’ve gotta get Art another platform. To tell

his stories; to tell, our stories; actually, The Creator’s stories, one way, or another. me. I’ve gotta get Art another platform so he go on telling the story I’ve been ghostwriting, to tell.

MY FELLOW URANTIANS: NOW READ THIS:

Shocked recently was I, when I read six words: ‘The Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship.’ Shocked was I, additionally, because my stay out of jail electoral strategy, ever increasingly,

is failing and this year’s Nobels for Peace and Literature were awarded to others, not to me. Increasingly, I’m in trouble. And so I’ll need to redouble my efforts to help Art save, humanity.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

I floated an idea recently; ripping open my button-down shirt to reveal my Superman t-shirt, underneath. No one, it seems, has a sense of humor, anymore. I can’t imagine, why.

I don’t know why. I can’t for the life of me even imagine why everyone thought it was such a bad, morbid, idea. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost their sense of humor? Has anyone — died?

Tone-deaf, sometimes, am I. I can’t believe that I asked that. In all honesty, too many have died. Too many more, remain to die. It is, what it is. Still, there’s a silver lining in my legacy, possibly.

Given my run, in 2020, of bad luck, it was my good luck to notice (because I rarely, read) a story about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship. I alerted Arthur, near immediately.

In a safe house, Arthur’s been hiding out from a virus and from Vladimir’s assassins. And I’ve been writing; ghostwriting for him, a tall tale for the ages. Still it’s a tale only seemingly, fictional.

Fictional is this less than cryptic instruction; this algorithm, poetic; this, panacea. Because there can be no mistake, know all men by these presents — MAYDAYS is fiction — nonfictional.

A PROGRESSIVE, OPPORTUNITY 

Help me make Urantia, a welfare state. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. An innovative novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; fictional and nonfictional; not your father’s satire; something topical, edgy, and compelling. Compelling, multi-tasking; my MAYDAYS is a satire, fully intended, to inspire.

To be forewarned, is to be forearmed. The committee administering the scholarship in Amy’s name aims to name a poet of Ame­ri­can birth, and of good standing, or able promise,

preference being given, to those of progressive, literary, tendencies. Aiming to avoid extremes of academic conservatism on the one hand and that radicalism which springs from the promise 

of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee invites all to submit, cautioning however that a literary pedigree may promise 

a greater likelihood of traveling to Boston and accepting an invaluable prize, which amount pales next to, the value to Earth of a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. A promise; 

a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. An algorithm. Life; and evolution of the species don’t come with anything resembling a map or book; or a helpful blueprint set, of instructions.

So here it is, my fellow Urantians. A helpful, algorithm. Because life and evolution doesn’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or helpful, blueprint, sets, of instructions.

There are black holes in the centers of galaxies. Event horizons, mysterious. Analogously, there is something akin to a black hole in each of us; a flame co-existing, with a black hole, inside us.

A flame co-exists with a black hole, deep inside of us. Ever since the administration of Urantia, of Caligastia succumbed to, Satan’s, siren song; ever since, Satan decided, for him — and for us,

that he’d and we’d be happier and better off, being not shmucks, believing in our eternally absent, celestial, still, colonial, rulers. Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said.

Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said. Satan’s seductive siren song seduced, easily, resentful and gullible, masses. And they chanted if I can’t be free I’d be better off dead.

I’m penning a satire; a blueprint map; a yellow brick road to a welfare state; I’m penning colors and pictures in words and I’ll do right by Amy and the possessive Ezra Pound of the imagists.

A satirical, ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. It’s not hagiographical but rather confessional. Colorful satire may be the mark of a copy-cat, innovatively progressive, imagist.

PENEMUE’S COMMISSION 

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; they whom are the disembodied spiritual counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim of Genesis; the progeny some say of the union of rebel angels and earthling women, rebelling.

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.

SURREAL TALL TALES

2016 through 2019; three years in ebbing, best of times. The first three years of 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.

LOCKING DOWN; RAMPING UP

Lockdown the nation! Medical and financial systems are folding, like the houses of cards, they are. Lockdown the nation! We’re now living in an unprecedented 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 struggle with a novel virus, not unexpected by some, life and death matters 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.

EUREKA!

Antonio Guterres: Eureka! I have found it! It was in plain sight, hidden. But I have found it. And just in time. To exchange the paradigms. I found it in Twitter’s algorithm right here online.

I found Antonio, hidden in Twitter’s algorithm, space and time. Space enough for all of 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 my rhymes 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 due 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, turns surreally, 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.

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.

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. Let’s make 

peace; and 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 nonfictional warning, posing as fiction; in allegory — epic stories — of weakling men — in evolution.

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

people’s lives; this is precisely how Covid-19, spreads. Thanks Albert Einstein for the thought experiment, I tweeted on Twitter to my followers, from the Democrats, 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 karmic predetermination, America leads the planet in Covid-19 deaths. 

The virus has stymied mankind but it hasn’t stymied me. In fact the virus is why, in part, I’ll survive, no matter how many die. Why’s another matter. I just don’t dwell on death.

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. And then we bury ye. Life is short. Then ye die. And then we bury ye.

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. Don’t be afraid. I’m endorsing Joe, an American ye need not, fear.

Online conspiracy theories are describing the COVID-19 pandemic as a government-perpetrated hoax. Blame for the pandemic lies, the conspiracy theorists alternately 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, We’ve got to stop the fear-mongering — I’d say.

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

Over my, very own, failures? But WHO knows, that along with China, along with everybody that I‘m the one who dropped the ball on this and so — that’s why — I’m blaming WHO.

I blame everyone. WHO too. Why not? That’s always worked for me. My followers know not civil discourse nor civil disobedience from armed insurrection. Why not — blame WHO?

Some continuing education is in order. Dying by the thousands, now whither cometh the millions? As in the pogroms of the old days. Who knew I’d be so nostalgic over the old days?

Cometh possibly, the pogroms, anew. And God forbid they be like what happened to the Armenians in Turkey and to the Syrian Yazidis. Clashes of civilizations; like in the old days.

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

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

PANDEMIC DELUSION

It is one thing to be harmlessly, delusional. As one in a daydream often is. As we all at times, are. But when one is as delusional as I am and to such death am causal and no one believes

me, my reality shall collide with the American, all too real surreality of my responsibility for these preventable deaths. I’ll own these deaths. But lying’s a problem if no one believes.

The bare-cupboard Obama alibi was an outright lie from the outset. My ultimate responsibility for these preventable deaths, 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. My 

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. Art’s in a viral hotspot, right now. And Art as ye know is old, slow and compromised. Have ye an apartment 

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, by the way, too. If only 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.

We need one nation and one Rule, Golden. And we’ll need to start over. But I suspect that if polled, men too would elect His egalitarianism — over base nationalism’s — rule.

Switching paradigms; and starting over; given a governmental infrastructure already in place, we can do this and we can do it in short order. We can do it in a generation.

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. We can do this in a generation.

EPIGRAMMING

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.

THEATER OF THE ABSURD

What’s happening across Urantia’s America are blessings from God. Making it that much more incumbent upon US not leaving it entirely up to Him. He will help US help ourselves. In theaters 

of the absurd, both the illness and the cure are, in my VP’s view, Heaven-sent, blessings. His snow-white hair attests to his age. And the fly atop it attests to the absurdities — of theater.

What happens when human existence lacks meaning or purpose and our communications break down? How on Earth do we make a come back, from something possibly fatal, like that?

That’s just one existential question, I’ve asked myself. It’s an existential question, I’ve also, answered. When one’s a genius, one’s able too ask and answer, existential questions, like that.

For 122 seconds on Wednesday night the vice presidential debate was hijacked by a fly. What appeared to be a residential housefly rested or did its thing for more than two minutes on my

VP’s white hair. That’ll mean treatment for him with antibiotics, experimental viricidals and a shampoo. For 122 seconds, no one listened, because atop him, doing something, was a fly.

And whether that fly was resting or evacuating on Mike’s hair matters less than matters this series of indignities, unbroken; near unbroken; the string of calamities since around, January.

Since January, it’s seemingly been for me, a string of calamities and indignities, unbroken. That last night painfully symbolized for me, the Chinese pox arisen, since the onset — of 2020.

In all honesty, I’m not given to lying; nor the leaking of misinformation. But I’ve reason to believe that Joe’s in cahoots with the Chinese. They’ve sickened me. And the fly, was a drone.

Joe’s colluding with the Chinese, sickening me, already. And under investigation is whether the fly in Mike’s hair was a fake fly, Chinese, drone. They’ve sickened me. And the fly, was a drone.

Biden-Harris fly swatters quickly sold out but there’s bobblehead Mike Pence complete with a fly and swatter. And apparently, there’s an abiding conviction that Joe Biden and Kamala

Harris will always choose truth over lies and real science, over fictional fare. There’s an abiding conviction about Joe and Kamala that they’re the good guys on the planet of Urantia.

Theater, truly absurd. Pence’s bobblehead joins a lineup of 2020 bobbleheads including the collectibles of Carole and Howard Baskin and the coronaviral, fighting doctors, the fly-bys,

Anthony Fauci and Deborah Birx. Visit the National Bobblehead Hall of Fame online store, for delivery, sometime, post-2020. Meanwhile, I’ll check reports of Chinese drones — and flies.

GOOD, NOT FAKE, NEWS

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, on the other hand, 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, crudely and unabashedly; I dare say, proudly, cheated.

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 means, elsewhere. Americans — love their dogs. Koreans, like to eat — dog.

MY FELLOW URANTIANS: NOW READ THIS:

Shocked recently was I, when I read six words: ‘The Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship.’ Shocked was I, additionally, because my stay out of jail electoral strategy, ever increasingly,

is failing and this year’s Nobels for Peace and Literature were awarded to others, not to me. Increasingly, I’m in trouble. And so I’ll need to redouble my efforts to help Art save, humanity.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

I floated an idea yesterday; ripping open my button-down shirt to reveal my Superman t-shirt, underneath. No one, it seems, has a sense of humor anymore. I can’t imagine, why.

I don’t know why. I can’t for the life of me even imagine why everyone thought it was such a bad, morbid, idea. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost their sense of humor? Has anyone — died?

Tone-deaf, sometimes, am I. I can’t believe that I asked that. In all honesty, too many have died. Too many more, remain to die. It is, what it is. Still, there’s a silver lining in my legacy, possibly.

Given my run, in 2020, of bad luck, it was my good luck to notice (because I rarely, read) a story about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship. I alerted Arthur, near immediately.

In a safe house, Arthur’s been hiding out from a virus and from Vladimir’s assassins. And I’ve been writing; ghostwriting for him, a tall tale for the ages. Still it’s a tale only seemingly, fictional.

Fictional is this less than cryptic instruction; this algorithm, poetic; this, panacea. Because there can be no mistake, know all men by these presents — MAYDAYS is fiction — nonfictional.

A PROGRESSIVE, OPPORTUNITY

Help me make Urantia, a welfare state. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. An innovative novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; fictional and nonfictional; not your father’s satire; something topical, edgy and compelling. Compelling, multi-tasking; my MAYDAYS is a satire, fully intended, to inspire.

To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee administering the scholarship in Amy’s name aims to name a poet of Ame­ri­can birth and of good standing or able promise,

preference, being given to those of progressive, literary, tendencies. Aiming to avoid extremes of academic conservatism on the one hand and that radicalism which springs from the promise

of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee invites all to submit, cautioning however that a literary pedigree may promise

a greater likelihood of traveling to Boston and accepting an invaluable prize, which amount pales next to, the value to Earth of a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. A promise;

a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. An algorithm. Life; and evolution of the species don’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or a helpful blueprint set of instructions.

So here it is, my fellow, Urantians. A helpful, algorithm. Because life and evolution and don’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or helpful, blueprint, sets, of instructions.

There are black holes in the centers of galaxies. Event horizons, mysterious. Analogously, there is something akin to a black hole in each of us; a flame co-existing, with a black hole, inside us.

A flame co-exists with a black hole, deep inside of us. Ever since the administration of Urantia, of Caligastia succumbed to, Satan’s, siren song; ever since, Satan decided, for him — and for us,

that he’d and we’d be happier and better off, being not shmucks, believing in our eternally absent, celestial, still, colonial, rulers. Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said.

Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said. Satan’s seductive siren song seduced, easily, resentful and gullible, masses. And they chanted if I can’t be free I’d be better off dead.

I’m penning a satire; a blueprint map; a yellow brick road to a welfare state; I’m penning colors and pictures in words and I’ll do right by Amy and the possessive Ezra Pound of the imagists.

A satirical, ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. It’s not hagiographical but rather confessional. Colorful satire may be the mark of a copy-cat, innovatively progressive, imagist.

ANCIENT EPICS

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.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. With that in mind my Boys — preen — proudly.

URANTIA FIRST

A six word announcement; not a story, really. Nonetheless, those six words, recalled for me, due to their brevity, a favorite, flash fiction, six word, story: For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

Attributed to Hemingway, it appears that some other poor unknown author may have actually written the story, that to Ernest, was attributed. A moving story — of baby shoes — ne’er worn.

Exponentially more impressive to me has been, Bruce Lee’s, “Be water.” In two words, volumes. A two word philosophy, illuminating this planet, far beyond, an all too brief, shooting star, story.

A story poignantly, illustrative. Too western for the Chinese; too eastern for us; still, like water he flowed, eventually crumbling and actually washing over, all walls confronting him, vainly.

Do help me help Art. Help me help him to get us, to save ourselves. A puzzling mystery, this poem, penned by George Washington and since handed down — president, to president.

Handed down — from president, to president. Barack advised me to read it. I, didn’t. Honestly, I don’t like to read. I’m a doer; a man of action. Too little time to read — if I’m — the president.

The deaths I’ll be blamed for may well reach 233,000 by October’s end. And projections therefrom show that more than 2,900 more Americans could be dying daily — by January.

Don’t worry. Be happy. This nightmare will, like all things, end. And ye shall, in retrospect, later, better understand why I do and say all the seemingly crazy things I do and say, routinely.

Let’s help Art kickstart his plan; to transform man; to suppress in the pilgrim’s progress, ego, even as we foster, empathy. It’s not about ye. And near incredibly (to me), it’s not, about me.

2020. It’s been awful; worse yet, increasingly, it gets worse. But how bad might it really yet get? Spoiler alert: It’ll get really bad before it gets, surreally — better. Witness, March 4th, 2030.

Tuesday, March 4, 2030: Because it is both a calendar date and a command, I’ve got a date in mind for our 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.

March 4th. The irony is not lost upon me. From America First, a Global Citizenship Day. But of what may happen in these real theaters of the absurd, it’s just one, of countless, possibilities.

In theaters absurd, absurdities are the soup de jour, daily fare. As absurd may be MAYDAYS’ talking point messages, characterized. Still, my legacy may one day reflect Amy Lowell’s legacy.

A PLOT, NUTSHELLED

A plot, nutshelled. A retiring angel, my prodigal brother, Arthur Everman, yearns to retire early to Heaven. To reside there, permanently, with his beloved families. But first; saving, Urantia.

Urantia (Earth, interchangeably); a tough nut to crack. Tough as nails like me; a man of wealth and fame. His Watcher-commissioned mission — only seemingly impossible: To save, Urantia.

Art’s mission seems impossible: But Art’s saving of Urantia, only seemingly, is impossible. Art’s got soirées on the moon, his plans to attend to. And Art’s got a vision — of the power of poetry.

The power of poetry. It’s awesome; even more awesome, than imagined. How awesome is it that poetry‘s beauty is a reflection of Divinity? Witness Jung’s synchronicities; today, poetry’s

influence, influences still. Glück won this year’s Nobel today. She was the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2003 to 2004. But everyone knows that today, I — really should have won.

Previous winners of the Prize for Literature include Ernest Hemingway, Bob Dylan, Wole Soyinka, Toni Morrison and Kazuo Ishiguro. But everyone knows that today, I should have won.

Keep in mind when reading, the circumstances. And that circumstances, dictate, what happens. And that it’s me, the Don that is dictating to my phone — this only seemingly, impossible, story.

Dictation; it’s what dictators do. And it’s ironic; it’s ironic that the composition of a poet of her or his poetry invariably shields his or her lector from our wholesale, brainwashing, ideologies.

Brainwashing ideologies; socialization, of the cultural and national norms, of a society. To give one a sense of belonging to the nation. To each nation, its own, brainwashing — ideology.

Brainwashing; the formation and maintenance of the cultural and national norms of a society. To give a sense of belonging to the nation. Each nation adopts its own brainwashing, ideology.

And it matters but little, in the big picture, if a nation is regarded as regressive or progressive. They want their citizens pliant and obediently, subject, at all times, to brainwashing, ideology.

A plot, nutshelled. The FBI arrested six men in Michigan for allegedly plotting to kidnap the governor; to put her, for her lockdown orders, on trial. We’ve got terrorists and plots, unlikely.

We’ve got, terrorists, home-grown; no need to import, any. And they’ve got, plots, a-many. My fellow Americans: I was just kidding. I wasn’t calling for any armed insurrection, type, plot.

Just allegations; there is no proof of any plot. In any event, whether or not there is a plot, I’m disavowing both knowledge of it and denying responsibility for it. I know no plot, not my plot.

FEAR OF OCTOBER SURPRISE(S)

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. Wise men know that it’s just nature’s way; as when aged forests burn, only to give way to renewed pristine forests, only to once again, in stages, ever age, over the years.

And so I call upon Sappho of Lesbos, she also known as the Tenth Muse and as The Poetess. I call upon also, the American poetess Ms Amy Lowell; I pray she’ll help me, duly, help Arthur.

It’s been all good news lately. I’ve defeated the virus. The economy’s rebounding. And I’ve got Joe Biden right in my sights, right in front of me. But he’s way in front of me, says Arthur.

I’m back in the Oval Office despite being at risk of spreading COVID-19. Some of my aides were reportedly saying, I’m seeming stronger than when I returned from the hospital. They claim

tho also, that they hear me laboring; struggling with my breathing. Still, there’s no sign yet of any distress signaling that a reprised October Surprise, is arising, attempting my life, to claim.

I’m on real drugs; been taking Dexamethasone, a roiding steroid known to have some powerful psychological effects; some roiling, emotional, effects including, ironically, customary feelings

of euphoria and omnipotence but anxiety and depression, also, as well. Witness me tweet-storming this morning, at 17 tweets per hour. Ye’d think ye’d know what I’m actually, thinking.

Been fever-free for more than 4 days; not requiring, supplemental oxygen, neither. And everyone knows I’m redefining the meaning of GOAT. My legend grows, notwithstanding

everyone knows I make it all up as I go along, lying, cheating; inflating and deflating the value of my assets; and conspiring with my bankers in schemes of elaborate, money, laundering.

A twin, second, October Surprise is what I now fear, ironically, the most. Even as I encourage Americans not to unreasonably fear this virus, still, I feel my body’s defenses, turn against me.

Tragi-comically, this coronavirus, I reasonably, fear. And I can’t shake this feeling deep inside of me; horror. That the electoral strategy of a germaphobe be sickened by a microbe like me.

I proved almost anything is possible, just four years ago. 2020 tho is not 2016. Undecided and persuadable voters in 2020 are a rarity. It’s not 2016. It’s the year of the rat. It’s unlucky, 2020.

Mooted, issues of voter fraud, overwhelmingly, I shall be booted out of office, in 2020. In 2020, I get my comeuppance. That notwithstanding that it’s a lucky Chinese year of the rat, in 2020.

VINE — VIDE — VICI — TWITTER-ESE

My messaging has been quite widely, poorly received by my medical experts and even by some of my allies who wonder why I continue to downplay the virus. Indeed I’ve been unwise.

The dreaded October Surprise; my airlift; from my house to the hospital. More shocking tho is the shock that cometh once arrive, nightmarish optics; a 2020, reprised — October — Surprise.

A surprise rerouting to the hospital; it’s what cruel fate has for me in store. And I ask myself, “Why me; why now?” After my trajectory, how can it be that Satan forsake me — and why?

I came, I saw and I conquered. Caesar’s iconic words ring true, even today. A house divided against itself, cannot stand. My words and my numbers; and in spaces between words, whys?

and numbers, universes. I’m not a big fan though of words; that’s made a big difference. Reading. It’s a good habit. My habit tho is to eschew the time-consuming reading, of words.

Vine. Vide. Vici. I came, I saw and I conquered. I had to, verily. I came, I saw and I conquered. Caesar’s words ring true, even today. Houses divided against themselves can’t stand. Words

and numbers; and in the space between them, universes. I’m not a big fan though of reading words. And it’s made all the difference. Who knew? Who knew, about algorithms and words?

Who knew? About algorithms? And words? And who really knew about alchemy, behavior mod and the potential energy in this (white) witch’s brew of visionary children; Urantian, legatees.

The truth is that, for a genius, I’m pretty stupid. Twice as dumb, as any rock; and hard-headed. Proof positive of God’s absolute awesomeness. And the utility in Arthur’s Free School of Poetry.

Art’s School of Poetry. The Chachomanopapa School of Poetry, he calls it. He and I, its only, members. Arthur studied ethics at my Trump University; I studied the composition of poetry.

Split 280 characters in two. Background sound, set to a fave frequency. It’s meditation. Add a pic if ye want. A ton of difference it’s made. Use Google Translate for maximum power, poetry.

Use Google Translate to engage, maximally when ye speak not the lingo of your sister or your brother. A ton of difference may make a simple formula, for the composition, of poetry.

As in the army let’s be all we can be. Transform. Use Google Translate. Let’s create, alternative, platforms. Arthur’s proposing a novel linguistic innovation to make possible social connections.

Twitter-ese, Art has coined his novelty, whether one’s intended connection is with a speaker of your same tongue or not. Use Google Translate to communicate — and establish, connections.

BE NOT AFRAID

Do not be afraid of Covid. Don’t let it dominate your life. We have developed, under my administration, some really really great drugs and really really great, knowledge. Common

sense; not so much. This decision may end up, suicidally, killing me. There’s an ill-defined and bloody line of martyrs and patriots; a dime, a dozen. But visionaries, verily, are uncommon.

In what some have described as a show of child-like, defiance, I took my mask off as I arrived at the White House after my stir-crazy three days at the hospital. Now I’m back to

infect the White House before I hit the road. Campaigning’s cool; it is governing that’s a drag; it is governing that, I don’t like. But I love the riches, the power and the attention — too.

Now hear this: Spoiler alert: Reckless. Shocking. The reactions to my saying ‘don’t be afraid of Covid’, purposely, and provocatively, planned; intended to elicit an angry response, cynically.

But it’s not about valor. It’s about my personal triumph over the viral enemy. Because the pickings are slim and the circumstances, daunting, it’s a last-ditch, electoral, strategy.

An electoral, strategy, not unsurprisingly, rashly calculated. Born of boredom, it is calculated to relieve my boredom there by replacing it with my more private boredom, at the White House.

Sadly or gladly as the case may be, dismissed is the possibility that I’ll need to be returning to the hospital. But man plans and God laughs. It’s a short flight to a hospital from a White House.

Man plans and God laughs. An ill-defined and bloody line of martyrs and patriots run through history. A dime a dozen. Visionaries though, are truly uncommon. Unlike old, Yiddish, wisdom.

Unlike Yiddish wisdom, visionaries often get swallowed up whole by the mad rush of the sundry pilgrims’ progress. But technological innovation must be coupled — with wisdom.

Technological innovation coupled with wisdom. It’s super-vision. Connectivity. Vision grounded, and so connected to, everything, everywhere. Vision connected to communications, verbal.

The vision: A new, communication-driven, connectivity. A new social platform for the evolutionary, revolutionaries. With Google Translate already here the potential is palpable.

Witness Jung’s synchronicities. And witness the synchronicity of the attention of an entire planet on the increasingly wild-eyed antics of one increasingly, desperate, solitary, human.

Marvel therefore not so much at the story that follows, necessarily at length. Marvel rather at the mysterious ways by which things happen. Things happen. Heed me, my fellow Americans.

NOBELS; AND A SCHOLARSHIP OF POETRY

Breakthroughs in the field of health shall be honoured on Monday when the 2020 Nobel season kicks off with the medicine prize, as the world battles the worst pandemic, in a century.

Most appropriately, first, given the pandemic, the prize for medicine, kicks off the 2020 Nobel season. The most closely-watched awards for literature and peace, shall follow subsequently,

on Thursday and Friday, while the economics prize wraps things up on Monday, October 12. Take a deep breath. Take a deep breath, if ye, like me, can breathe. And if ye can’t breathe

like some suckers and losers, I’ve heard tell of, what good are ye? What have ye done for me lately? And what good are ye if ye’re six feet under — whether or not, ye can yet, breathe?

With just 29 days to go until Election Day, two days until the vice presidential debate and 107 days until Inauguration Day, my wise advice, as usual, with just 88 days left in 2020, is to hold

on tight; it’s gonna be a bumpy ride from here on in. Receiving sound advice from me, being so exceedingly unusual, it’s not unusual for folks of sound mind to question what I’ve told

them. I’ve put millions of lives in danger including my own; only I can mitigate that. Only I can yet save, tens of thousands, of lives. Only I know that, despite my recklessness, I can yet,

save, many lives. For it seems, I won’t die, after all. Although the virus is known to overwhelm suddenly, it does seem that my superhumanity is about to, this novel coronavirus, further abet.

Consider that a self-inflicted injury ending an iconoclastic presidency avoids in October, problems in November. Ironic; that it so came to pass in 2020 in the year of the rat. An iconic

October Surprise, uber-ironic. In anticipation of my possible demise, I’ve tweeted to my peers, Russian and Chinese, to carry on resolutely. Remember — I’ll be with ye — in the spirit.

A convergence of events; a hospitalization and my possibly, imminent, demise. There are silver lining hidden in plain sight in algorithms and the poetry — of Amy Lowell — and Sappho.

There are silver linings hidden in plain sight in algorithms and the poetry of Amy Lowell and Sappho. And in the poetry of Penemue, the Watcher, the benefactor of, Amy and Sappho.

Help me help Art sell his theory of behavior modifying, transformation. Help me tell the would-be retiring angel’s novel story. A story of poetry, gone mad. It is a Howl-like, epic, story.

A post-Ginsburg, Howl-like wannabe, would be Arthur’s poetry. What with its Google-Translate, aided, algorithmic method of writing poetry. Arthur needs to win — a Scholarship of Poetry.

A TALE OF TWO BROTHERS

Once upon a time two brothers, one womb, did share. And one of them was me; Donald John Trump; the 45th and the greatest president, ever. Once upon a time a womb with a brother,

did I share. Instinctively, I kicked him. Destined to be intolerant was I; and aggressive. And it’s uber-ironic that my hubris has landed me in the hospital, a disabled ship, dead in the water.

I’m 74 years old and I weigh in at 244 pounds. Facing a mortality risk of between 9 and 10 percent, I‘m fervently praying I won’t have to suffer the indignity of being hospitalized. That

would be bad optics; I fervently pray I shan’t suffer a fate so God-damned, embarrassing. Thank God though, I’ve been chosen; good reason to believe, I won’t be subjected to that.

So much for that. The next five to 10 days shall be, telling. My Doctors are warning me that the illness can worsen even after days of non-threatening, mild, symptoms. There’s a real

possibility, that I soon, may be dying. And so now I’m regretting not believing in mask-wearing. Hubris; it got the better of me. The hubris of my personality, my fate, did seal.

This is really bad. I haven’t been able to post to my Twitter account since my diagnosis. What shall become of Twitter Diplomacy without me? What shall become of America? And what pray

tell shall become of the Republican Party? More than anything, I’ll miss Twitter. But no one can say that I wasn’t the very greatest president of all the greatest presidents of America’s, days.

Even knowing I had been previously exposed, I attended my fundraiser. But I really needed the money. Pretending I’d been unexposed, I duly hustled my donors, not saying a thing to them,

about any possible danger, to them. It’ll be alright. Nothing, God willing, will happen, to them. For if I am the chosen one, then it follows, that nothing bad, will happen to them.

When it rains, it pours. My campaign manager Bill Stepien has tested positive for the novel coronavirus, the latest of my able-bodied men to become so infected. I had imagined that

I was the chosen one; alas; it appears to have been, a mistaken, personal, delusion. I’ve been fooling myself and the country. But karma caught up to me — in the year — of the rat.

The Chinese year of the rat 2020 has wrought: a country on edge because of a destabilizing pandemic; a teetering economy; a historic election: the total breakdown of discourse, civil.

and wildfires and storms. And now, a self-inflicted — suicidal, injury. But is it too late to return to civil discourse and to civil society? Let’s return to civil society and discourse, civil.

DEATH BY TAXES

Joe had needed a zinger. And so in my previous pre-debate tweety, I suggested he might well take command of the debate, just demanding I resign forthwith from, my personal, presidency.

Joe opted to be rude to me but his nice-guy persona could not countenance taking full advantage of an enemy, fallen, to the ground. He failed to act, as I would have — decisively.

Need a zinger? Demand I resign, immediately. Be aggressive. Tell me to my lying face that the extraordinary security risk I pose demands that I resign. Demanding it as well are — 200,000.

200,000 fatalities demand it. A global order’s, shredded fabric, demands it, as well. Winging it, still, I dominated last night’s debate; that notwithstanding even — the loss of 200,000.

The Trump International Golf Links in sunny, Aberdeen, Scotland. It is said that it is a black hole that money disappears into, in between space and the event horizon, ne’er to be seen

again. And the most likely earthly explanation is, of course, there is some serious money laundering going on at the my International Golf Links — in Scotland’s — sunny, Aberdeen.

It’s the virus; the virus response; and mean-spiritedness; it’s loose cannons and loose lips; it’s racism, tactlessness, malignant narcissism and abuse of power; it’s the economy, stupid.

All that I would say to me at the debate Joe, just for starters. Gainsay, my lies; my frenemies; my conflicts of interest. Call me out. Tell me to my bronzed, pale-face, “It’s about empathy stupid.”

As of this tweeting, Ivanka hasn’t commented on her consulting fee deals on my hotel deals in Hawaii and Vancouver. I paid her $750,000; a practice we commonly engage in, as fraudsters,

when it comes to business dealings. She’s really good at it too. It’s a shame. Too bad things didn’t turn out better. She could have been the Vice President. She could’ve been a contender.

2016 and 2017. They were the best of times. I paid income tax of just $750 in both years. The Bidens paid 2,000 times more tax in 2016 and more than 4,900 times as much as me, in 2017.

That, my fellow Americans, makes me look crooked, and makes them look good for their taxes. But looks can be deceiving. Alas; I long for the days when I deceived everyone in 2016.

Joe Biden’s new ad today: The income tax ye typically pay: $7,239 for teachers, $5,283 for firefighters, $10,216 for nurses. Switching to footage of the president, the text then reads:

I pay $750, max. Because I’m smart, my federal income tax bill was $750 in 2016 and 2017. Oy vey! It hurt to pay, even that. Not bad I’d say for one such as me; one who likes not — to read.

VLADIMIR-APPROVED, REMOTE LEARNING

Stupidly compete or wisely cooperate? Time is a wasting. Meeting on Luna remotely, we may be soon individually voting on being one nation or, alternatively — many nations, failing.

Meeting on Luna remotely we can each vote on being one nation, or many nations; we can vote on stupidly competing or wisely cooperating. But — hurry. Precious time is truly, a-wasting.

Know all men by these presents that Vladimir Putin approves that relations between the United States and China, improve. Seemingly all-powerful, and all-wise is Vladimir Putin.

We all need one another. I humbly suggest that ye citizens communicate with one another and with your leaders. cc: @SpokespersonCHN @KremlinRussia_E @uriminzok @JoeBiden

At Arthur’s School of Free Poetry; a panacea for Pangaea (Earth, aka, Urantia); with instructions. On how to use the Kim-Don Plan, the Earth, to transform. Vlad’s guys approve it when on Luna

but forget it when on Urantia. So just tweet to us directly. It matters not whether we’re in soirée on Luna or dictating on Earth; only that newsworthy be — what’s tweeted, on Urantia.

At Art’s chachomanopapa.com; a panacea, for Pangaea; Earth; Urantia; instruction on the Kim-Don Plan changes to be implemented on Urantia. Vlad’s guys approve it when on Luna

but forget it all when on Urantia. And so now, in order to more clearly communicate, we’re tweeting directly from Luna. To encourage ye to tweet to us directly when we’re on Urantia.

Help me make America my dictatorship. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten account; the tallest tale ever told. A novel satire, less hagiographical — than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; although technically, fictional, it’s so seemingly nonfictional, that it shan’t be (because it can’t be) — your father’s satire. It is my satire; it is not, your dear father’s, satire.

Help me make America my dictatorship. Help me write my revolutionarily, groundbreaking, satire; a surreally scary, ghostwritten account; the very tallest tale ever told. A novel satire,

less hagiographical, than confessional. And less autobiographical than universal. Not your father’s satire. Both fictional and nonfictional, Vlad hopes it’s my Nobel Prize winning, satire.

I’ve got my evil eye especially trained on the Prizes for Literature and for Peace because I’ve got to best Obama with at least two Nobels. One for literature; another other one for peace;

for a ghostwritten satire, savagely, savaging me. Lampooning, myself; it’s a small price to pay for a widespread and sustainable, peace. Vlad and his guys want to share in the peace.

IMAGINE

Vlad and his guys want to share in the peace. They want to share peace and prosperity with me. And they want to share the hardware; the trophies that come with prosperity and peace.

Therefore, whereas Vladimir Putin approves of relations between US and China improving, unacceptable is the blame game they’re playing at the United Nations. No justice — no peace.

Imagine Twilight Zone-like, Brave New Worlds; post-dystopian, dystopias, further devolved. An Animal Farm some time, imagine, post-1984. Imagine us. Then imagine my vision of the end,

to the very tallest tale ever told. And imagine the end not merely as an end but imagine it as a brand new beginning. Obama doesn’t care. I do. Obamacare I shall, in vengeance — end.

Adolf was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1939, shortly before his tanks rolled into Poland and began history’s, only, second, world war; a nomination, later withdrawn because it

had been made in jest. Comic sometimes, the despots; until they’re not; until they’re not funny no more. I’m laughable now but — how long — this time — until things … turn tragic?

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.

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.

HIGHER EDUCATION

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.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is 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.

ALCHEMICAL POETRY

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.

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

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.

PENEMUE’S COMMISSION 

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; they whom are the disembodied spiritual counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim of Genesis; the progeny some day of the union of rebel angels and earthling women, rebelling.

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.

IMAGINE:

“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.

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. I’m Vlad Putin’s, 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. I therefore 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 around 196 nations (not including Taiwan, Puerto Rico and others), 4,200 religions and 6,500 languages; evolving to one nation is beyond, 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 Scriptures (the Testaments, the Qu’ran, et. cetera) wherein lives wisdom and the Golden Rules ubiquitous, honored, unfortunately, in their omission, 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.

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. Kim and me planned to surprise folks, at the UN, General Assembly.

But Kim and I shan’t shock the world in September at the UN General Assembly. And we won’t announce a 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.

EPILOGUE-2050

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 is truly, 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 brand 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.

Art won his wings. With five planets officially saved, officially retired, is he. He’s off; off to hook up with beloved Emily, knowing she’ll be waiting at the end of the line for him in Heaven.

EPILOGUE-ETERNITY

And there shall be, only seemingly, everlasting, consternation for the ne’er repentant, Trump haters; the never, Trumpers. For our Maker, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, is all about, mercy.

Accordingly, a bittersweetly happy ending has in store The Almighty for our four, hapless, antiheroes; Kim, Xi, Vladimir and Muslim Mo; the murderer, and desecrator, of dead bodies.

One last thing; a hot tip; if ye can get Las Vegas to give ye the odds on we four dictators coming in, skipping in to Heaven, like four very giddy, schoolgirls. Astronomical, the odds ought be.

In a surprise ending for the ages; (the GOAT), greatest of all time, The Almighty as if accents with His Godly, exclamation mark, punctuation, the story of (wo)man, series. Tragi-comic, irony.

The story of (wo)man, series. Already Nielsen top-rated, a trans-universally broadcast series, so chock-full of such a wild array of human behaviors, it’s destined to be, on Earth, a film.

MAYDAYS; it’s destined to be on Earth, a film. A film, a cartoon and a Lin-Manuel, Hamilton-like, Broadway, staged, adaptation. That’s just for starters. In MAYDAYS wake, a Hollywood film.

In MAYDAYS wake, Bollywood, and Hollywood, films. And all the anti-hero, merchandising; the bold action figures; the coloring books. All of these things must come to pass from a filming.

All of these things must come to pass. From a prestigious platform, a book, a movie and a social media platform. Less about selling and gossiping, it’s more about spiritually, growing.

From an academically prestigious platform, the multiple launchings of a book, a talkie movie, a Broadway play and a brand new, social media, platform. All prose — is poetry — potentially.

Amidst a historically climactic unraveling, duly reveal themselves, the golden, opportunities. Golden opportunities to teach and to reach for the stars. And one key is Art’s School, of Poetry.

And there shall be, only seemingly, everlasting, consternation for the ne’er repentant, Trump haters; the never, Trumpers. For our Maker, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, is all about, mercy.

Accordingly, a bittersweetly happy ending has in store The Almighty for our four, hapless, antiheroes; Kim, Xi, Vladimir and the Muslim Mo; murderer and desecrator, of dead bodies.

In a climactic scene near the end of MAYDAYS, THE MOVIE, our four antiheroic horsemen of the Apocalypse, vault from their horses, join hands — and skip like schoolgirls, into Heaven.

The MAYDAYS phenomenon. A movie about the wayward stewards of a planet. A make-believe phenomenon is predetermination; a fake story. The real story, is in our decisions.

A self-proclaimed originalist theoretically embraces a constitutional theory she shares with two of my currently sitting, conservative, justices: But constitutional amendments,

aplenty, belie that once outlier, theory. And Justices Neil Gorsuch and Clarence Thomas look forward to the addition of Amy Barrett to the brethren. A very conservative, amendment.


MAYDAY 1837: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2020

I bear gifts. And as I am a gift myself, I may say, and ye shall see, that the world has never seen the likes of one, like me. Eight billion brothers, have I but I alone am the lone — alpha brother.

My malignant narcissism; it’s distinguishable from Arthur’s narcissism, benign. A distinction, illustrative; a good starting point from which to view, the death struggle ‘tween me, and Arthur.

Once upon a time two brothers, one womb, did share. And one of them was me; Donald John Trump; the 45th and the greatest president, ever. Once upon a time a womb with a brother,

did I share. Instinctively, I kicked him. Destined to be intolerant was I; and aggressive. And it’s uber-ironic that my hubris has landed me in, soirées on the moon, with a rejected, brother.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there — terrified, try to proactively — avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

Ye can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time but ye can not fool all of the people all of the time. Or not but we Urantians have been fooled, always.

We Urantians though have been fooled, always. Fooled fools, have been, the Urantians. Ever since Satan, Caligastia, fooled. Ever since Satan, Caligastia, fooled. Ever since then — always.

My fellow Urantians: Let us take full advantage of the Zeitgeist spirit of the times to help Art breach firewalls; the Chinese and the Russian firewalls that will be in the way, along the way.

Let us take advantage of the spirit of the times to help Arthur breach the firewalls; the Chinese and the Russian firewalls that will ever be in the darn way — as duly designed, all along the way.

ALEXEI NAVALNY — AI WEIWEI

Given my karmic vulnerabilities it’s a good thing that my defeat is to be by such a landslide. So we can move on to more pressing issues like changes like climate change; a really, big deal,

real changes in migration and linchpin changes, in human governance. First things, first. Given karmic vulnerabilities, I’m worried an asteroid strike at the White House my guilt, may reveal.

No matter; I’d just deny it. More importantly, if today is MAYDAY 1837 then only five days til Election Day and 84 days til Joe’s Inauguration. With only 65 days left in 2020, I’m on my way

to fleeing the country. A stay out of jail, strategy, continuing; continuing education, I’d say. Let there be no doubt. I’m learning them more, than they’re learning me — by the way.

As ye shall read later in an upcoming chapter, I am outta here. Gotta go check with my concierge about passports and arrangements with my brothers Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei.

Gotta go check with my concierge about my passport and travel arrangements with Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei. I need to tweet Xi and Vladimir via the Global Times and Russia Today.

I pray I tell Alexander Navalny and Ai Weiwei all about my plans. Correspondence copying them by Twitter Diplomacy. I’ll tweet Xi and Vlad via China’s Global Times and Russia’s Russia Today.

Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei; Urantian heroes; the former, a Russian Urantian Vlad keeps trying to kill. The latter’s a Chinese Urantian; the rags; the Global Times — and Russia Today.

Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei; Urantian heroes; the former, a Russian, Urantian Vlad continually is trying to kill. The latter is a Chinese, Urantian; the rags; the Global Times — and Russia Today.

Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei; the Global Times and Russia Today. Alexei, Vladimir keeps trying to kill. A similar dynamic share, in the Republic of China, Xi — and dissident artist — Ai Weiwei.

Visionaries, are Alexei and Ai; foils these days are they to the Global Times and to Russia Today. Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei; they are foils to the Global Times and to Russia Today.

Visionaries, are Alexei and Ai; real, live heroes. To the Global Times and to Russia Today, the government rags, dissidents, dangerous. Ai’s in exile from China; but Alexei — won’t stay away.

Ai’s in exile from China but Alexei won’t, from Vladimir Putin in Russia, stay away. Profiles in courage are, Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei. I call upon — Alexei Navalny — and Ai Weiwei.

Profiles in courage are Alexei and Ai. I call upon them; I call upon Alexei Navalny and Ai Weiwei to take advantage of the Zeitgeist, spirit of the times, to help Art breach firewalls — in the way.

A RUSSIAN PROVINCE — THE UNITED STATES

How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it’s a trick question. As there is no one single, answer, one or more is technically one, correct, answer. One may be one answer to the tricky,

question. More likely, however, an epiphany, if one doth ever comes, follows hundreds or even possibly, thousands, of revelations. Epiphanies are a sum of constituent revelations, generally.

Take me, for example, and my relationship with my mentor, Vladimir; and our relationship with, Hillary’s e-mails; my hotel project in Moscow and my summit with him in Finland’s, Helsinki.

Recall my relation with Vlad, my relation with Hillary; a hotel project in Moscow, a suspicious summit in Helsinki, when my translator’s notes, I kept to myself — unusually and unexpectedly.

I can hardly believe what, to me, has happened; not to mention, what’s happening. It’s been a blur, largely. With mom and dad absent, an original TV kid, early on stunted by screen time.

An incorrigible child who early on learned the utility of a tantrum, I threw fits, routinely. And I learned, not to read. Not learning to read. Sad. A grown man, a president but I read at no time.

Un-freaking-believeable! An out and out traitor to my purported country; a double agent, for Vladimir; a man who may enjoy, being urinated upon; a man who abhors, reading and learning.

It’s hard to believe I’ve done all these things; not so much that I’ve been a double agent and betrayed my country as much as being that man, less than a man who likes, being peed on.

It’s so unfair. I’ve helped construct kleptocratic alliances. Our whole goal is the privatization of power and we already control, the three great poles; the US, China and Vladimir’s — Russia.

We already control the three great poles; the US, China and Russia. I’ve helped construct the money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is his privatization of power — in Russia.

The US, China and Russia, thanks to me, Xi and Vlad, we already control. I’ve helped to build, money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is the privatization of power — in Russia.

Russia. Land of the Cossacks, the Czars and the Sputnik’s. The greatest land mass on my planet. Vladimir would have Russia regain her glory but a front for Vladimir Putin is this — new Russia.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievement in all of a sad, human, history: secretly controlling the president of US is President Vlad Putin, all the way from Russia.

In the most stunning intelligence achievement of all time; secretly controlling the president of an enemy nation is President Vladimir Putin, all the way from the new sheriff in town — Russia.

COUNT ME OUT — NOT

Had I not been so near perfectly unfit, I’d have been a contender for the greatest president. Alas, ‘twas not to be. But don’t count me out for the count — just yet. I’ve yet, Nobels — to win.

Implausibly, I have Nobels, yet to win. Had I not been so near perfectly unfit, I’d have been the greatest president, ever. Alas, ‘twas not to be. But don’t count me out for the count; I may win

still, Nobels. There is good reason for why Allah God Jehovah Yahweh says He knew us ere even when we were yet to be, still in our mothers’ wombs. Don’t — count me out. I may yet, win.

Too little, too late; a sad epitaph, it seems. Still, it need not be. Verily, it need not be. I work, miracles; witness one who by his benevolence, has reaped benevolence from his bankers in

Germany. Too little, too late; a sad epitaph. It need not be. Not if I just accept that in this year if the rat I’ve come to be, reviled. Reviled, am I. But even one reviled — plaudits may have won.

But even one reviled may Nobels ignobly, win. Witness me; as ignoble as a man can be. A fine example of an ugly American; the ugliest ever. My ugliness and ignobility pale — next to none.

With my ugliness and ignobility paling next to no one’s and popularity hard to come by, in a pandemic, it’s soothing to my ego to know that I’m still favored — a genius; a gifted, visionary.

Soothing to my ego it has been; to know that I’m favored; a genius; an extraordinarily gifted, visionary. I’m a freaking visionary, world-widely calling upon — Urantia’s, planetary, visionaries.

It’s been soothing to my ego to know that I’m still smart; and wise; and that I’m a visionary, smart and wise enough to know, that I’ve got to call upon my base, of deplorable — visionaries.

What a turn of events for Urantia! What a turn of events! What abrupt, thickenings — of plots! Once upon a time, when abnormal was normal came visiting upon the Urantian evolutionaries,

a virus, novel. And once upon some future time perhaps, we may recall when, even as I drained Swamp Washington, the virus drained me. I took the blame and the heat and tasted defeat.

I took the blame and I took the heat. At the hands of Joe Biden, I’ll taste defeat. Transition of power won’t be the issue it might have been, had less of a landslide been, my sound, defeat.

Given my karmic vulnerability it’s a good thing that my defeat is to be by such a landslide. We must move on to pressing issues; like changes I’m bringing — changes, like — climate change,

changes in migration and linchpin changes in human governance. First things first. Given my karmic vulnerabilities. An asteroid strike in the Rose Garden — my prospects — may change.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings; Earth and Luna and its characters and its plot devices, are meant to illuminate whatever in the Hell on Earth, here, is happening. That is the reason of the why of my

long-winded, soliloquy; the minutes of our soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly 280 characters. I denounced and renounced not Proud Boys this day and so I denounce and renounce my

alter ego’s statements made on this Independence Day, the very first global, such day. One such plot device is the atmosphere, lunar. Only truth may be spoken in the absence of oxygen in the air there.

In sad, stark contrast, on Earth lies daily fill the air,. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to illuminate and call out, whatever in the Hell on Earth, is there actually — up there,

happening. A true account of my soirées on Luna with my frenemy, dictatorial friends, notably characterized by a lyrical, sing-song, musical, cadence. Much akin to singing is my epigramming.

MAYDAYS is my soliloquy about soirées on Luna, concerning our forever troubled Earth; with my frenemy characters in characters, 280 even as weak men — against 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 namesake Fascisti),

that exalts nation and often race above, the individual. And I do seem to be, it seems to me to be as virulently fascist, as any former Fascisti. They came first for Gypsies, then the Jews then for me.

Weeks ago, an asteroid exploded over Tokyo; a smaller version of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs once upon, a long 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 damn whistle on whatever happening in this Hell

on Earth. More importantly, it sets forth and tells a previously unknown story of how my lover Kim has helped me craft a plan, to save the good Earth from going to, or merely becoming on Earth, Hell.

I am anxious to tell, within the larger story, the previously unknown story of how Kim has well 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: Why not 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.

ALL PROSE IS POETRY — POTENTIALLY

All prose is poetry, potentially. Short and sweet; and succinct. Epigrammatic; like tombstones, in the old days. All prose, is akin, to poetry. A fine slogan for a free, elementary, school of poetry.

An elementary, high school of poetry Art has founded; and he is its headmaster and one of only two pupils. The other is me, the president. I am President of my old grand dad’s, adopted, country.

Allegedly, and officially too, that country is US; the United States of America. But many wonder and whisper in the hallways of power, whether or not, I’ve been co-opted altogether, by another country.

Some Americans wonder about me. Not about the wonder that is me, but rather whether we have been, by our own president, duped. They wonder about Vlad and Russia. They wonder — about me.

A gift; a present; actually, the precise adjective used in the Urantia Book by beings unknown and unnamed, is bestowal. And there are indeed but five bestowals cited, in the most extraordinary,

Urantia Book. First are the teachings of the Planetary Prince, Caligastia and his staff of 100 from 500,000 years ago until his betrayal 200,000 years ago. Secondarily, Adam and Eve, secondly, 

beginning 35,000 years ago until their fall by default. Third was Melchizedek of Salem, the teacher of Abraham who went on to teach all the oneness of God over 4,000 years ago, eventually

becoming the father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Fourth; Christ Michael’s incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth 2,000 years ago. The fifth and last great bestowal has been the amazingly, relatively

recent, so-called Urantia Book of the 1920s and 30s. It teaches seven superuniverses comprise the grand universe. And our planet, Urantia (Earth) is really awesomely and near incredibly, physically

located at an outer fringe of the seventh, newest superuniverse. On the fringes of the youngest of the superuniverses, evolving and devolving are we Earthlings; we, oh too primitive — evolutionaries.

No crowning creation are we so-called, wise men. Far, from it. Hubris-afflicted, prideful men; easy prey, for the sophistries of Lucifer, Satan. That was that. It is, what it is. And it is — what’s happening.

Up Shit Creek, with no paddle and, increasingly, louder and louder rumbles in the distance, the sound of everything, hurtling over, a precipice. That’s that. It is what it is. It’s — what’s happening.

What’s happening are crises, multiple. Nobels are lost; I’m gonna lose too by a landslide, my election. Alas, the people seem, not to believe me. I’ve gotta get Arthur another platform from which to tell

his stories; to tell, our stories; The Almighty Creator’s stories, one way, or another. I’ve gotta get Arthur another platform so he go on telling the story I’ve been ghostwriting, on his behalf, to tell.

AN ASTEROID STRIKE, ELECTION DAY, EVE

God forbid, I can still win, however narrow, the path. And very easily, I would have won had it not been for the Kung flu and all of these, dark skinned folks. I can still win though. An asteroid

may be striking us the day before Election Day. If the remnant of a refrigerator-sized rock indeed strikes the White House Rose Garden, its impact may delay, the next day’s, election. An asteroid

may buzz-cut Earth on Nov. 2, the day before the Presidential Election. As big as a household refrigerator, it is not big enough, the scientists calculate, to cause truly widespread, planetary,

harm. It’s impossible to tell, where, if anywhere upon the face of the planet, the asteroid may impact. But given that this is the year of the rat, odds are, it’s coming — straight for, The Donny.

So if the world indeed does end in 2020, it likely won’t be the fault of the Universe. But it may be my fault. It may well be the fault of The Donald. It may well be the fault of none other — than me.

The problem is I can live with that. As long as I’m the top dog; as long as my buttons are the biggest, I’m betting big on me; and I’m doubling down. And I can live with that — spiritually — genocidally.

Republicans are targeted more than Democrats by comedy writers, but what underlies all the reasons why my personality attracts the most comedic attention? It’s nice guys like me that oft suffer

the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and so we outrageously lie, and so implausibly, deny. And it’s funny to writers and readers; that the people being lied to — and made to — suffer.

But beyond funny, it is tragic that the history of Urantia needs to be portrayed as an account, comical. It seems that nothing will awaken the Urantians to the gravity, of a very grave, reality.

It’s funny; everything seemingly angers them; still, they seem totally oblivious, to a looming, climax. It’s time to evolve beyond the Godless nations to a single nation; to one single — global, community.

Funny; it’s a funny word, sometimes; and it can be sometimes, more ominous, than it is, humorous. The Urantians are funny but in a really bad way; sometimes; ofttimes, fighting, at the drop of a hat.

A single community. 7,800,000,000 people, as of March of 2020. That’s just shy of eight billion; and the eight billion struggle to live in the failed state of Urantia; in the year 2020; in the year, of the rat.

It’s 2020; a year of the rat; a year unlike any other year, ever. 2020; a memorably, round number. And it yet remains to be seen if disintegration awaits, my pipe-dreamt, Earth-saving, asteroid.

We shall see. We shall soon see if the asteroid disintegrates in the atmosphere or a freezer-sized fragment impacts the earth or more likely the water, somewhere. Cometh, my heroic, asteroid?

A LEFT TURN TO THE RIGHT

“What 10 words bequeath ye, to humanity,” the Watcher tasked Art when he asked Art so damn, cryptically, one sweltering summer evening; one evening; perhaps — the worst week — of his life.

That was when, Art has told me, he got tasked with a mission, only seemingly, impossible. To save, with poetry, the Earth even its non-white and non-English speaking, citizen genetic, phenotypes.

Fatefully, one sweltering Puerto Rican, summer evening; one evening, in what must have seemed then as perhaps the worst week of Arthur’s life; that’s when Art’s life, took a left turn, to the right.

Arthur’s life took a sharp left turn to the right that God-awful week; the week that must have seemed then as perhaps the worst week of Arthur’s life; or at least so hath Arthur said in our soirées at night.

The Watcher bade Art save with his poetry, Earth and its denizens; even, to my surprise, non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school, (wo)men and children, in the art of poetry.

Thus founded, I found out later, was Art’s School of Poetry. I found out later as well that I’d be in dreams with Art; nightly, lunar soirées; eating, drinking and jiving. Not distancing then, socially,

were we. But the virus has been a grand slam, game-changer. For the first 1500 or so MAYDAYS after I, as if from some Heaven, descended, it was an unknown, yet to be, reality. But now — I know.

Now I know. The virus has been a game-changer. For the first 1500 or so MAYDAYS after I, as if from some Heaven, descended, it was an unknown, yet to be, reality; a heartlessly cruel twist of fate; no

mistake, exclusively, of the Chinese; now, I know. I know so much more than I did before; before the virus; before the plague. Still that says, not much. I knew little before; and still — little do I now, know.

I know now so much more than I ever did before; before the virus; before the plague. Still that says, not much. I knew but little before; and still little, do I now, know. I know too I can’t help but say no.

A PLAN — TO FLEE

Surprisingly, some yet wish to vindictively, jail me. But no extradition treaty with Russia means that I I I may flee there. A passport secure, I’ll be needing. And circumstances dictate, that I move — quickly.

No extradition treaty with Russia means that I may soon be fleeing there. My passport, I must, secure. Under the circumstances, I’ll need to move quickly because — some may wish to, vindictively, jail me.

My passport I must, forthrightly and immediately, secure. I need to move quickly. More quickly even than the Sovereign State of New York which state shall move to secure my passport — immediately.

My passport I must immediately secure. I need to be quick. Quicker even than the State of New York. As quick as the state is moving to stymy my super quick, getaway, securing my passport, and quickly

We did not observe then, way back when then, social distancing, like now, we do. As ye know, it’s all the rage; some say, it’s not a new normal. That, even as many fear — we’ve got a new fear, to fear.

We have had a new fear to fear this year; some refuse to acknowledge it; some, purposely or not, mischaracterize it; others, while acknowledging it, refuse to it, surrender; surreality too — is to fear.

There’s a stark contrast between our eastern and our western societies, as measured by their relative success, or their lack of it, in combatting the virus. October, November and December, fear.

It ought give us pause; the stark contrast between frenemy societies; a measure of their competition has been their success, or lack of it, against the virus with still two months to go yet — this year.

Seven days until Election Day, 86 days until Joe’s Inauguration Day. And with only 67 days only left in 2020, I’m well on my way to having to flee the country, in my life long, stay out of jail, strategy.

It seems I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vladimir would protect me. And as the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

I may indeed be needing to flee the country and Russia seems logical. Vladimir would protect me. And as the knowledgeable President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

We have no extradition treaty with Russia a I soon may be needing to flee US. My passport I must, secure. Under the circumstances, I’ll need to move quickly. Because we have, with Russia, no treaty.

My passport I must, forthrightly and immediately, secure. I need to move quickly. More quickly even than the Sovereign State of New York which state shall move to secure my passport — immediately.

The Watcher bade Art save with his poetry, Earth and its denizens; even, to my surprise, non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school (wo)men and children, in the art of poetry.

1835 SOIRÉES … AND COUNTING

Thus founded, I found out later, was Art’s School of Poetry. I found out later as well that I’d be in dreams with Art; nightly, lunar soirées; eating, drinking and conversing, distancing, socially, only

recently. For 1835 consecutive nights now, we’ve dreamt and soiréed on Luna’s surface. There really is water, up there. Arthur needs me to protect him from Vlad so I’ll be ghostwriting for Art, his poetry.

Shacked up with a thin man in Moscow. It could have been worse. I could have been sentenced to stay married to my asexual sexual sham, third-chosen, First Lady. My tall, Russian looking, sham.

I’ll be damned if everything ain’t really a God-damned, sham. Unless of course, none of it’s a sham; none of it, at all. It just may be, as is typical in life, a reflection of The Master’s, Masterful Plan.

And I won’t even bother asking if ye can imagine that. Ye need not know how; just that He does it. Know that the secret to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh’s Power, is in His Personality, per His Plan.

It matters not that ye can’t imagine that. Ye need not know how He does it; just that He does it. And know also that the secret to His Power is in His magnificently — life-creating Personality and Plan.

Place in perspective, everything, that’s happening. Adjust your perspective as necessary, or desirable. Keep it simple. Multi-tasking aside, we mortals do things best, when we doth do them, one at a time.

Aside from the important matter of perspective, it’s important too to keep things, simple. Multi-tasking aside, we mortals, mere human beings, do things best, when we doth do them, one at a time.

Multi-tasking, as important as it is, is secondary, in time to the lesson we learn in learning, that we (wo)men doth do things best when indeed, we have the luxury, of doing them — singularly.

We do things best when we have the luxury of doing things, one thing, at a time. Unfortunately, we don’t have that luxury anymore. Multi-tasking is become a matter of survival, of sheer necessity.

Multi-tasking hath become a matter of survival. I’ve become quite good at it; I’ve been practicing those skills, since I was a kid; walking along, even as I patted my fat head and rubbed, my full belly.

The Watcher bade Arthur Everman save, with his poetry Urantia (Earth) and its denizens; even its non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school the (wo)men, in the art, of poetry.

Thus was founded the whistleblowing Arthur Everman’s, Chachomanopapa School of Free Poetry. And so long as he needs me to protect him from Vlad, I’ll be ghostwriting for Art, his poetry.

Arthur needs me to protect him from Vladimir’s clutches. And so I’m going to shelter and protect him; notwithstanding that he’s Puerto Rican. In the meantime I’ll be ghostwriting for Art — his poetry.

DAMNED, IF EVERYTHING, AIN’T A SHAM

A stunning White House claim: The government is just giving up controlling, the fast-worsening, pandemic. And it’s overshadowing my last-ditch efforts to get re-elected with but eight days, to go.

Getting re-elected. It was my go-to, stay out of jail, electoral strategy. Now, it’s not even that. But, I get it. It’s 2020’s, year of the rat. Now, I see how truly helpless I am; and that it’s time, past time, to go.

It appears I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vlad would protect me. As the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no — extradition, treaty.

From Snowden I learned that we have no, treaty for extradition with Russia. That’s the main thing. Whatever country I consider going to, it can’t have with the United States, an extradition — treaty.

Edward Joseph Snowden; many, may recall him. And I’ve called him myself on many, an occasion. To pick his brain on our stay out of jail strategies, Russian women and expense sharing — possibly.

And I would pause here — to marvel in — and revel in — the ironies. That I end up in Vladimir’s Russia, shacked up with a fugitive from Obama, none other than — the whistleblowing — Eddie.

Better tho to be shacked up than shackled up, I‘m wont to say. Eddie agrees with me on that. And agrees with me physically, not, politically. He’s a Democrat at heart; a God-damned, whistleblower.

Edward Joseph Snowden; a Democrat, I suspect. A whistleblower, for sure. But when life throws me a lemon, I make lemonade. A flannel shirt, I’ll pack. And shack up with my thin man — whistleblower.

Shacking up with a thin man, in Moscow. It could be worse. I could have been sentenced to be with Melania, a woman so cold she coldly tells me to my face that I’m far, far too old for her — sexually.

Man — that — was cold. And as everyone knows, she slaps my hands silly whenever one of my hands is silly enough to try to grab, one of hers. Needless to say, she wants nothing to do with me.

Needless to say, the First Lady wants nothing to do with me, intimately. She says I’m disgusting to her. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly, making a belated, campaign appearance for me. It’s a sham.

My First Lady wants nothing to do with me. She says I’m disgusting. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly finally making, a campaign appearance for me. My marriage — like everything, is a sham.

My First Lady wants nothing to do with me. She says I’m disgusting. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly finally making, a campaign appearance for me. My marriage — like everything, is a sham.

So I’m shacking up with a thin man in Moscow. But I know that it could easily have been a lot worse. I could have been sentenced to stay married to my Russian-looking lady; my asexual, sexual — sham.

TRUE, CRIMES — TRUE, CONSPIRACIES

Conspiracy theories; they’ve gotten themselves, a bad name; but touting them is just one of my claims to fame. And when I tout them, I often haven’t even, a shred of evidence. Conspiracy

theories; my base just loves ‘em. I see them at my rallies, gleefully yukking it up; high-fiving, one another. And my reptilian brain, records, the image. In the news are — my conspiracies.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievements — ever. A Russian, Manchurian, candidate; at least so, it appears. But deeper even than that, run — conspiracies.

Deeper than that run my, off a wall, wall to wall, conspiracies. Vladimir Putin has pulled off a stunning intelligence achievement. And no one believes in any — unimaginable — conspiracy.

In the absence of smoking guns, circumstantial evidence, notwithstanding, no one (excepting Art) but I myself, dare spell out, I dare say, an actually happening, unimaginable, conspiracy.

Notwithstanding lots of circumstantial proofs, no smoking gun, smokes. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence documentary, or otherwise, ironclad, that might document, the conspiracy.

Nonetheless, none shall be, as it shall turn out, necessary. No smoking gun shall be necessary to tie me to Vladimir’s, Russian, bureaucracy. I admit to being a conspirator, in his conspiracy.

I freely admit to being a conspirator, in Vlad’s conspiracy. Make no mistake. I conspired with Vlad of my own accord, freely and willingly. To build a hotel in Moscow, I betrayed my country.

I freely admit to being a conspirator, in Vlad’s conspiracy. Make no mistake. I conspired with Vlad of my own accord, freely and willingly. To build a hotel in Moscow, I betrayed my country.

I know no shame; I actually don’t understand what shame is, nor know what it feels like. In fact, I feel none still. Still tho, I understand I’m making mistakes, mistaking, my opportunities

in business; feeling as unconstrained as I ever did in my Wall Street dealings. I wish I’d there, stayed. Had I stayed in my comfort zone, no Uskagrad would there be, in Vlad’s, vocabulary.

Uskagrad; it’s what Vlad calls US; Uskagrad, he calls us, when we speak on the phone. And he laughs when he says it. And I’ve laughed along with him. I’ve laughed about this — conspiracy.

I’ve laughed too soon. Just 8 days to go until Election Day; 86 days until Joe’s Inauguration Day. And with just 67 days only left in 2020, I’m well on my way to having to flee — the country.

It appears I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vlad would protect me. As the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

A RUSSIAN PROVINCE — THE UNITED STATES

How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it’s a trick question. As there is no one single, answer, one or more is technically one, correct, answer. One may be one answer to the tricky,

question. More likely, however, an epiphany, if one doth ever comes, follows hundreds or even possibly, thousands, of revelations. Epiphanies are a sum of constituent revelations, generally.

Take me, for example, and my relationship with my mentor, Vladimir; and our relationship with, Hillary’s e-mails; my hotel project in Moscow and my summit with him in Finland’s, Helsinki.

Recall my relation with Vlad, my relation with Hillary; a hotel project in Moscow, a suspicious summit in Helsinki, when my translator’s notes, I kept to myself — unusually and unexpectedly.

I can hardly believe what, to me, has happened; not to mention, what’s happening. It’s been a blur, largely. With mom and dad absent, an original TV kid, early on got stunted by outsized, screen times.

An incorrigible child who early on learned the utility of a tantrum, I threw fits, routinely. And I learned, not to read. Not learning to read. Sad. A grown man, a president but I read at no time.

Un-freaking-believeable! An out and out traitor to my purported country; a double agent, for Vladimir; a man who may enjoy, being urinated upon; a man who abhors, reading and learning.

It’s hard to believe I’ve done all these things; not so much that I’ve been a double agent and betrayed my country as much as being that man, less than a man who likes, being peed on.

It’s so unfair. I’ve helped construct kleptocratic alliances. Our whole goal is the privatization of power and we already control, the three great poles; the US, China and Vladimir’s — Russia.

We already control the three great poles; the US, China and Russia. I’ve helped construct the money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is his privatization of power — in Russia.

The US, China and Russia, thanks to me, Xi and Vlad, we already control. I’ve helped to build, money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is the privatization of power — in Russia.

Russia. Land of the Cossacks, the Czars and the Sputnik’s. The greatest land mass on my planet. Vladimir would have Russia regain her glory but a front for Vladimir Putin is this — new Russia.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievement in all of a sad, human, history: secretly controlling the president of US is President Vlad Putin, all the way from Russia.

In the most stunning intelligence achievement of all time; secretly controlling the president of an enemy nation is President Vladimir Putin, all the way from the new sheriff in town — Russia.

PRELUDE TO CRISES

Pray tell Earthlings: Answer me a riddle. 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 next December my much-coveted, Nobel Prizes. And I’ll be sharing with Vlad’s guys then, my Nobels.

MY NOBLE, NOBEL, THOUGHT EXPERIMENT

Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and an innovative way, with Google Translate, to compound the global effect is nothing less than a source of potential energy, by algorithm.

TwitterEZE he calls it so that it works no matter how, one pronounces, it. A good name; a good, start. And so he postulated to Jack (Twitter’s, patent-holder, proprietor), his rich algorithm’s,

potential to be, far richer still. TwitterEZE; it’s an amalgam alloy, of Twitter and easy. It would’ve been easier to reverse with my verse, all these adverse events; and trends — also — adverse.

It would have been easier to timely arrest, our untimely devolution, had Jack been more more receptive to my suggestion. But that he hadn’t been should have begotten him, by now, verse.

Epic verse, from my diverse base of frustrated bikers, frustrated Evangelicals and frustrated, white nationalists; frustrated writers, many of them. I should have seen by now, their verse, 

in protest, being posted on the various and sundry, platforms. But it’s not happening. And that it’s not happening, amply evidences that Vlad’s tightening his steely grip upon the Earth.

Vlad Putin is tightening his grip on Urantia. My mentor has made a fateful decision to cut short his Trump, double agent, Russian, experiment. He aims to cut further losses; Russia’s; and his.

Aiming to cut losses, Vlad is considering cutting, me loose. Calculating that my unpredictability, makes me as a double agent, going forward, untenable. Too bad; it’s a fact — it is, what it is.

It is what it is. Or surreally, is it really? Actually, I admit that while indeed, what is, is, sometimes, what seems to be isn’t at all what it appears to be. Witness evidence, in a thought, experiment.

Imagine a line-up; that time-honored criminal investigative procedure designed to allow a victim to reliably identify, alleged, perpetrators. But what if people were in thought experiment,

lined up turned inside out, exposing organs internal, whilst hiding from view, faces, scars and other commonly used identifying, features. Self-evident the goal, of this simple experiment.

Self-evident is the goal of a simple experiment. To witness why I must write that I am unfit; why I can not be the president; why I’m endorsing Biden — and why I’ll vote for him, for president.

An Einsteinian thought experiment, perfectly suited to deliver in its message, instruction and direction: Matters personal are what matters, only — in the pilgrim’s progress — universally.

Matters, personal; only they matter, personally, in the pilgrim’s progress. Universally true, that’s a comfort, going forward. I learned these truths at the Chachomanopapa School of Free Poetry.

NOBLE, GOALS — NOBEL, WORTHY

Like baseball’s Koufax; like football’s, Pelé and Messi; I’ve got weapons; skills, so extraordinary. Witnessed the nation last night on national TV, me, at my best; and revelations’ — epiphanies.

Witnessed the nation last night, me, at my very best; turning the tide that’s been against me —into a tail wind; the stuff of myth; the stuff of, legend. The stuff of revelations and epiphanies.

Legendary, indeed one day shall be my legacy; the stuff of revelations and epiphanies. It is —what it is. Not mythical at all shall be my most storied exploits. Legendary shall be, my poetry.

Legendary one day shall be my poetry. And I thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh for sending my brother Art from the future to teach me his take on poetry so that I might in turn, teach ye.

Peace on Earth; and good will to my (wo)men. It’s a noble goal; it’s a goal, Nobel-worthy. And it’s my goal for all of ye. Peace and prosperity; and good will too. And a key is in — His Poetry.

One key amongst many, is in, I believe, poetry. While I can’t in all honesty confirm that Art was by ball lightning, electrocuted, I agree with him that in Twitter’s algorithm reposes, hidden only 

seemingly, a vast, completely untapped, virgin reservoir, of energy, potential. Potential energy; what energy is, ere it gets, kinetic. Alchemical is, what it is. Transcendentally and metaphysically,

alchemical, has been Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and his innovative way to compound the effect with Google Translate. I’m calling all hands — I’m calling upon, visionaries.

Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and an innovative way, with Google Translate, to compound the global effect, is nothing less than a source of potential energy in algorithms.

TwitterEZE, he calls it. So that it works, however one, pronounces it. A good name; a good start. He has postulated to Twitter’s Jack (Twitter’s, patent-holder, proprietor), his rich algorithm’s

potential to be a far richer platform, far more multi-facetedly utilitarian, than the sales and gossip, it seems currently, too shortsightedly, constrained to. For whatever reason, ironically,

Jack hasn’t acknowledged the common sense in Art’s suggestion for a Reddit-like, sub-Twittit. But he will; it’s either that or lose market share. He’ll move eventually albeit maybe — belatedly.

And so I’ll harass Jack and Facebook’ pizza-delivery guy, Zuckerberger. I’ll threaten them with Section 230 and I’ll call them names, trying not to do, what’s not in my interests, pecuniary. 

I try not to do anything that’s not in my interest. All too often though, I don’t succeed. But at the debate last night I succeeded, well beyond, my expectations, communicating — non-verbally.

A CHANGE OF PACE, DEBATE

A mysteriously magnificent, Almighty, Creator. Irony, in meticulously telling detail, happens, ir not. Like, last night; imagine, had I fallen to the floor; dying next to the podium, from whence,

moments before I’d been viciously and cynically Joe Biden, provoking? Imagine an audience, the nation, transfixed, as chest compressions and artificial respirations usher in VP — Mike Pence.

It’s not so, far-fetched. I’m 74, morbidly obese, and I neither eat, nor sleep, well; and I’ve got a world of problems, between the pandemic, the elections, and Nobels, that unfairly, elude me.

Again, I’m no prophet. I don’t know what’s ever going to happen. And I don’t, read much. But I know this much. Given what I’ve been through, I’ve made a mistake running for the presidency.

I know, more. I know that it’s 2020. And I know that 2020 is the Chinese year of the rat. I know most of all that the year of the rat won’t be over til 2020 ends and 2021 begins, in January.

A banshee wailing; under the circumstances, it’s a bad omen. I fear that if I fail to provoke Joe into physically attacking me, I’ll either fake a coronary or suffer ironically — a true, coronary.

It won’t be til January that 2020, ends when my lame duck presidency ends, finally, also. But every end is a new beginning. So I’m weighing the pros and cons — of fleeing — the country.

I’m assuming, given the wailing of the banshee, that there’s a possibility that I may be the one who soon, may be somewhat, unexpectedly, dying. Just in case, I’ll be skipping, the country.

As it turns out, it appears that at least — for a while I’ll go on living and I’ll go on presiding. A debate, remarkably uneventful, was far less, a game changer than I surreally needed it to be.

As it turned out none of what I’d planned nor none of what I’d feared had come to pass. I was unable to provoke Joe nor did I fake a coronary. But neither did I suffer myself, a fatal coronary.

Indeed, none of what I’d planned had come to pass. Nor were realized, the worst of my fears.
I was unable to provoke Joe nor did I fake a coronary. But I didn’t myself, suffer, a coronary.

I was unable to provoke Joe; nor did I fake, any coronary. But I didn’t myself, suffer one. And most implausibly, I largely managed to temper my aggression and my usual — improprieties.

As it turned out, the changes I made in my strategies and my tactics, won my debate for me against Joe Biden, yesterday evening. And by tomorrow morning, I may be even, maybe.

I won my debate against Joe Biden yesterday evening. And by tomorrow morning, I may be in the latest polls, even, maybe. And perhaps, I’ll even take the lead over Joe, most, implausibly.

IN ONE FORTNIGHT, A KARMIC, RECKONING

Upon questioning incisive and insistent, I toss characteristically childish temper tantrums, this most recent one coming, even as my debate looms, on Thursday. And that coronary, fake

I was planning, may prove to be fatal, if in fact, on stage, I just up and die. Walking out on an interview; it doesn’t just look bad. It looks like I’m cracking. My coronary might be — not fake.

My First Lady has not made even a single public appearance on my behalf, this year. Her non-support of me, well-nigh untenable, has really, become. My better half’s last appearance ever,

on my behalf was over a year ago. I’ll likely have to have Bill Barr accuse her of treason, bye and bye. Later; after the election; sometime during my second term, as the ugliest American, ever.

She’s a lot like me. She does what she wants, when she wants. A stubborn contrarian with the strength of an Amazon — warrior woman. And now she’s taken to wailing, like a banshee.

The mournful wailing of the banshee; believed to foretell the death of a member of the family of the person who heard the spirit. I can’t help but hear, the mournful wailing, of the banshee.

I have become afraid of my forever indisposed and now my fearsome, banshee-wailing, First Lady. I can’t be sure, it’s her. But I’m too afraid to even knock on her door. So I’m imagining,

the worst. But what on Earth, could be worse? And what on Earth could worsen what’s already happened? Googling my favorite monopoly, I’ve discovered that the banshee wail, when dying,

is someone in the immediate family. Normally, I’d laugh it off; after all, it’s a myth. Given all that’s happening tho, I asked my boy-doctor to measure my vitals and measure my bloody,

blood pressure. A banshee wailing; it’s a bad omen. It’s just occurred to me that it would be tellingly ironic if in failing to provoke Joe’s physical attack of me and faking a coronary,

a coronary, I myself, suffer. Given furthermore that what’s always seemingly happening, it seems, is so implausibly surreal, I’m assuming there’s a possibility, I’ll be the one, who’s dying.

A banshee wailing; given there’s a possibility I’m the one who’s dying, it’s a bad omen. Knowing also that The Lord works mysteriously, how ironic would it be if my most dramatic, dying

moments, happen, as they say live and in living color I shockingly die on the floor next to the podium from whence mere moments before I’d been as planned, been — Joe Biden, provoking.

Given furthermore that what always seemingly happens, it seems, is so implausibly surreal, I’m assuming there’s a possibility, I may be the one, this October surprising — with a sudden, dying.

AN ASTEROID STRIKE, ELECTION DAY, EVE

God forbid, I can still win, however narrow, the path. And very easily, I would have won had it not been for the Kung flu and all of these, dark skinned folks. I can still win though. An asteroid

may be striking us the day before Election Day. If the refrigerator-sized asteroid, indeed strikes the White House, its impact may well delay, the next day’s, election. Cometh, verily, an asteroid.

It may buzz-cut Earth on Nov. 2, the day before the Presidential Election. As big as a household refrigerator, it is not big enough, the scientists calculate, to cause truly widespread, planetary,

harm. It’s impossible to tell, where, if anywhere upon the face of the planet, the asteroid may impact. But given that this is the year of the rat, odds are, it’s coming — straight for, The Donny.

So if the world indeed does end in 2020, it likely won’t be the fault of the Universe. But it may be my fault. It may well be the fault of The Donald. It may well be the fault of none other, than me.

The problem is — I can live with that. As long as I’m the top dog; as long as my buttons are the biggest — I’m betting big on me; and doubling down. And I can live with that — genocidally.

Republicans are targeted more than Democrats by comedy writers, but what underlies all the reasons why my personality attracts the most comedic attention? Nice guys like me oft suffer

the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and so we outrageously lie, and so implausibly, deny. And it’s funny to writers and readers; the people being lied to — and made to — suffer.

But beyond funny, it is tragic that the history of Urantia needs to be portrayed as an account, comical. It seems that nothing will awaken the Urantians to the gravity, of a very grave, reality.

It’s funny; everything seemingly angers them; still, they seem totally oblivious, to a looming, climax. It’s time to evolve beyond the Godless nations to a single nation; a single community.

Funny; it’s a funny word, sometimes; and it can be sometimes, more ominous, than humorous. 
The Urantians are funny but in a really bad way. Sometimes they fight, at the drop of a hat.

A single community. 7,800,000,000 people, as of March of 2020. That’s just shy of eight billion; and the eight billion struggle to live in the failed state of Urantia; in 2020; in the year, of the rat.

It’s 2020; the year of the rat; a year unlike any other year, ever. 2020; a memorably, round number. It remains to be seen if disintegration awaits, my pipe-dreamt — saving — asteroid.

We’ll see. We’ll see if the asteroid disintegrates in the atmosphere; or a freezer-sized fragment 
impacts the earth, or more likely the water, somewhere. Cometh — my heroic — asteroid?

ASTRONOMICAL ODDS

Astronomical are the odds against an asteroid impacting an election. I’ll be falling back on my last ditch, debate strategy. Baiting Joe into an assault on me or God forbid, faking, a coronary.

I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically, attacking, me. If that doesn’t work, I may dramatically have to — fake suffering, a massive, coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on my person; on President Me.

Alternatively, should Joe keep cool and not take the debate, bait, I’ll fall back on my contingently planned, coronary. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do — or die trying, antiheroically.

I’d rather die than lose to Joe Biden and not just because it would be so embarrassing. Losing to Joe would be a setback to my stay out of jail, strategy. I’ll provoke Joe — or suffer a coronary.

My fellow Urantian Americans: It is what it is. It’s 2020; the traditionally lucky, Chinese year of the rat, this year, seemingly, unlucky. Because I’m a visionary tho I see in tragedy, opportunity.

I see in in our common tragedy, a superlative opportunity. Verily, I see great transformational opportunity in the tragedy that has befallen the nations. It’s critical Americans, not, re-elect me.

Don’t ye dare re-elect me. Vote Joe in. It’s not for nothing that I’ve come to endorse him. He’ll undo, all I’ve done. It’s not for nothing I’ll be voting for Joe, and only seemingly, insincerely.

Astronomical are the odds against an asteroid impacting an election. I’ll be falling back on my last ditch, debate strategy. Baiting Joe into an assault on me or God forbid, faking, a coronary.

I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically, attacking, me. If that doesn’t work, I may dramatically have to — fake suffering, a massive, coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s far too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on the person of President Me.

A FAILURE TO PLAN — A PLAN TO FAIL

I’m no prophet. I don’t actually know what’s going to happen. And except for the Hollywood gossips, I don’t read much. But I know this: In the old days, men were men and might, right,

made. Women knew their place was at home, bearing sons. What is happening, is a disgrace. I was the one; the one and only one that by the right of my might, might have made US — right.

Verily, I’m no prophet. Apart from the gossips, comics and obituaries, just a headline or two is about all I can stomach. I’d rather watch TV. TV is why, however, I don’t, read well. Reality-TV;

it’s TV, too dangerous; too deadly and also, too mind-stunting. Verily, the boob tube has made a boob out of me. The evidence is anecdotal, but it appears — my mind’s been — atrophied.

Ye need not be a prophet to know that I will berate and not debate Joe Biden at the so-called debate. It’s the only way I know how to act. It’s the only way I know how to react, verily.

I will be asked to address my fight against hate; race in America, Covid-19, American families, climate change, national security and the leadership of the United States. Substantively,

I’ve got but little, if anything, to say. Still, I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically attacking me. And if that doesn’t work, faking, a massive coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on my person; on President Me.

Alternatively, should Joe keep cool and not take the debate, bait, I’ll fall back on my contingently planned, coronary. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do — or die trying, antiheroically.

I’d rather die than lose to Joe Biden and not just because it would be so embarrassing. Losing to Joe would be a setback to my stay out of jail, strategy. I’ll provoke Joe — or suffer a coronary.

My fellow Urantian Americans: It is what it is. It’s 2020; the traditionally lucky, Chinese year of the rat, this year, seemingly, unlucky. Because I’m a visionary tho I see in tragedy, opportunity.

I see in in our common tragedy, a superlative opportunity. Verily, I see great transformational opportunity in the tragedy that has befallen the nations. It’s critical Americans, not, re-elect me.

Don’t ye dare re-elect me. Vote Joe in. It’s not for nothing that I’ve come to endorse him. He’ll undo, all I’ve done. It’s not for nothing I’ll be voting for Joe, and only seemingly, insincerely.

THICKENING, 2020 PLOTS, SICKENING US

No one ought believe that this sad situation is other than an unfortunate happenstance; an accident complicated tho by human negligence and unfortunately too, to a pandemic, causal.

It’s not about us, Xi. It’s not personal. It’s just that if a virus in China is ‘born’ and borne, near everywhere, thereafter, well there’s gonna be, Xi, naturally — investigations — legal. Legal

matters. Pay no mind to anything I say on my campaign trail. We’ll talk about this later. In any event it remains to be seen, as a matter of law, if Wuhan wet markets are indeed, even causal.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad, as a damn hatter. And Xi’s irate. Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead. Full speed ahead against China; China’s distracting US from a coronavirus, fatal.

Distracting, I’ll be from here on in too. We’ll just have to work out later — the fallout. Especially since we found out that WHO won’t surrender; neither to us, nor to any microbe, at any time.

Apparently the virus, much like me, acts and reacts. We don’t reason. I’ve got animal instinct in common with it. So I’m betting on time. Time, very, shortened. And I am counting on time’s,

shortness, to force the cooperation needed to confront a common enemy. Genius uncommon this common sense, of mine. Rare indeed is a genius (once perhaps, in a creation), like mine.

The plot thickens. The Chinese reaction, my advisers fear shall be swift and fast and furious. Even so-called inconclusive evidence that the virus, once upon an invented — fantastic time,

originated at a Chinese research facility in wan Wuhan leaves the Chinese less than inscrutable to the United States. Xi has been irate with me even though I’ve told him that it’s not about us.

Our militaries are bracing for a long, protracted struggle against a virus and one another; each looking for novel ways to achieve an advantage armed unknowingly, only with, naked, hubris.

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 the center of attention 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.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad, as a hatter. 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; neither to us — nor the coronaviral — microbe.

BALL OF CONFUSION

“IN THE MINDS of Urantia’s mortals there is confusion about the 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.

drrick@ricksheffmd.com: Thank ye, Dr. Sheff. Thank ye for your fine summary. Dr, with your permission, I would weave ye into more of my poem, if ye would, again — agree. Clink on my

link to view a pilgrim’s progress — therefore.
MAYDAY 1824: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16, 2020 https://chachomanopapa.com/2020/10/16/mayday-1824-friday-october-16-2020-2/ It’s no lie.

Verily, it’s no lie. Actually, I can not tell a lie. I’m the president of the United States. And ye may recall that George Washington institutionalized, a tradition of never ever, telling to America, lies.

Be honest, always, with the people. Ne’er lie to them. Check back in, regularly here, for your daily, updates. But if I win in November, all bets are off. In truth, the truth I regularly do — belie.

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 things to waste. Truly — wasted, opportunities.

A fine algorithm, like a fine mind, one like mine, is precious. More precious than any fine wine is my fine mind. Witness a ghostwritten satire of mine, in co-authorship with my brother, Arthur.

As awful a thing as it is to waste a fine mind. As awful as that is, far worse it may be if (wo)man heeds not my counsel; it is the fine counsel of Arthur, as well. Answers, are in the Scriptures.

Answers are in Scriptures. In each of them are answers, provincially, partial. A more complete answer, however, emerges when we view in the context of the UB — our traditional Scriptures.

No wonder then that the UB begins by noting what the Temptations came to call, A Ball of Confusion. Verily, there is confusion about the meaning on Urantia, of God, divinity and deity.

And so it came to pass once upon a time; in 2020 to be exact, in the year of the rat. Once I learned about reality, predetermination and Karmic retribution; that it’s not all — about me.

HIGHER EDUCATION

I am outta here. Good luck Joe. Be honest Joe, 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. Natural leaders, unlike everybody else, are naturally 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.

ANCIENT EPICS

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, making Vyasa’s epic, the longest poem, 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; all along its length, it features content insightful; 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.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. And my proud Boys preen, ever more, proudly.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

What a difference a day makes in nanoseconds; as when Yellowstone, Krakatoa and Santorini, blew their tops, on unknown dates, in unknown years — super, sky-high — super, volcanically.

What a difference 1 year may make; as when the tots of moms and pops grow, in fits and starts; in learning’s ebbs and flows; growing, inexorably, ever exasperatingly, fascinatingly.

What a difference 25 years may make; as when computers digitally usher in information ages, rife with disinformation, or in lieu, alternatively, informative; uniting and divisive, concurrently.

What a difference 250 years may make; when machines and engines, dramatically upped our consumption, our supply and demand and our uneven, 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; when from cosmic dust on the ground on Earth, in His image, He created us. He did omnipotently create 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 a little boy, along with, their families.

What a difference one day may make; as when I, a mutant motormouth, uncouthly stigmatize Islam, polarizing thereby, the planet and pitting Muslim against Christian, seemingly, unwisely.

“What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?” A daunting, question; ever since, Arthur’s been haunted, by both the answer, and the question: “What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?”

Thus began the dreamy soirees and their true 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 far more elegant and fat more emotive than one might ever aspire to — merely, prosaically.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that is most favored by Him, Personally. Verse better expresses, personality.

Composing on 3 levels, 280 character tweets metamorphose to blog logs, metamorphosing, in turn, into a manuscript in hermetic, solitude; 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 innovative novel-like, novel, poetry.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is why my

long-winded soliloquy; the minutes of soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly, 280 characters. I denounce and renounce not Proud Boys but denounce and renounce 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, Art. I looked up fascism.’ It’s a philosophy, political, movement or regime (like namesake 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 for the Jews then for 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 good 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 well 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.

ALL PROSE IS POETRY — POTENTIALLY

All prose is poetry, potentially. Short and sweet; and succinct. Epigrammatic; like tombstones, in the old days. All prose, is akin, to poetry. A fine slogan for a free, elementary, school of poetry.

An elementary, high school of poetry Art has founded; and he is its headmaster and one of only two pupils. The other is me, the president. President of my grand dad’s, adopted, country.

Allegedly, and officially too, that country is US; the United States of America. But many wonder and whisper in the hallways of power, whether or not, I’ve been co-opted, by another country.

Some Americans wonder about me. Not about the wonder that is me, but rather whether we have been, by our own president, duped. They wonder about Vladimir, and Russia — and me.

A gift; a present; actually, the precise adjective used in the Urantia Book by beings unknown and unnamed, is bestowal. And there are but five bestowals cited, in the most extraordinary,

Urantia Book. First are the teachings of the Planetary Prince, Caligastia and his staff of 100 from 500,000 years ago until his betrayal 200,000 years ago. Adam and Eve, secondly,

beginning 35,000 years ago until their fall by default. Third was Melchizedek of Salem, the teacher of Abraham who went on to teach all the oneness of God 4,000 years ago, eventually

becoming the father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Fourth; Christ Michael’s incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth 2,000 years ago. The fifth and last great bestowal has been the relatively

recent, Urantia Book of the 1920s and 30s. It teaches that seven superuniverses comprise the grand universe. And our planet, Urantia (Earth) is really awesomely and near incredibly,

physically located at an outer fringe of the seventh superuniverse. On the fringes of the youngest of the superuniverses, evolving and devolving are we, we primitive, evolutionaries.

No crowning creation are so-called, wise men. Far, from it. Hubris-afflicted, prideful men; easy prey, for the sophistries of Lucifer, Satan. That was that. It is, what it is. It is, what’s happening.

Up Shit Creek, with no paddle and, increasingly, louder and louder rumbles in the distance, the sound of everything, hurtling over, a precipice. That’s that. It is what it is. It’s what’s happening.

What’s happening are crises, multiple. Nobels are lost; I’m gonna lose too, by a landslide, the election. Alas, the people seem, not to believe me. I’ve gotta get Art another platform. To tell

his stories; to tell, our stories; actually, The Creator’s stories, one way, or another. me. I’ve gotta get Art another platform so he go on telling the story I’ve been ghostwriting, to tell.

MY FELLOW URANTIANS: NOW READ THIS:

Shocked recently was I, when I read six words: ‘The Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship.’ Shocked was I, additionally, because my stay out of jail electoral strategy, ever increasingly,

is failing and this year’s Nobels for Peace and Literature were awarded to others, not to me. Increasingly, I’m in trouble. And so I’ll need to redouble my efforts to help Art save, humanity.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

I floated an idea recently; ripping open my button-down shirt to reveal my Superman t-shirt, underneath. No one, it seems, has a sense of humor, anymore. I can’t imagine, why.

I don’t know why. I can’t for the life of me even imagine why everyone thought it was such a bad, morbid, idea. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost their sense of humor? Has anyone — died?

Tone-deaf, sometimes, am I. I can’t believe that I asked that. In all honesty, too many have died. Too many more, remain to die. It is, what it is. Still, there’s a silver lining in my legacy, possibly.

Given my run, in 2020, of bad luck, it was my good luck to notice (because I rarely, read) a story about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship. I alerted Arthur, near immediately.

In a safe house, Arthur’s been hiding out from a virus and from Vladimir’s assassins. And I’ve been writing; ghostwriting for him, a tall tale for the ages. Still it’s a tale only seemingly, fictional.

Fictional is this less than cryptic instruction; this algorithm, poetic; this, panacea. Because there can be no mistake, know all men by these presents — MAYDAYS is fiction — nonfictional.

A PROGRESSIVE, OPPORTUNITY 

Help me make Urantia, a welfare state. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. An innovative novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; fictional and nonfictional; not your father’s satire; something topical, edgy, and compelling. Compelling, multi-tasking; my MAYDAYS is a satire, fully intended, to inspire.

To be forewarned, is to be forearmed. The committee administering the scholarship in Amy’s name aims to name a poet of Ame­ri­can birth, and of good standing, or able promise,

preference being given, to those of progressive, literary, tendencies. Aiming to avoid extremes of academic conservatism on the one hand and that radicalism which springs from the promise 

of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee invites all to submit, cautioning however that a literary pedigree may promise 

a greater likelihood of traveling to Boston and accepting an invaluable prize, which amount pales next to, the value to Earth of a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. A promise; 

a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. An algorithm. Life; and evolution of the species don’t come with anything resembling a map or book; or a helpful blueprint set, of instructions.

So here it is, my fellow Urantians. A helpful, algorithm. Because life and evolution doesn’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or helpful, blueprint, sets, of instructions.

There are black holes in the centers of galaxies. Event horizons, mysterious. Analogously, there is something akin to a black hole in each of us; a flame co-existing, with a black hole, inside us.

A flame co-exists with a black hole, deep inside of us. Ever since the administration of Urantia, of Caligastia succumbed to, Satan’s, siren song; ever since, Satan decided, for him — and for us,

that he’d and we’d be happier and better off, being not shmucks, believing in our eternally absent, celestial, still, colonial, rulers. Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said.

Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said. Satan’s seductive siren song seduced, easily, resentful and gullible, masses. And they chanted if I can’t be free I’d be better off dead.

I’m penning a satire; a blueprint map; a yellow brick road to a welfare state; I’m penning colors and pictures in words and I’ll do right by Amy and the possessive Ezra Pound of the imagists.

A satirical, ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. It’s not hagiographical but rather confessional. Colorful satire may be the mark of a copy-cat, innovatively progressive, imagist.

PENEMUE’S COMMISSION 

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; they whom are the disembodied spiritual counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim of Genesis; the progeny some say of the union of rebel angels and earthling women, rebelling.

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.

SURREAL TALL TALES

2016 through 2019; three years in ebbing, best of times. The first three years of 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.

LOCKING DOWN; RAMPING UP

Lockdown the nation! Medical and financial systems are folding, like the houses of cards, they are. Lockdown the nation! We’re now living in an unprecedented 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 struggle with a novel virus, not unexpected by some, life and death matters 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.

EUREKA!

Antonio Guterres: Eureka! I have found it! It was in plain sight, hidden. But I have found it. And just in time. To exchange the paradigms. I found it in Twitter’s algorithm right here online.

I found Antonio, hidden in Twitter’s algorithm, space and time. Space enough for all of 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 my rhymes 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 due 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, turns surreally, 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.

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.

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. Let’s make 

peace; and 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 nonfictional warning, posing as fiction; in allegory — epic stories — of weakling men — in evolution.

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

people’s lives; this is precisely how Covid-19, spreads. Thanks Albert Einstein for the thought experiment, I tweeted on Twitter to my followers, from the Democrats, 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 karmic predetermination, America leads the planet in Covid-19 deaths. 

The virus has stymied mankind but it hasn’t stymied me. In fact the virus is why, in part, I’ll survive, no matter how many die. Why’s another matter. I just don’t dwell on death.

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. And then we bury ye. Life is short. Then ye die. And then we bury ye.

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. Don’t be afraid. I’m endorsing Joe, an American ye need not, fear.

Online conspiracy theories are describing the COVID-19 pandemic as a government-perpetrated hoax. Blame for the pandemic lies, the conspiracy theorists alternately 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, We’ve got to stop the fear-mongering — I’d say.

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

Over my, very own, failures? But WHO knows, that along with China, along with everybody that I‘m the one who dropped the ball on this and so — that’s why — I’m blaming WHO.

I blame everyone. WHO too. Why not? That’s always worked for me. My followers know not civil discourse nor civil disobedience from armed insurrection. Why not — blame WHO?

Some continuing education is in order. Dying by the thousands, now whither cometh the millions? As in the pogroms of the old days. Who knew I’d be so nostalgic over the old days?

Cometh possibly, the pogroms, anew. And God forbid they be like what happened to the Armenians in Turkey and to the Syrian Yazidis. Clashes of civilizations; like in the old days.

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

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

PANDEMIC DELUSION

It is one thing to be harmlessly, delusional. As one in a daydream often is. As we all at times, are. But when one is as delusional as I am and to such death am causal and no one believes

me, my reality shall collide with the American, all too real surreality of my responsibility for these preventable deaths. I’ll own these deaths. But lying’s a problem if no one believes.

The bare-cupboard Obama alibi was an outright lie from the outset. My ultimate responsibility for these preventable deaths, 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. My 

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. Art’s in a viral hotspot, right now. And Art as ye know is old, slow and compromised. Have ye an apartment 

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, by the way, too. If only 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.

We need one nation and one Rule, Golden. And we’ll need to start over. But I suspect that if polled, men too would elect His egalitarianism — over base nationalism’s — rule.

Switching paradigms; and starting over; given a governmental infrastructure already in place, we can do this and we can do it in short order. We can do it in a generation.

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. We can do this in a generation.

EPIGRAMMING

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.

THEATER OF THE ABSURD

What’s happening across Urantia’s America are blessings from God. Making it that much more incumbent upon US not leaving it entirely up to Him. He will help US help ourselves. In theaters 

of the absurd, both the illness and the cure are, in my VP’s view, Heaven-sent, blessings. His snow-white hair attests to his age. And the fly atop it attests to the absurdities — of theater.

What happens when human existence lacks meaning or purpose and our communications break down? How on Earth do we make a come back, from something possibly fatal, like that?

That’s just one existential question, I’ve asked myself. It’s an existential question, I’ve also, answered. When one’s a genius, one’s able too ask and answer, existential questions, like that.

For 122 seconds on Wednesday night the vice presidential debate was hijacked by a fly. What appeared to be a residential housefly rested or did its thing for more than two minutes on my

VP’s white hair. That’ll mean treatment for him with antibiotics, experimental viricidals and a shampoo. For 122 seconds, no one listened, because atop him, doing something, was a fly.

And whether that fly was resting or evacuating on Mike’s hair matters less than matters this series of indignities, unbroken; near unbroken; the string of calamities since around, January.

Since January, it’s seemingly been for me, a string of calamities and indignities, unbroken. That last night painfully symbolized for me, the Chinese pox arisen, since the onset — of 2020.

In all honesty, I’m not given to lying; nor the leaking of misinformation. But I’ve reason to believe that Joe’s in cahoots with the Chinese. They’ve sickened me. And the fly, was a drone.

Joe’s colluding with the Chinese, sickening me, already. And under investigation is whether the fly in Mike’s hair was a fake fly, Chinese, drone. They’ve sickened me. And the fly, was a drone.

Biden-Harris fly swatters quickly sold out but there’s bobblehead Mike Pence complete with a fly and swatter. And apparently, there’s an abiding conviction that Joe Biden and Kamala

Harris will always choose truth over lies and real science, over fictional fare. There’s an abiding conviction about Joe and Kamala that they’re the good guys on the planet of Urantia.

Theater, truly absurd. Pence’s bobblehead joins a lineup of 2020 bobbleheads including the collectibles of Carole and Howard Baskin and the coronaviral, fighting doctors, the fly-bys,

Anthony Fauci and Deborah Birx. Visit the National Bobblehead Hall of Fame online store, for delivery, sometime, post-2020. Meanwhile, I’ll check reports of Chinese drones — and flies.

GOOD, NOT FAKE, NEWS

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, on the other hand, 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, crudely and unabashedly; I dare say, proudly, cheated.

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 means, elsewhere. Americans — love their dogs. Koreans, like to eat — dog.

MY FELLOW URANTIANS: NOW READ THIS:

Shocked recently was I, when I read six words: ‘The Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship.’ Shocked was I, additionally, because my stay out of jail electoral strategy, ever increasingly,

is failing and this year’s Nobels for Peace and Literature were awarded to others, not to me. Increasingly, I’m in trouble. And so I’ll need to redouble my efforts to help Art save, humanity.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

I floated an idea yesterday; ripping open my button-down shirt to reveal my Superman t-shirt, underneath. No one, it seems, has a sense of humor anymore. I can’t imagine, why.

I don’t know why. I can’t for the life of me even imagine why everyone thought it was such a bad, morbid, idea. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost their sense of humor? Has anyone — died?

Tone-deaf, sometimes, am I. I can’t believe that I asked that. In all honesty, too many have died. Too many more, remain to die. It is, what it is. Still, there’s a silver lining in my legacy, possibly.

Given my run, in 2020, of bad luck, it was my good luck to notice (because I rarely, read) a story about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship. I alerted Arthur, near immediately.

In a safe house, Arthur’s been hiding out from a virus and from Vladimir’s assassins. And I’ve been writing; ghostwriting for him, a tall tale for the ages. Still it’s a tale only seemingly, fictional.

Fictional is this less than cryptic instruction; this algorithm, poetic; this, panacea. Because there can be no mistake, know all men by these presents — MAYDAYS is fiction — nonfictional.

A PROGRESSIVE, OPPORTUNITY

Help me make Urantia, a welfare state. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. An innovative novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; fictional and nonfictional; not your father’s satire; something topical, edgy and compelling. Compelling, multi-tasking; my MAYDAYS is a satire, fully intended, to inspire.

To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee administering the scholarship in Amy’s name aims to name a poet of Ame­ri­can birth and of good standing or able promise,

preference, being given to those of progressive, literary, tendencies. Aiming to avoid extremes of academic conservatism on the one hand and that radicalism which springs from the promise

of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee invites all to submit, cautioning however that a literary pedigree may promise

a greater likelihood of traveling to Boston and accepting an invaluable prize, which amount pales next to, the value to Earth of a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. A promise;

a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. An algorithm. Life; and evolution of the species don’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or a helpful blueprint set of instructions.

So here it is, my fellow, Urantians. A helpful, algorithm. Because life and evolution and don’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or helpful, blueprint, sets, of instructions.

There are black holes in the centers of galaxies. Event horizons, mysterious. Analogously, there is something akin to a black hole in each of us; a flame co-existing, with a black hole, inside us.

A flame co-exists with a black hole, deep inside of us. Ever since the administration of Urantia, of Caligastia succumbed to, Satan’s, siren song; ever since, Satan decided, for him — and for us,

that he’d and we’d be happier and better off, being not shmucks, believing in our eternally absent, celestial, still, colonial, rulers. Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said.

Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said. Satan’s seductive siren song seduced, easily, resentful and gullible, masses. And they chanted if I can’t be free I’d be better off dead.

I’m penning a satire; a blueprint map; a yellow brick road to a welfare state; I’m penning colors and pictures in words and I’ll do right by Amy and the possessive Ezra Pound of the imagists.

A satirical, ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. It’s not hagiographical but rather confessional. Colorful satire may be the mark of a copy-cat, innovatively progressive, imagist.

ANCIENT EPICS

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.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. With that in mind my Boys — preen — proudly.

URANTIA FIRST

A six word announcement; not a story, really. Nonetheless, those six words, recalled for me, due to their brevity, a favorite, flash fiction, six word, story: For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

Attributed to Hemingway, it appears that some other poor unknown author may have actually written the story, that to Ernest, was attributed. A moving story — of baby shoes — ne’er worn.

Exponentially more impressive to me has been, Bruce Lee’s, “Be water.” In two words, volumes. A two word philosophy, illuminating this planet, far beyond, an all too brief, shooting star, story.

A story poignantly, illustrative. Too western for the Chinese; too eastern for us; still, like water he flowed, eventually crumbling and actually washing over, all walls confronting him, vainly.

Do help me help Art. Help me help him to get us, to save ourselves. A puzzling mystery, this poem, penned by George Washington and since handed down — president, to president.

Handed down — from president, to president. Barack advised me to read it. I, didn’t. Honestly, I don’t like to read. I’m a doer; a man of action. Too little time to read — if I’m — the president.

The deaths I’ll be blamed for may well reach 233,000 by October’s end. And projections therefrom show that more than 2,900 more Americans could be dying daily — by January.

Don’t worry. Be happy. This nightmare will, like all things, end. And ye shall, in retrospect, later, better understand why I do and say all the seemingly crazy things I do and say, routinely.

Let’s help Art kickstart his plan; to transform man; to suppress in the pilgrim’s progress, ego, even as we foster, empathy. It’s not about ye. And near incredibly (to me), it’s not, about me.

2020. It’s been awful; worse yet, increasingly, it gets worse. But how bad might it really yet get? Spoiler alert: It’ll get really bad before it gets, surreally — better. Witness, March 4th, 2030.

Tuesday, March 4, 2030: Because it is both a calendar date and a command, I’ve got a date in mind for our 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.

March 4th. The irony is not lost upon me. From America First, a Global Citizenship Day. But of what may happen in these real theaters of the absurd, it’s just one, of countless, possibilities.

In theaters absurd, absurdities are the soup de jour, daily fare. As absurd may be MAYDAYS’ talking point messages, characterized. Still, my legacy may one day reflect Amy Lowell’s legacy.

A PLOT, NUTSHELLED

A plot, nutshelled. A retiring angel, my prodigal brother, Arthur Everman, yearns to retire early to Heaven. To reside there, permanently, with his beloved families. But first; saving, Urantia.

Urantia (Earth, interchangeably); a tough nut to crack. Tough as nails like me; a man of wealth and fame. His Watcher-commissioned mission — only seemingly impossible: To save, Urantia.

Art’s mission seems impossible: But Art’s saving of Urantia, only seemingly, is impossible. Art’s got soirées on the moon, his plans to attend to. And Art’s got a vision — of the power of poetry.

The power of poetry. It’s awesome; even more awesome, than imagined. How awesome is it that poetry‘s beauty is a reflection of Divinity? Witness Jung’s synchronicities; today, poetry’s

influence, influences still. Glück won this year’s Nobel today. She was the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2003 to 2004. But everyone knows that today, I — really should have won.

Previous winners of the Prize for Literature include Ernest Hemingway, Bob Dylan, Wole Soyinka, Toni Morrison and Kazuo Ishiguro. But everyone knows that today, I should have won.

Keep in mind when reading, the circumstances. And that circumstances, dictate, what happens. And that it’s me, the Don that is dictating to my phone — this only seemingly, impossible, story.

Dictation; it’s what dictators do. And it’s ironic; it’s ironic that the composition of a poet of her or his poetry invariably shields his or her lector from our wholesale, brainwashing, ideologies.

Brainwashing ideologies; socialization, of the cultural and national norms, of a society. To give one a sense of belonging to the nation. To each nation, its own, brainwashing — ideology.

Brainwashing; the formation and maintenance of the cultural and national norms of a society. To give a sense of belonging to the nation. Each nation adopts its own brainwashing, ideology.

And it matters but little, in the big picture, if a nation is regarded as regressive or progressive. They want their citizens pliant and obediently, subject, at all times, to brainwashing, ideology.

A plot, nutshelled. The FBI arrested six men in Michigan for allegedly plotting to kidnap the governor; to put her, for her lockdown orders, on trial. We’ve got terrorists and plots, unlikely.

We’ve got, terrorists, home-grown; no need to import, any. And they’ve got, plots, a-many. My fellow Americans: I was just kidding. I wasn’t calling for any armed insurrection, type, plot.

Just allegations; there is no proof of any plot. In any event, whether or not there is a plot, I’m disavowing both knowledge of it and denying responsibility for it. I know no plot, not my plot.

FEAR OF OCTOBER SURPRISE(S)

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. Wise men know that it’s just nature’s way; as when aged forests burn, only to give way to renewed pristine forests, only to once again, in stages, ever age, over the years.

And so I call upon Sappho of Lesbos, she also known as the Tenth Muse and as The Poetess. I call upon also, the American poetess Ms Amy Lowell; I pray she’ll help me, duly, help Arthur.

It’s been all good news lately. I’ve defeated the virus. The economy’s rebounding. And I’ve got Joe Biden right in my sights, right in front of me. But he’s way in front of me, says Arthur.

I’m back in the Oval Office despite being at risk of spreading COVID-19. Some of my aides were reportedly saying, I’m seeming stronger than when I returned from the hospital. They claim

tho also, that they hear me laboring; struggling with my breathing. Still, there’s no sign yet of any distress signaling that a reprised October Surprise, is arising, attempting my life, to claim.

I’m on real drugs; been taking Dexamethasone, a roiding steroid known to have some powerful psychological effects; some roiling, emotional, effects including, ironically, customary feelings

of euphoria and omnipotence but anxiety and depression, also, as well. Witness me tweet-storming this morning, at 17 tweets per hour. Ye’d think ye’d know what I’m actually, thinking.

Been fever-free for more than 4 days; not requiring, supplemental oxygen, neither. And everyone knows I’m redefining the meaning of GOAT. My legend grows, notwithstanding

everyone knows I make it all up as I go along, lying, cheating; inflating and deflating the value of my assets; and conspiring with my bankers in schemes of elaborate, money, laundering.

A twin, second, October Surprise is what I now fear, ironically, the most. Even as I encourage Americans not to unreasonably fear this virus, still, I feel my body’s defenses, turn against me.

Tragi-comically, this coronavirus, I reasonably, fear. And I can’t shake this feeling deep inside of me; horror. That the electoral strategy of a germaphobe be sickened by a microbe like me.

I proved almost anything is possible, just four years ago. 2020 tho is not 2016. Undecided and persuadable voters in 2020 are a rarity. It’s not 2016. It’s the year of the rat. It’s unlucky, 2020.

Mooted, issues of voter fraud, overwhelmingly, I shall be booted out of office, in 2020. In 2020, I get my comeuppance. That notwithstanding that it’s a lucky Chinese year of the rat, in 2020.

VINE — VIDE — VICI — TWITTER-ESE

My messaging has been quite widely, poorly received by my medical experts and even by some of my allies who wonder why I continue to downplay the virus. Indeed I’ve been unwise.

The dreaded October Surprise; my airlift; from my house to the hospital. More shocking tho is the shock that cometh once arrive, nightmarish optics; a 2020, reprised — October — Surprise.

A surprise rerouting to the hospital; it’s what cruel fate has for me in store. And I ask myself, “Why me; why now?” After my trajectory, how can it be that Satan forsake me — and why?

I came, I saw and I conquered. Caesar’s iconic words ring true, even today. A house divided against itself, cannot stand. My words and my numbers; and in spaces between words, whys?

and numbers, universes. I’m not a big fan though of words; that’s made a big difference. Reading. It’s a good habit. My habit tho is to eschew the time-consuming reading, of words.

Vine. Vide. Vici. I came, I saw and I conquered. I had to, verily. I came, I saw and I conquered. Caesar’s words ring true, even today. Houses divided against themselves can’t stand. Words

and numbers; and in the space between them, universes. I’m not a big fan though of reading words. And it’s made all the difference. Who knew? Who knew, about algorithms and words?

Who knew? About algorithms? And words? And who really knew about alchemy, behavior mod and the potential energy in this (white) witch’s brew of visionary children; Urantian, legatees.

The truth is that, for a genius, I’m pretty stupid. Twice as dumb, as any rock; and hard-headed. Proof positive of God’s absolute awesomeness. And the utility in Arthur’s Free School of Poetry.

Art’s School of Poetry. The Chachomanopapa School of Poetry, he calls it. He and I, its only, members. Arthur studied ethics at my Trump University; I studied the composition of poetry.

Split 280 characters in two. Background sound, set to a fave frequency. It’s meditation. Add a pic if ye want. A ton of difference it’s made. Use Google Translate for maximum power, poetry.

Use Google Translate to engage, maximally when ye speak not the lingo of your sister or your brother. A ton of difference may make a simple formula, for the composition, of poetry.

As in the army let’s be all we can be. Transform. Use Google Translate. Let’s create, alternative, platforms. Arthur’s proposing a novel linguistic innovation to make possible social connections.

Twitter-ese, Art has coined his novelty, whether one’s intended connection is with a speaker of your same tongue or not. Use Google Translate to communicate — and establish, connections.

BE NOT AFRAID

Do not be afraid of Covid. Don’t let it dominate your life. We have developed, under my administration, some really really great drugs and really really great, knowledge. Common

sense; not so much. This decision may end up, suicidally, killing me. There’s an ill-defined and bloody line of martyrs and patriots; a dime, a dozen. But visionaries, verily, are uncommon.

In what some have described as a show of child-like, defiance, I took my mask off as I arrived at the White House after my stir-crazy three days at the hospital. Now I’m back to

infect the White House before I hit the road. Campaigning’s cool; it is governing that’s a drag; it is governing that, I don’t like. But I love the riches, the power and the attention — too.

Now hear this: Spoiler alert: Reckless. Shocking. The reactions to my saying ‘don’t be afraid of Covid’, purposely, and provocatively, planned; intended to elicit an angry response, cynically.

But it’s not about valor. It’s about my personal triumph over the viral enemy. Because the pickings are slim and the circumstances, daunting, it’s a last-ditch, electoral, strategy.

An electoral, strategy, not unsurprisingly, rashly calculated. Born of boredom, it is calculated to relieve my boredom there by replacing it with my more private boredom, at the White House.

Sadly or gladly as the case may be, dismissed is the possibility that I’ll need to be returning to the hospital. But man plans and God laughs. It’s a short flight to a hospital from a White House.

Man plans and God laughs. An ill-defined and bloody line of martyrs and patriots run through history. A dime a dozen. Visionaries though, are truly uncommon. Unlike old, Yiddish, wisdom.

Unlike Yiddish wisdom, visionaries often get swallowed up whole by the mad rush of the sundry pilgrims’ progress. But technological innovation must be coupled — with wisdom.

Technological innovation coupled with wisdom. It’s super-vision. Connectivity. Vision grounded, and so connected to, everything, everywhere. Vision connected to communications, verbal.

The vision: A new, communication-driven, connectivity. A new social platform for the evolutionary, revolutionaries. With Google Translate already here the potential is palpable.

Witness Jung’s synchronicities. And witness the synchronicity of the attention of an entire planet on the increasingly wild-eyed antics of one increasingly, desperate, solitary, human.

Marvel therefore not so much at the story that follows, necessarily at length. Marvel rather at the mysterious ways by which things happen. Things happen. Heed me, my fellow Americans.

NOBELS; AND A SCHOLARSHIP OF POETRY

Breakthroughs in the field of health shall be honoured on Monday when the 2020 Nobel season kicks off with the medicine prize, as the world battles the worst pandemic, in a century.

Most appropriately, first, given the pandemic, the prize for medicine, kicks off the 2020 Nobel season. The most closely-watched awards for literature and peace, shall follow subsequently,

on Thursday and Friday, while the economics prize wraps things up on Monday, October 12. Take a deep breath. Take a deep breath, if ye, like me, can breathe. And if ye can’t breathe

like some suckers and losers, I’ve heard tell of, what good are ye? What have ye done for me lately? And what good are ye if ye’re six feet under — whether or not, ye can yet, breathe?

With just 29 days to go until Election Day, two days until the vice presidential debate and 107 days until Inauguration Day, my wise advice, as usual, with just 88 days left in 2020, is to hold

on tight; it’s gonna be a bumpy ride from here on in. Receiving sound advice from me, being so exceedingly unusual, it’s not unusual for folks of sound mind to question what I’ve told

them. I’ve put millions of lives in danger including my own; only I can mitigate that. Only I can yet save, tens of thousands, of lives. Only I know that, despite my recklessness, I can yet,

save, many lives. For it seems, I won’t die, after all. Although the virus is known to overwhelm suddenly, it does seem that my superhumanity is about to, this novel coronavirus, further abet.

Consider that a self-inflicted injury ending an iconoclastic presidency avoids in October, problems in November. Ironic; that it so came to pass in 2020 in the year of the rat. An iconic

October Surprise, uber-ironic. In anticipation of my possible demise, I’ve tweeted to my peers, Russian and Chinese, to carry on resolutely. Remember — I’ll be with ye — in the spirit.

A convergence of events; a hospitalization and my possibly, imminent, demise. There are silver lining hidden in plain sight in algorithms and the poetry — of Amy Lowell — and Sappho.

There are silver linings hidden in plain sight in algorithms and the poetry of Amy Lowell and Sappho. And in the poetry of Penemue, the Watcher, the benefactor of, Amy and Sappho.

Help me help Art sell his theory of behavior modifying, transformation. Help me tell the would-be retiring angel’s novel story. A story of poetry, gone mad. It is a Howl-like, epic, story.

A post-Ginsburg, Howl-like wannabe, would be Arthur’s poetry. What with its Google-Translate, aided, algorithmic method of writing poetry. Arthur needs to win — a Scholarship of Poetry.

A TALE OF TWO BROTHERS

Once upon a time two brothers, one womb, did share. And one of them was me; Donald John Trump; the 45th and the greatest president, ever. Once upon a time a womb with a brother,

did I share. Instinctively, I kicked him. Destined to be intolerant was I; and aggressive. And it’s uber-ironic that my hubris has landed me in the hospital, a disabled ship, dead in the water.

I’m 74 years old and I weigh in at 244 pounds. Facing a mortality risk of between 9 and 10 percent, I‘m fervently praying I won’t have to suffer the indignity of being hospitalized. That

would be bad optics; I fervently pray I shan’t suffer a fate so God-damned, embarrassing. Thank God though, I’ve been chosen; good reason to believe, I won’t be subjected to that.

So much for that. The next five to 10 days shall be, telling. My Doctors are warning me that the illness can worsen even after days of non-threatening, mild, symptoms. There’s a real

possibility, that I soon, may be dying. And so now I’m regretting not believing in mask-wearing. Hubris; it got the better of me. The hubris of my personality, my fate, did seal.

This is really bad. I haven’t been able to post to my Twitter account since my diagnosis. What shall become of Twitter Diplomacy without me? What shall become of America? And what pray

tell shall become of the Republican Party? More than anything, I’ll miss Twitter. But no one can say that I wasn’t the very greatest president of all the greatest presidents of America’s, days.

Even knowing I had been previously exposed, I attended my fundraiser. But I really needed the money. Pretending I’d been unexposed, I duly hustled my donors, not saying a thing to them,

about any possible danger, to them. It’ll be alright. Nothing, God willing, will happen, to them. For if I am the chosen one, then it follows, that nothing bad, will happen to them.

When it rains, it pours. My campaign manager Bill Stepien has tested positive for the novel coronavirus, the latest of my able-bodied men to become so infected. I had imagined that

I was the chosen one; alas; it appears to have been, a mistaken, personal, delusion. I’ve been fooling myself and the country. But karma caught up to me — in the year — of the rat.

The Chinese year of the rat 2020 has wrought: a country on edge because of a destabilizing pandemic; a teetering economy; a historic election: the total breakdown of discourse, civil.

and wildfires and storms. And now, a self-inflicted — suicidal, injury. But is it too late to return to civil discourse and to civil society? Let’s return to civil society and discourse, civil.

DEATH BY TAXES

Joe had needed a zinger. And so in my previous pre-debate tweety, I suggested he might well take command of the debate, just demanding I resign forthwith from, my personal, presidency.

Joe opted to be rude to me but his nice-guy persona could not countenance taking full advantage of an enemy, fallen, to the ground. He failed to act, as I would have — decisively.

Need a zinger? Demand I resign, immediately. Be aggressive. Tell me to my lying face that the extraordinary security risk I pose demands that I resign. Demanding it as well are — 200,000.

200,000 fatalities demand it. A global order’s, shredded fabric, demands it, as well. Winging it, still, I dominated last night’s debate; that notwithstanding even — the loss of 200,000.

The Trump International Golf Links in sunny, Aberdeen, Scotland. It is said that it is a black hole that money disappears into, in between space and the event horizon, ne’er to be seen

again. And the most likely earthly explanation is, of course, there is some serious money laundering going on at the my International Golf Links — in Scotland’s — sunny, Aberdeen.

It’s the virus; the virus response; and mean-spiritedness; it’s loose cannons and loose lips; it’s racism, tactlessness, malignant narcissism and abuse of power; it’s the economy, stupid.

All that I would say to me at the debate Joe, just for starters. Gainsay, my lies; my frenemies; my conflicts of interest. Call me out. Tell me to my bronzed, pale-face, “It’s about empathy stupid.”

As of this tweeting, Ivanka hasn’t commented on her consulting fee deals on my hotel deals in Hawaii and Vancouver. I paid her $750,000; a practice we commonly engage in, as fraudsters,

when it comes to business dealings. She’s really good at it too. It’s a shame. Too bad things didn’t turn out better. She could have been the Vice President. She could’ve been a contender.

2016 and 2017. They were the best of times. I paid income tax of just $750 in both years. The Bidens paid 2,000 times more tax in 2016 and more than 4,900 times as much as me, in 2017.

That, my fellow Americans, makes me look crooked, and makes them look good for their taxes. But looks can be deceiving. Alas; I long for the days when I deceived everyone in 2016.

Joe Biden’s new ad today: The income tax ye typically pay: $7,239 for teachers, $5,283 for firefighters, $10,216 for nurses. Switching to footage of the president, the text then reads:

I pay $750, max. Because I’m smart, my federal income tax bill was $750 in 2016 and 2017. Oy vey! It hurt to pay, even that. Not bad I’d say for one such as me; one who likes not — to read.

VLADIMIR-APPROVED, REMOTE LEARNING

Stupidly compete or wisely cooperate? Time is a wasting. Meeting on Luna remotely, we may be soon individually voting on being one nation or, alternatively — many nations, failing.

Meeting on Luna remotely we can each vote on being one nation, or many nations; we can vote on stupidly competing or wisely cooperating. But — hurry. Precious time is truly, a-wasting.

Know all men by these presents that Vladimir Putin approves that relations between the United States and China, improve. Seemingly all-powerful, and all-wise is Vladimir Putin.

We all need one another. I humbly suggest that ye citizens communicate with one another and with your leaders. cc: @SpokespersonCHN @KremlinRussia_E @uriminzok @JoeBiden

At Arthur’s School of Free Poetry; a panacea for Pangaea (Earth, aka, Urantia); with instructions. On how to use the Kim-Don Plan, the Earth, to transform. Vlad’s guys approve it when on Luna

but forget it when on Urantia. So just tweet to us directly. It matters not whether we’re in soirée on Luna or dictating on Earth; only that newsworthy be — what’s tweeted, on Urantia.

At Art’s chachomanopapa.com; a panacea, for Pangaea; Earth; Urantia; instruction on the Kim-Don Plan changes to be implemented on Urantia. Vlad’s guys approve it when on Luna

but forget it all when on Urantia. And so now, in order to more clearly communicate, we’re tweeting directly from Luna. To encourage ye to tweet to us directly when we’re on Urantia.

Help me make America my dictatorship. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten account; the tallest tale ever told. A novel satire, less hagiographical — than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; although technically, fictional, it’s so seemingly nonfictional, that it shan’t be (because it can’t be) — your father’s satire. It is my satire; it is not, your dear father’s, satire.

Help me make America my dictatorship. Help me write my revolutionarily, groundbreaking, satire; a surreally scary, ghostwritten account; the very tallest tale ever told. A novel satire,

less hagiographical, than confessional. And less autobiographical than universal. Not your father’s satire. Both fictional and nonfictional, Vlad hopes it’s my Nobel Prize winning, satire.

I’ve got my evil eye especially trained on the Prizes for Literature and for Peace because I’ve got to best Obama with at least two Nobels. One for literature; another other one for peace;

for a ghostwritten satire, savagely, savaging me. Lampooning, myself; it’s a small price to pay for a widespread and sustainable, peace. Vlad and his guys want to share in the peace.

IMAGINE

Vlad and his guys want to share in the peace. They want to share peace and prosperity with me. And they want to share the hardware; the trophies that come with prosperity and peace.

Therefore, whereas Vladimir Putin approves of relations between US and China improving, unacceptable is the blame game they’re playing at the United Nations. No justice — no peace.

Imagine Twilight Zone-like, Brave New Worlds; post-dystopian, dystopias, further devolved. An Animal Farm some time, imagine, post-1984. Imagine us. Then imagine my vision of the end,

to the very tallest tale ever told. And imagine the end not merely as an end but imagine it as a brand new beginning. Obama doesn’t care. I do. Obamacare I shall, in vengeance — end.

Adolf was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1939, shortly before his tanks rolled into Poland and began history’s, only, second, world war; a nomination, later withdrawn because it

had been made in jest. Comic sometimes, the despots; until they’re not; until they’re not funny no more. I’m laughable now but — how long — this time — until things … turn tragic?

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.

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.

HIGHER EDUCATION

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.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is 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.

ALCHEMICAL POETRY

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.

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

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.

PENEMUE’S COMMISSION 

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; they whom are the disembodied spiritual counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim of Genesis; the progeny some day of the union of rebel angels and earthling women, rebelling.

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.

IMAGINE:

“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.

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. I’m Vlad Putin’s, 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. I therefore 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 around 196 nations (not including Taiwan, Puerto Rico and others), 4,200 religions and 6,500 languages; evolving to one nation is beyond, 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 Scriptures (the Testaments, the Qu’ran, et. cetera) wherein lives wisdom and the Golden Rules ubiquitous, honored, unfortunately, in their omission, 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.

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. Kim and me planned to surprise folks, at the UN, General Assembly.

But Kim and I shan’t shock the world in September at the UN General Assembly. And we won’t announce a 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.

EPILOGUE-2050

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 is truly, 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 brand 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.

Art won his wings. With five planets officially saved, officially retired, is he. He’s off; off to hook up with beloved Emily, knowing she’ll be waiting at the end of the line for him in Heaven.

EPILOGUE-ETERNITY

And there shall be, only seemingly, everlasting, consternation for the ne’er repentant, Trump haters; the never, Trumpers. For our Maker, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, is all about, mercy.

Accordingly, a bittersweetly happy ending has in store The Almighty for our four, hapless, antiheroes; Kim, Xi, Vladimir and Muslim Mo; the murderer, and desecrator, of dead bodies.

One last thing; a hot tip; if ye can get Las Vegas to give ye the odds on we four dictators coming in, skipping in to Heaven, like four very giddy, schoolgirls. Astronomical, the odds ought be.

In a surprise ending for the ages; (the GOAT), greatest of all time, The Almighty as if accents with His Godly, exclamation mark, punctuation, the story of (wo)man, series. Tragi-comic, irony.

The story of (wo)man, series. Already Nielsen top-rated, a trans-universally broadcast series, so chock-full of such a wild array of human behaviors, it’s destined to be, on Earth, a film.

MAYDAYS; it’s destined to be on Earth, a film. A film, a cartoon and a Lin-Manuel, Hamilton-like, Broadway, staged, adaptation. That’s just for starters. In MAYDAYS wake, a Hollywood film.

In MAYDAYS wake, Bollywood, and Hollywood, films. And all the anti-hero, merchandising; the bold action figures; the coloring books. All of these things must come to pass from a filming.

All of these things must come to pass. From a prestigious platform, a book, a movie and a social media platform. Less about selling and gossiping, it’s more about spiritually, growing.

From an academically prestigious platform, the multiple launchings of a book, a talkie movie, a Broadway play and a brand new, social media, platform. All prose — is poetry — potentially.

Amidst a historically climactic unraveling, duly reveal themselves, the golden, opportunities. Golden opportunities to teach and to reach for the stars. And one key is Art’s School, of Poetry.

And there shall be, only seemingly, everlasting, consternation for the ne’er repentant, Trump haters; the never, Trumpers. For our Maker, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, is all about, mercy.

Accordingly, a bittersweetly happy ending has in store The Almighty for our four, hapless, antiheroes; Kim, Xi, Vladimir and the Muslim Mo; murderer and desecrator, of dead bodies.

In a climactic scene near the end of MAYDAYS, THE MOVIE, our four antiheroic horsemen of the Apocalypse, vault from their horses, join hands — and skip like schoolgirls, into Heaven.

The MAYDAYS phenomenon. A movie about the wayward stewards of a planet. A make-believe phenomenon is predetermination; a fake story. The real story, is in our decisions.

A self-proclaimed originalist theoretically embraces a constitutional theory she shares with two of my currently sitting, conservative, justices: But constitutional amendments,

aplenty, belie that once outlier, theory. And Justices Neil Gorsuch and Clarence Thomas look forward to the addition of Amy Barrett to the brethren. A very conservative, amendment.


MAYDAY 1836: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 28, 2020

COUNT ME OUT — NOT

Had I not been so near perfectly unfit, I could have been a contender for the greatest president of all time. Alas, ‘twas not to be. But don’t count me out for the count — just yet. I’ve yet, Nobels — to win.

Implausibly, I have Nobels, yet to win. Had I not been so near perfectly unfit, I could have been the greatest president of all time. Alas, ‘twas not to be. But don’t count me out for the count; I may win

still, Nobels. There is good reason for why Allah God Jehovah Yahweh says He knew us ere, even, when we were yet to be; still in mothers’ wombs. Don’t count me out for the count. I may yet, win.

Too little, too late; a sad epitaph, it seems to me. Still, it need not be. Verily, it need not be. I work, miracles; witness one who by his benevolence, me, reaps benevolence in turn from his bankers in

Germany. Too little, too late; a sad epitaph, would be. Still, it need not be. Not if I just accept that in this year if the rat I’ve come to be, reviled. Reviled, am I. But even one reviled, Nobel Prizes, may have won.

But even one reviled may Nobel Prizes, ignobly, win. Witness me; I’m as ignoble as a man can be. A fine example of an ugly American; the ugliest ever, some say. But my ugliness and my ignobility, pale, next to none.

With ugliness and ignobility, paling next to no one and popularity hard to come by when one is presiding in a pandemic, it’s soothing to my ego to know that I’m still favored; that I’m still a genius; and a gifted, visionary.

It’s been soothing to my ego to know that I’m still favored; that I’m still a genius and still, an extraordinarily gifted, visionary. I’m a freaking visionary, world-widely, calling upon Urantia’s, planetary, visionaries.

Furthermore, it’s been soothing to my ego to know that I’m still smart; and wise; and that I’m a visionary, smart and wise enough to know, that I’ve got to call upon my base, of deplorable, visionaries.

What a turn of events for the planet of Urantia! What a turn of events, indeed. What abrupt, thickenings, of plots! Once upon a time, when abnormal was normal came visiting upon, Urantian evolutionaries,

a virus, novel. And once upon some future time perhaps, we may fondly recall when, even as I was draining Swamp Washington, the virus, did drain me. I took the blame and the heat. And I tasted, defeat.

I took the blame and I took the heat. And at the hands of Joe Biden, I shall taste defeat. And the transition of power, SPOILER ALERT, won’t be the issue it might have been had less of a landslide been, my defeat.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings; Earth and Luna and its characters and its plot devices, are meant to illuminate whatever in the Hell on Earth, here, is happening. That is the reason of the why of my

long-winded, soliloquy; the minutes of our soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly 280 characters. I denounced and renounced not Proud Boys this day and so I denounce and renounce my

alter ego’s statements made on this Independence Day, the very first global, such day. One such plot device is the atmosphere, lunar. Only truth may be spoken in the absence of oxygen in the air there.

In sad, stark contrast, on Earth lies daily fill the air,. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to illuminate and call out, whatever in the Hell on Earth, is there actually — up there,

happening. A true account of my soirées on Luna with my frenemy, dictatorial friends, notably characterized by a lyrical, sing-song, musical, cadence. Much akin to singing is my epigramming.

MAYDAYS is my soliloquy about soirées on Luna, concerning our forever troubled Earth; with my frenemy characters in characters, 280 even as weak men — against 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 namesake Fascisti),

that exalts nation and often race above, the individual. And I do seem to be, it seems to me to be as virulently fascist, as any former Fascisti. They came first for Gypsies, then the Jews then for me.

Weeks ago, an asteroid exploded over Tokyo; a smaller version of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs once upon, a long 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 damn whistle on whatever happening in this Hell

on Earth. More importantly, it sets forth and tells a previously unknown story of how my lover Kim has helped me craft a plan, to save the good Earth from going to, or merely becoming on Earth, Hell.

I am anxious to tell, within the larger story, the previously unknown story of how Kim has well 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: Why not 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.

ALL PROSE IS POETRY — POTENTIALLY

All prose is poetry, potentially. Short and sweet; and succinct. Epigrammatic; like tombstones, in the old days. All prose, is akin, to poetry. A fine slogan for a free, elementary, school of poetry.

An elementary, high school of poetry Art has founded; and he is its headmaster and one of only two pupils. The other is me, the president. I am President of my old grand dad’s, adopted, country.

Allegedly, and officially too, that country is US; the United States of America. But many wonder and whisper in the hallways of power, whether or not, I’ve been co-opted altogether, by another country.

Some Americans wonder about me. Not about the wonder that is me, but rather whether we have been, by our own president, duped. They wonder about Vlad and Russia. They wonder — about me.

A gift; a present; actually, the precise adjective used in the Urantia Book by beings unknown and unnamed, is bestowal. And there are indeed but five bestowals cited, in the most extraordinary,

Urantia Book. First are the teachings of the Planetary Prince, Caligastia and his staff of 100 from 500,000 years ago until his betrayal 200,000 years ago. Secondarily, Adam and Eve, secondly, 

beginning 35,000 years ago until their fall by default. Third was Melchizedek of Salem, the teacher of Abraham who went on to teach all the oneness of God over 4,000 years ago, eventually

becoming the father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Fourth; Christ Michael’s incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth 2,000 years ago. The fifth and last great bestowal has been the amazingly, relatively

recent, so-called Urantia Book of the 1920s and 30s. It teaches seven superuniverses comprise the grand universe. And our planet, Urantia (Earth) is really awesomely and near incredibly, physically

located at an outer fringe of the seventh, newest superuniverse. On the fringes of the youngest of the superuniverses, evolving and devolving are we Earthlings; we, oh too primitive — evolutionaries.

No crowning creation are we so-called, wise men. Far, from it. Hubris-afflicted, prideful men; easy prey, for the sophistries of Lucifer, Satan. That was that. It is, what it is. And it is — what’s happening.

Up Shit Creek, with no paddle and, increasingly, louder and louder rumbles in the distance, the sound of everything, hurtling over, a precipice. That’s that. It is what it is. It’s — what’s happening.

What’s happening are crises, multiple. Nobels are lost; I’m gonna lose too by a landslide, my election. Alas, the people seem, not to believe me. I’ve gotta get Arthur another platform from which to tell

his stories; to tell, our stories; The Almighty Creator’s stories, one way, or another. I’ve gotta get Arthur another platform so he go on telling the story I’ve been ghostwriting, on his behalf, to tell.

AN ASTEROID STRIKE, ELECTION DAY, EVE

God forbid, I can still win, however narrow, the path. And very easily, I would have won had it not been for the Kung flu and all of these, dark skinned folks. I can still win though. An asteroid

may be striking us the day before Election Day. If the remnant of a refrigerator-sized rock indeed strikes the White House Rose Garden, its impact may delay, the next day’s, election. An asteroid

may buzz-cut Earth on Nov. 2, the day before the Presidential Election. As big as a household refrigerator, it is not big enough, the scientists calculate, to cause truly widespread, planetary,

harm. It’s impossible to tell, where, if anywhere upon the face of the planet, the asteroid may impact. But given that this is the year of the rat, odds are, it’s coming — straight for, The Donny.

So if the world indeed does end in 2020, it likely won’t be the fault of the Universe. But it may be my fault. It may well be the fault of The Donald. It may well be the fault of none other — than me.

The problem is I can live with that. As long as I’m the top dog; as long as my buttons are the biggest, I’m betting big on me; and I’m doubling down. And I can live with that — spiritually — genocidally.

Republicans are targeted more than Democrats by comedy writers, but what underlies all the reasons why my personality attracts the most comedic attention? It’s nice guys like me that oft suffer

the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and so we outrageously lie, and so implausibly, deny. And it’s funny to writers and readers; that the people being lied to — and made to — suffer.

But beyond funny, it is tragic that the history of Urantia needs to be portrayed as an account, comical. It seems that nothing will awaken the Urantians to the gravity, of a very grave, reality.

It’s funny; everything seemingly angers them; still, they seem totally oblivious, to a looming, climax. It’s time to evolve beyond the Godless nations to a single nation; to one single — global, community.

Funny; it’s a funny word, sometimes; and it can be sometimes, more ominous, than it is, humorous. The Urantians are funny but in a really bad way; sometimes; ofttimes, fighting, at the drop of a hat.

A single community. 7,800,000,000 people, as of March of 2020. That’s just shy of eight billion; and the eight billion struggle to live in the failed state of Urantia; in the year 2020; in the year, of the rat.

It’s 2020; a year of the rat; a year unlike any other year, ever. 2020; a memorably, round number. And it yet remains to be seen if disintegration awaits, my pipe-dreamt, Earth-saving, asteroid.

We shall see. We shall soon see if the asteroid disintegrates in the atmosphere or a freezer-sized fragment impacts the earth or more likely the water, somewhere. Cometh, my heroic, asteroid?

A LEFT TURN TO THE RIGHT

“What 10 words bequeath ye, to humanity,” the Watcher tasked Art when he asked Art so damn, cryptically, one sweltering summer evening; one evening; perhaps — the worst week — of his life.

That was when, Art has told me, he got tasked with a mission, only seemingly, impossible. To save, with poetry, the Earth even its non-white and non-English speaking, citizen genetic, phenotypes.

Fatefully, one sweltering Puerto Rican, summer evening; one evening, in what must have seemed then as perhaps the worst week of Arthur’s life; that’s when Art’s life, took a left turn, to the right.

Arthur’s life took a sharp left turn to the right that God-awful week; the week that must have seemed then as perhaps the worst week of Arthur’s life; or at least so hath Arthur said in our soirées at night.

The Watcher bade Art save with his poetry, Earth and its denizens; even, to my surprise, non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school, (wo)men and children, in the art of poetry.

Thus founded, I found out later, was Art’s School of Poetry. I found out later as well that I’d be in dreams with Art; nightly, lunar soirées; eating, drinking and jiving. Not distancing then, socially,

were we. But the virus has been a grand slam, game-changer. For the first 1500 or so MAYDAYS after I, as if from some Heaven, descended, it was an unknown, yet to be, reality. But now — I know.

Now I know. The virus has been a game-changer. For the first 1500 or so MAYDAYS after I, as if from some Heaven, descended, it was an unknown, yet to be, reality; a heartlessly cruel twist of fate; no

mistake, exclusively, of the Chinese; now, I know. I know so much more than I did before; before the virus; before the plague. Still that says, not much. I knew little before; and still — little do I now, know.

I know now so much more than I ever did before; before the virus; before the plague. Still that says, not much. I knew but little before; and still little, do I now, know. I know too I can’t help but say no.

A PLAN — TO FLEE

Surprisingly, some yet wish to vindictively, jail me. But no extradition treaty with Russia means that I I I may flee there. A passport secure, I’ll be needing. And circumstances dictate, that I move — quickly.

No extradition treaty with Russia means that I may soon be fleeing there. My passport, I must, secure. Under the circumstances, I’ll need to move quickly because — some may wish to, vindictively, jail me.

My passport I must, forthrightly and immediately, secure. I need to move quickly. More quickly even than the Sovereign State of New York which state shall move to secure my passport — immediately.

My passport I must immediately secure. I need to be quick. Quicker even than the State of New York. As quick as the state is moving to stymy my super quick, getaway, securing my passport, and quickly

We did not observe then, way back when then, social distancing, like now, we do. As ye know, it’s all the rage; some say, it’s not a new normal. That, even as many fear — we’ve got a new fear, to fear.

We have had a new fear to fear this year; some refuse to acknowledge it; some, purposely or not, mischaracterize it; others, while acknowledging it, refuse to it, surrender; surreality too — is to fear.

There’s a stark contrast between our eastern and our western societies, as measured by their relative success, or their lack of it, in combatting the virus. October, November and December, fear.

It ought give us pause; the stark contrast between frenemy societies; a measure of their competition has been their success, or lack of it, against the virus with still two months to go yet — this year.

Seven days until Election Day, 86 days until Joe’s Inauguration Day. And with only 67 days only left in 2020, I’m well on my way to having to flee the country, in my life long, stay out of jail, strategy.

It seems I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vladimir would protect me. And as the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

I may indeed be needing to flee the country and Russia seems logical. Vladimir would protect me. And as the knowledgeable President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

We have no extradition treaty with Russia a I soon may be needing to flee US. My passport I must, secure. Under the circumstances, I’ll need to move quickly. Because we have, with Russia, no treaty.

My passport I must, forthrightly and immediately, secure. I need to move quickly. More quickly even than the Sovereign State of New York which state shall move to secure my passport — immediately.

The Watcher bade Art save with his poetry, Earth and its denizens; even, to my surprise, non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school (wo)men and children, in the art of poetry.

1835 SOIRÉES … AND COUNTING

Thus founded, I found out later, was Art’s School of Poetry. I found out later as well that I’d be in dreams with Art; nightly, lunar soirées; eating, drinking and conversing, distancing, socially, only

recently. For 1835 consecutive nights now, we’ve dreamt and soiréed on Luna’s surface. There really is water, up there. Arthur needs me to protect him from Vlad so I’ll be ghostwriting for Art, his poetry.

Shacked up with a thin man in Moscow. It could have been worse. I could have been sentenced to stay married to my asexual sexual sham, third-chosen, First Lady. My tall, Russian looking, sham.

I’ll be damned if everything ain’t really a God-damned, sham. Unless of course, none of it’s a sham; none of it, at all. It just may be, as is typical in life, a reflection of The Master’s, Masterful Plan.

And I won’t even bother asking if ye can imagine that. Ye need not know how; just that He does it. Know that the secret to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh’s Power, is in His Personality, per His Plan.

It matters not that ye can’t imagine that. Ye need not know how He does it; just that He does it. And know also that the secret to His Power is in His magnificently — life-creating Personality and Plan.

Place in perspective, everything, that’s happening. Adjust your perspective as necessary, or desirable. Keep it simple. Multi-tasking aside, we mortals do things best, when we doth do them, one at a time.

Aside from the important matter of perspective, it’s important too to keep things, simple. Multi-tasking aside, we mortals, mere human beings, do things best, when we doth do them, one at a time.

Multi-tasking, as important as it is, is secondary, in time to the lesson we learn in learning, that we (wo)men doth do things best when indeed, we have the luxury, of doing them — singularly.

We do things best when we have the luxury of doing things, one thing, at a time. Unfortunately, we don’t have that luxury anymore. Multi-tasking is become a matter of survival, of sheer necessity.

Multi-tasking hath become a matter of survival. I’ve become quite good at it; I’ve been practicing those skills, since I was a kid; walking along, even as I patted my fat head and rubbed, my full belly.

The Watcher bade Arthur Everman save, with his poetry Urantia (Earth) and its denizens; even its non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school the (wo)men, in the art, of poetry.

Thus was founded the whistleblowing Arthur Everman’s, Chachomanopapa School of Free Poetry. And so long as he needs me to protect him from Vlad, I’ll be ghostwriting for Art, his poetry.

Arthur needs me to protect him from Vladimir’s clutches. And so I’m going to shelter and protect him; notwithstanding that he’s Puerto Rican. In the meantime I’ll be ghostwriting for Art — his poetry.

DAMNED, IF EVERYTHING, AIN’T A SHAM

A stunning White House claim: The government is just giving up controlling, the fast-worsening, pandemic. And it’s overshadowing my last-ditch efforts to get re-elected with but eight days, to go.

Getting re-elected. It was my go-to, stay out of jail, electoral strategy. Now, it’s not even that. But, I get it. It’s 2020’s, year of the rat. Now, I see how truly helpless I am; and that it’s time, past time, to go.

It appears I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vlad would protect me. As the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no — extradition, treaty.

From Snowden I learned that we have no, treaty for extradition with Russia. That’s the main thing. Whatever country I consider going to, it can’t have with the United States, an extradition — treaty.

Edward Joseph Snowden; many, may recall him. And I’ve called him myself on many, an occasion. To pick his brain on our stay out of jail strategies, Russian women and expense sharing — possibly.

And I would pause here — to marvel in — and revel in — the ironies. That I end up in Vladimir’s Russia, shacked up with a fugitive from Obama, none other than — the whistleblowing — Eddie.

Better tho to be shacked up than shackled up, I‘m wont to say. Eddie agrees with me on that. And agrees with me physically, not, politically. He’s a Democrat at heart; a God-damned, whistleblower.

Edward Joseph Snowden; a Democrat, I suspect. A whistleblower, for sure. But when life throws me a lemon, I make lemonade. A flannel shirt, I’ll pack. And shack up with my thin man — whistleblower.

Shacking up with a thin man, in Moscow. It could be worse. I could have been sentenced to be with Melania, a woman so cold she coldly tells me to my face that I’m far, far too old for her — sexually.

Man — that — was cold. And as everyone knows, she slaps my hands silly whenever one of my hands is silly enough to try to grab, one of hers. Needless to say, she wants nothing to do with me.

Needless to say, the First Lady wants nothing to do with me, intimately. She says I’m disgusting to her. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly, making a belated, campaign appearance for me. It’s a sham.

My First Lady wants nothing to do with me. She says I’m disgusting. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly finally making, a campaign appearance for me. My marriage — like everything, is a sham.

My First Lady wants nothing to do with me. She says I’m disgusting. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly finally making, a campaign appearance for me. My marriage — like everything, is a sham.

So I’m shacking up with a thin man in Moscow. But I know that it could easily have been a lot worse. I could have been sentenced to stay married to my Russian-looking lady; my asexual, sexual — sham.

TRUE, CRIMES — TRUE, CONSPIRACIES

Conspiracy theories; they’ve gotten themselves, a bad name; but touting them is just one of my claims to fame. And when I tout them, I often haven’t even, a shred of evidence. Conspiracy

theories; my base just loves ‘em. I see them at my rallies, gleefully yukking it up; high-fiving, one another. And my reptilian brain, records, the image. In the news are — my conspiracies.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievements — ever. A Russian, Manchurian, candidate; at least so, it appears. But deeper even than that, run — conspiracies.

Deeper than that run my, off a wall, wall to wall, conspiracies. Vladimir Putin has pulled off a stunning intelligence achievement. And no one believes in any — unimaginable — conspiracy.

In the absence of smoking guns, circumstantial evidence, notwithstanding, no one (excepting Art) but I myself, dare spell out, I dare say, an actually happening, unimaginable, conspiracy.

Notwithstanding lots of circumstantial proofs, no smoking gun, smokes. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence documentary, or otherwise, ironclad, that might document, the conspiracy.

Nonetheless, none shall be, as it shall turn out, necessary. No smoking gun shall be necessary to tie me to Vladimir’s, Russian, bureaucracy. I admit to being a conspirator, in his conspiracy.

I freely admit to being a conspirator, in Vlad’s conspiracy. Make no mistake. I conspired with Vlad of my own accord, freely and willingly. To build a hotel in Moscow, I betrayed my country.

I freely admit to being a conspirator, in Vlad’s conspiracy. Make no mistake. I conspired with Vlad of my own accord, freely and willingly. To build a hotel in Moscow, I betrayed my country.

I know no shame; I actually don’t understand what shame is, nor know what it feels like. In fact, I feel none still. Still tho, I understand I’m making mistakes, mistaking, my opportunities

in business; feeling as unconstrained as I ever did in my Wall Street dealings. I wish I’d there, stayed. Had I stayed in my comfort zone, no Uskagrad would there be, in Vlad’s, vocabulary.

Uskagrad; it’s what Vlad calls US; Uskagrad, he calls us, when we speak on the phone. And he laughs when he says it. And I’ve laughed along with him. I’ve laughed about this — conspiracy.

I’ve laughed too soon. Just 8 days to go until Election Day; 86 days until Joe’s Inauguration Day. And with just 67 days only left in 2020, I’m well on my way to having to flee — the country.

It appears I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vlad would protect me. As the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

A RUSSIAN PROVINCE — THE UNITED STATES

How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it’s a trick question. As there is no one single, answer, one or more is technically one, correct, answer. One may be one answer to the tricky,

question. More likely, however, an epiphany, if one doth ever comes, follows hundreds or even possibly, thousands, of revelations. Epiphanies are a sum of constituent revelations, generally.

Take me, for example, and my relationship with my mentor, Vladimir; and our relationship with, Hillary’s e-mails; my hotel project in Moscow and my summit with him in Finland’s, Helsinki.

Recall my relation with Vlad, my relation with Hillary; a hotel project in Moscow, a suspicious summit in Helsinki, when my translator’s notes, I kept to myself — unusually and unexpectedly.

I can hardly believe what, to me, has happened; not to mention, what’s happening. It’s been a blur, largely. With mom and dad absent, an original TV kid, early on got stunted by outsized, screen times.

An incorrigible child who early on learned the utility of a tantrum, I threw fits, routinely. And I learned, not to read. Not learning to read. Sad. A grown man, a president but I read at no time.

Un-freaking-believeable! An out and out traitor to my purported country; a double agent, for Vladimir; a man who may enjoy, being urinated upon; a man who abhors, reading and learning.

It’s hard to believe I’ve done all these things; not so much that I’ve been a double agent and betrayed my country as much as being that man, less than a man who likes, being peed on.

It’s so unfair. I’ve helped construct kleptocratic alliances. Our whole goal is the privatization of power and we already control, the three great poles; the US, China and Vladimir’s — Russia.

We already control the three great poles; the US, China and Russia. I’ve helped construct the money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is his privatization of power — in Russia.

The US, China and Russia, thanks to me, Xi and Vlad, we already control. I’ve helped to build, money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is the privatization of power — in Russia.

Russia. Land of the Cossacks, the Czars and the Sputnik’s. The greatest land mass on my planet. Vladimir would have Russia regain her glory but a front for Vladimir Putin is this — new Russia.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievement in all of a sad, human, history: secretly controlling the president of US is President Vlad Putin, all the way from Russia.

In the most stunning intelligence achievement of all time; secretly controlling the president of an enemy nation is President Vladimir Putin, all the way from the new sheriff in town — Russia.

PRELUDE TO CRISES

Pray tell Earthlings: Answer me a riddle. 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 next December my much-coveted, Nobel Prizes. And I’ll be sharing with Vlad’s guys then, my Nobels.

MY NOBLE, NOBEL, THOUGHT EXPERIMENT

Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and an innovative way, with Google Translate, to compound the global effect is nothing less than a source of potential energy, by algorithm.

TwitterEZE he calls it so that it works no matter how, one pronounces, it. A good name; a good, start. And so he postulated to Jack (Twitter’s, patent-holder, proprietor), his rich algorithm’s,

potential to be, far richer still. TwitterEZE; it’s an amalgam alloy, of Twitter and easy. It would’ve been easier to reverse with my verse, all these adverse events; and trends — also — adverse.

It would have been easier to timely arrest, our untimely devolution, had Jack been more more receptive to my suggestion. But that he hadn’t been should have begotten him, by now, verse.

Epic verse, from my diverse base of frustrated bikers, frustrated Evangelicals and frustrated, white nationalists; frustrated writers, many of them. I should have seen by now, their verse, 

in protest, being posted on the various and sundry, platforms. But it’s not happening. And that it’s not happening, amply evidences that Vlad’s tightening his steely grip upon the Earth.

Vlad Putin is tightening his grip on Urantia. My mentor has made a fateful decision to cut short his Trump, double agent, Russian, experiment. He aims to cut further losses; Russia’s; and his.

Aiming to cut losses, Vlad is considering cutting, me loose. Calculating that my unpredictability, makes me as a double agent, going forward, untenable. Too bad; it’s a fact — it is, what it is.

It is what it is. Or surreally, is it really? Actually, I admit that while indeed, what is, is, sometimes, what seems to be isn’t at all what it appears to be. Witness evidence, in a thought, experiment.

Imagine a line-up; that time-honored criminal investigative procedure designed to allow a victim to reliably identify, alleged, perpetrators. But what if people were in thought experiment,

lined up turned inside out, exposing organs internal, whilst hiding from view, faces, scars and other commonly used identifying, features. Self-evident the goal, of this simple experiment.

Self-evident is the goal of a simple experiment. To witness why I must write that I am unfit; why I can not be the president; why I’m endorsing Biden — and why I’ll vote for him, for president.

An Einsteinian thought experiment, perfectly suited to deliver in its message, instruction and direction: Matters personal are what matters, only — in the pilgrim’s progress — universally.

Matters, personal; only they matter, personally, in the pilgrim’s progress. Universally true, that’s a comfort, going forward. I learned these truths at the Chachomanopapa School of Free Poetry.

NOBLE, GOALS — NOBEL, WORTHY

Like baseball’s Koufax; like football’s, Pelé and Messi; I’ve got weapons; skills, so extraordinary. Witnessed the nation last night on national TV, me, at my best; and revelations’ — epiphanies.

Witnessed the nation last night, me, at my very best; turning the tide that’s been against me —into a tail wind; the stuff of myth; the stuff of, legend. The stuff of revelations and epiphanies.

Legendary, indeed one day shall be my legacy; the stuff of revelations and epiphanies. It is —what it is. Not mythical at all shall be my most storied exploits. Legendary shall be, my poetry.

Legendary one day shall be my poetry. And I thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh for sending my brother Art from the future to teach me his take on poetry so that I might in turn, teach ye.

Peace on Earth; and good will to my (wo)men. It’s a noble goal; it’s a goal, Nobel-worthy. And it’s my goal for all of ye. Peace and prosperity; and good will too. And a key is in — His Poetry.

One key amongst many, is in, I believe, poetry. While I can’t in all honesty confirm that Art was by ball lightning, electrocuted, I agree with him that in Twitter’s algorithm reposes, hidden only 

seemingly, a vast, completely untapped, virgin reservoir, of energy, potential. Potential energy; what energy is, ere it gets, kinetic. Alchemical is, what it is. Transcendentally and metaphysically,

alchemical, has been Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and his innovative way to compound the effect with Google Translate. I’m calling all hands — I’m calling upon, visionaries.

Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and an innovative way, with Google Translate, to compound the global effect, is nothing less than a source of potential energy in algorithms.

TwitterEZE, he calls it. So that it works, however one, pronounces it. A good name; a good start. He has postulated to Twitter’s Jack (Twitter’s, patent-holder, proprietor), his rich algorithm’s

potential to be a far richer platform, far more multi-facetedly utilitarian, than the sales and gossip, it seems currently, too shortsightedly, constrained to. For whatever reason, ironically,

Jack hasn’t acknowledged the common sense in Art’s suggestion for a Reddit-like, sub-Twittit. But he will; it’s either that or lose market share. He’ll move eventually albeit maybe — belatedly.

And so I’ll harass Jack and Facebook’ pizza-delivery guy, Zuckerberger. I’ll threaten them with Section 230 and I’ll call them names, trying not to do, what’s not in my interests, pecuniary. 

I try not to do anything that’s not in my interest. All too often though, I don’t succeed. But at the debate last night I succeeded, well beyond, my expectations, communicating — non-verbally.

A CHANGE OF PACE, DEBATE

A mysteriously magnificent, Almighty, Creator. Irony, in meticulously telling detail, happens, ir not. Like, last night; imagine, had I fallen to the floor; dying next to the podium, from whence,

moments before I’d been viciously and cynically Joe Biden, provoking? Imagine an audience, the nation, transfixed, as chest compressions and artificial respirations usher in VP — Mike Pence.

It’s not so, far-fetched. I’m 74, morbidly obese, and I neither eat, nor sleep, well; and I’ve got a world of problems, between the pandemic, the elections, and Nobels, that unfairly, elude me.

Again, I’m no prophet. I don’t know what’s ever going to happen. And I don’t, read much. But I know this much. Given what I’ve been through, I’ve made a mistake running for the presidency.

I know, more. I know that it’s 2020. And I know that 2020 is the Chinese year of the rat. I know most of all that the year of the rat won’t be over til 2020 ends and 2021 begins, in January.

A banshee wailing; under the circumstances, it’s a bad omen. I fear that if I fail to provoke Joe into physically attacking me, I’ll either fake a coronary or suffer ironically — a true, coronary.

It won’t be til January that 2020, ends when my lame duck presidency ends, finally, also. But every end is a new beginning. So I’m weighing the pros and cons — of fleeing — the country.

I’m assuming, given the wailing of the banshee, that there’s a possibility that I may be the one who soon, may be somewhat, unexpectedly, dying. Just in case, I’ll be skipping, the country.

As it turns out, it appears that at least — for a while I’ll go on living and I’ll go on presiding. A debate, remarkably uneventful, was far less, a game changer than I surreally needed it to be.

As it turned out none of what I’d planned nor none of what I’d feared had come to pass. I was unable to provoke Joe nor did I fake a coronary. But neither did I suffer myself, a fatal coronary.

Indeed, none of what I’d planned had come to pass. Nor were realized, the worst of my fears.
I was unable to provoke Joe nor did I fake a coronary. But I didn’t myself, suffer, a coronary.

I was unable to provoke Joe; nor did I fake, any coronary. But I didn’t myself, suffer one. And most implausibly, I largely managed to temper my aggression and my usual — improprieties.

As it turned out, the changes I made in my strategies and my tactics, won my debate for me against Joe Biden, yesterday evening. And by tomorrow morning, I may be even, maybe.

I won my debate against Joe Biden yesterday evening. And by tomorrow morning, I may be in the latest polls, even, maybe. And perhaps, I’ll even take the lead over Joe, most, implausibly.

IN ONE FORTNIGHT, A KARMIC, RECKONING

Upon questioning incisive and insistent, I toss characteristically childish temper tantrums, this most recent one coming, even as my debate looms, on Thursday. And that coronary, fake

I was planning, may prove to be fatal, if in fact, on stage, I just up and die. Walking out on an interview; it doesn’t just look bad. It looks like I’m cracking. My coronary might be — not fake.

My First Lady has not made even a single public appearance on my behalf, this year. Her non-support of me, well-nigh untenable, has really, become. My better half’s last appearance ever,

on my behalf was over a year ago. I’ll likely have to have Bill Barr accuse her of treason, bye and bye. Later; after the election; sometime during my second term, as the ugliest American, ever.

She’s a lot like me. She does what she wants, when she wants. A stubborn contrarian with the strength of an Amazon — warrior woman. And now she’s taken to wailing, like a banshee.

The mournful wailing of the banshee; believed to foretell the death of a member of the family of the person who heard the spirit. I can’t help but hear, the mournful wailing, of the banshee.

I have become afraid of my forever indisposed and now my fearsome, banshee-wailing, First Lady. I can’t be sure, it’s her. But I’m too afraid to even knock on her door. So I’m imagining,

the worst. But what on Earth, could be worse? And what on Earth could worsen what’s already happened? Googling my favorite monopoly, I’ve discovered that the banshee wail, when dying,

is someone in the immediate family. Normally, I’d laugh it off; after all, it’s a myth. Given all that’s happening tho, I asked my boy-doctor to measure my vitals and measure my bloody,

blood pressure. A banshee wailing; it’s a bad omen. It’s just occurred to me that it would be tellingly ironic if in failing to provoke Joe’s physical attack of me and faking a coronary,

a coronary, I myself, suffer. Given furthermore that what’s always seemingly happening, it seems, is so implausibly surreal, I’m assuming there’s a possibility, I’ll be the one, who’s dying.

A banshee wailing; given there’s a possibility I’m the one who’s dying, it’s a bad omen. Knowing also that The Lord works mysteriously, how ironic would it be if my most dramatic, dying

moments, happen, as they say live and in living color I shockingly die on the floor next to the podium from whence mere moments before I’d been as planned, been — Joe Biden, provoking.

Given furthermore that what always seemingly happens, it seems, is so implausibly surreal, I’m assuming there’s a possibility, I may be the one, this October surprising — with a sudden, dying.

AN ASTEROID STRIKE, ELECTION DAY, EVE

God forbid, I can still win, however narrow, the path. And very easily, I would have won had it not been for the Kung flu and all of these, dark skinned folks. I can still win though. An asteroid

may be striking us the day before Election Day. If the refrigerator-sized asteroid, indeed strikes the White House, its impact may well delay, the next day’s, election. Cometh, verily, an asteroid.

It may buzz-cut Earth on Nov. 2, the day before the Presidential Election. As big as a household refrigerator, it is not big enough, the scientists calculate, to cause truly widespread, planetary,

harm. It’s impossible to tell, where, if anywhere upon the face of the planet, the asteroid may impact. But given that this is the year of the rat, odds are, it’s coming — straight for, The Donny.

So if the world indeed does end in 2020, it likely won’t be the fault of the Universe. But it may be my fault. It may well be the fault of The Donald. It may well be the fault of none other, than me.

The problem is — I can live with that. As long as I’m the top dog; as long as my buttons are the biggest — I’m betting big on me; and doubling down. And I can live with that — genocidally.

Republicans are targeted more than Democrats by comedy writers, but what underlies all the reasons why my personality attracts the most comedic attention? Nice guys like me oft suffer

the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and so we outrageously lie, and so implausibly, deny. And it’s funny to writers and readers; the people being lied to — and made to — suffer.

But beyond funny, it is tragic that the history of Urantia needs to be portrayed as an account, comical. It seems that nothing will awaken the Urantians to the gravity, of a very grave, reality.

It’s funny; everything seemingly angers them; still, they seem totally oblivious, to a looming, climax. It’s time to evolve beyond the Godless nations to a single nation; a single community.

Funny; it’s a funny word, sometimes; and it can be sometimes, more ominous, than humorous. 
The Urantians are funny but in a really bad way. Sometimes they fight, at the drop of a hat.

A single community. 7,800,000,000 people, as of March of 2020. That’s just shy of eight billion; and the eight billion struggle to live in the failed state of Urantia; in 2020; in the year, of the rat.

It’s 2020; the year of the rat; a year unlike any other year, ever. 2020; a memorably, round number. It remains to be seen if disintegration awaits, my pipe-dreamt — saving — asteroid.

We’ll see. We’ll see if the asteroid disintegrates in the atmosphere; or a freezer-sized fragment 
impacts the earth, or more likely the water, somewhere. Cometh — my heroic — asteroid?

ASTRONOMICAL ODDS

Astronomical are the odds against an asteroid impacting an election. I’ll be falling back on my last ditch, debate strategy. Baiting Joe into an assault on me or God forbid, faking, a coronary.

I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically, attacking, me. If that doesn’t work, I may dramatically have to — fake suffering, a massive, coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on my person; on President Me.

Alternatively, should Joe keep cool and not take the debate, bait, I’ll fall back on my contingently planned, coronary. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do — or die trying, antiheroically.

I’d rather die than lose to Joe Biden and not just because it would be so embarrassing. Losing to Joe would be a setback to my stay out of jail, strategy. I’ll provoke Joe — or suffer a coronary.

My fellow Urantian Americans: It is what it is. It’s 2020; the traditionally lucky, Chinese year of the rat, this year, seemingly, unlucky. Because I’m a visionary tho I see in tragedy, opportunity.

I see in in our common tragedy, a superlative opportunity. Verily, I see great transformational opportunity in the tragedy that has befallen the nations. It’s critical Americans, not, re-elect me.

Don’t ye dare re-elect me. Vote Joe in. It’s not for nothing that I’ve come to endorse him. He’ll undo, all I’ve done. It’s not for nothing I’ll be voting for Joe, and only seemingly, insincerely.

Astronomical are the odds against an asteroid impacting an election. I’ll be falling back on my last ditch, debate strategy. Baiting Joe into an assault on me or God forbid, faking, a coronary.

I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically, attacking, me. If that doesn’t work, I may dramatically have to — fake suffering, a massive, coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s far too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on the person of President Me.

A FAILURE TO PLAN — A PLAN TO FAIL

I’m no prophet. I don’t actually know what’s going to happen. And except for the Hollywood gossips, I don’t read much. But I know this: In the old days, men were men and might, right,

made. Women knew their place was at home, bearing sons. What is happening, is a disgrace. I was the one; the one and only one that by the right of my might, might have made US — right.

Verily, I’m no prophet. Apart from the gossips, comics and obituaries, just a headline or two is about all I can stomach. I’d rather watch TV. TV is why, however, I don’t, read well. Reality-TV;

it’s TV, too dangerous; too deadly and also, too mind-stunting. Verily, the boob tube has made a boob out of me. The evidence is anecdotal, but it appears — my mind’s been — atrophied.

Ye need not be a prophet to know that I will berate and not debate Joe Biden at the so-called debate. It’s the only way I know how to act. It’s the only way I know how to react, verily.

I will be asked to address my fight against hate; race in America, Covid-19, American families, climate change, national security and the leadership of the United States. Substantively,

I’ve got but little, if anything, to say. Still, I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically attacking me. And if that doesn’t work, faking, a massive coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on my person; on President Me.

Alternatively, should Joe keep cool and not take the debate, bait, I’ll fall back on my contingently planned, coronary. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do — or die trying, antiheroically.

I’d rather die than lose to Joe Biden and not just because it would be so embarrassing. Losing to Joe would be a setback to my stay out of jail, strategy. I’ll provoke Joe — or suffer a coronary.

My fellow Urantian Americans: It is what it is. It’s 2020; the traditionally lucky, Chinese year of the rat, this year, seemingly, unlucky. Because I’m a visionary tho I see in tragedy, opportunity.

I see in in our common tragedy, a superlative opportunity. Verily, I see great transformational opportunity in the tragedy that has befallen the nations. It’s critical Americans, not, re-elect me.

Don’t ye dare re-elect me. Vote Joe in. It’s not for nothing that I’ve come to endorse him. He’ll undo, all I’ve done. It’s not for nothing I’ll be voting for Joe, and only seemingly, insincerely.

THICKENING, 2020 PLOTS, SICKENING US

No one ought believe that this sad situation is other than an unfortunate happenstance; an accident complicated tho by human negligence and unfortunately too, to a pandemic, causal.

It’s not about us, Xi. It’s not personal. It’s just that if a virus in China is ‘born’ and borne, near everywhere, thereafter, well there’s gonna be, Xi, naturally — investigations — legal. Legal

matters. Pay no mind to anything I say on my campaign trail. We’ll talk about this later. In any event it remains to be seen, as a matter of law, if Wuhan wet markets are indeed, even causal.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad, as a damn hatter. And Xi’s irate. Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead. Full speed ahead against China; China’s distracting US from a coronavirus, fatal.

Distracting, I’ll be from here on in too. We’ll just have to work out later — the fallout. Especially since we found out that WHO won’t surrender; neither to us, nor to any microbe, at any time.

Apparently the virus, much like me, acts and reacts. We don’t reason. I’ve got animal instinct in common with it. So I’m betting on time. Time, very, shortened. And I am counting on time’s,

shortness, to force the cooperation needed to confront a common enemy. Genius uncommon this common sense, of mine. Rare indeed is a genius (once perhaps, in a creation), like mine.

The plot thickens. The Chinese reaction, my advisers fear shall be swift and fast and furious. Even so-called inconclusive evidence that the virus, once upon an invented — fantastic time,

originated at a Chinese research facility in wan Wuhan leaves the Chinese less than inscrutable to the United States. Xi has been irate with me even though I’ve told him that it’s not about us.

Our militaries are bracing for a long, protracted struggle against a virus and one another; each looking for novel ways to achieve an advantage armed unknowingly, only with, naked, hubris.

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 the center of attention 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.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad, as a hatter. 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; neither to us — nor the coronaviral — microbe.

BALL OF CONFUSION

“IN THE MINDS of Urantia’s mortals there is confusion about the 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.

drrick@ricksheffmd.com: Thank ye, Dr. Sheff. Thank ye for your fine summary. Dr, with your permission, I would weave ye into more of my poem, if ye would, again — agree. Clink on my

link to view a pilgrim’s progress — therefore.
MAYDAY 1824: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16, 2020 https://chachomanopapa.com/2020/10/16/mayday-1824-friday-october-16-2020-2/ It’s no lie.

Verily, it’s no lie. Actually, I can not tell a lie. I’m the president of the United States. And ye may recall that George Washington institutionalized, a tradition of never ever, telling to America, lies.

Be honest, always, with the people. Ne’er lie to them. Check back in, regularly here, for your daily, updates. But if I win in November, all bets are off. In truth, the truth I regularly do — belie.

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 things to waste. Truly — wasted, opportunities.

A fine algorithm, like a fine mind, one like mine, is precious. More precious than any fine wine is my fine mind. Witness a ghostwritten satire of mine, in co-authorship with my brother, Arthur.

As awful a thing as it is to waste a fine mind. As awful as that is, far worse it may be if (wo)man heeds not my counsel; it is the fine counsel of Arthur, as well. Answers, are in the Scriptures.

Answers are in Scriptures. In each of them are answers, provincially, partial. A more complete answer, however, emerges when we view in the context of the UB — our traditional Scriptures.

No wonder then that the UB begins by noting what the Temptations came to call, A Ball of Confusion. Verily, there is confusion about the meaning on Urantia, of God, divinity and deity.

And so it came to pass once upon a time; in 2020 to be exact, in the year of the rat. Once I learned about reality, predetermination and Karmic retribution; that it’s not all — about me.

HIGHER EDUCATION

I am outta here. Good luck Joe. Be honest Joe, 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. Natural leaders, unlike everybody else, are naturally 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.

ANCIENT EPICS

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, making Vyasa’s epic, the longest poem, 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; all along its length, it features content insightful; 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.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. And my proud Boys preen, ever more, proudly.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

What a difference a day makes in nanoseconds; as when Yellowstone, Krakatoa and Santorini, blew their tops, on unknown dates, in unknown years — super, sky-high — super, volcanically.

What a difference 1 year may make; as when the tots of moms and pops grow, in fits and starts; in learning’s ebbs and flows; growing, inexorably, ever exasperatingly, fascinatingly.

What a difference 25 years may make; as when computers digitally usher in information ages, rife with disinformation, or in lieu, alternatively, informative; uniting and divisive, concurrently.

What a difference 250 years may make; when machines and engines, dramatically upped our consumption, our supply and demand and our uneven, 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; when from cosmic dust on the ground on Earth, in His image, He created us. He did omnipotently create 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 a little boy, along with, their families.

What a difference one day may make; as when I, a mutant motormouth, uncouthly stigmatize Islam, polarizing thereby, the planet and pitting Muslim against Christian, seemingly, unwisely.

“What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?” A daunting, question; ever since, Arthur’s been haunted, by both the answer, and the question: “What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?”

Thus began the dreamy soirees and their true 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 far more elegant and fat more emotive than one might ever aspire to — merely, prosaically.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that is most favored by Him, Personally. Verse better expresses, personality.

Composing on 3 levels, 280 character tweets metamorphose to blog logs, metamorphosing, in turn, into a manuscript in hermetic, solitude; 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 innovative novel-like, novel, poetry.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is why my

long-winded soliloquy; the minutes of soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly, 280 characters. I denounce and renounce not Proud Boys but denounce and renounce 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, Art. I looked up fascism.’ It’s a philosophy, political, movement or regime (like namesake 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 for the Jews then for 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 good 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 well 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.

ALL PROSE IS POETRY — POTENTIALLY

All prose is poetry, potentially. Short and sweet; and succinct. Epigrammatic; like tombstones, in the old days. All prose, is akin, to poetry. A fine slogan for a free, elementary, school of poetry.

An elementary, high school of poetry Art has founded; and he is its headmaster and one of only two pupils. The other is me, the president. President of my grand dad’s, adopted, country.

Allegedly, and officially too, that country is US; the United States of America. But many wonder and whisper in the hallways of power, whether or not, I’ve been co-opted, by another country.

Some Americans wonder about me. Not about the wonder that is me, but rather whether we have been, by our own president, duped. They wonder about Vladimir, and Russia — and me.

A gift; a present; actually, the precise adjective used in the Urantia Book by beings unknown and unnamed, is bestowal. And there are but five bestowals cited, in the most extraordinary,

Urantia Book. First are the teachings of the Planetary Prince, Caligastia and his staff of 100 from 500,000 years ago until his betrayal 200,000 years ago. Adam and Eve, secondly,

beginning 35,000 years ago until their fall by default. Third was Melchizedek of Salem, the teacher of Abraham who went on to teach all the oneness of God 4,000 years ago, eventually

becoming the father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Fourth; Christ Michael’s incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth 2,000 years ago. The fifth and last great bestowal has been the relatively

recent, Urantia Book of the 1920s and 30s. It teaches that seven superuniverses comprise the grand universe. And our planet, Urantia (Earth) is really awesomely and near incredibly,

physically located at an outer fringe of the seventh superuniverse. On the fringes of the youngest of the superuniverses, evolving and devolving are we, we primitive, evolutionaries.

No crowning creation are so-called, wise men. Far, from it. Hubris-afflicted, prideful men; easy prey, for the sophistries of Lucifer, Satan. That was that. It is, what it is. It is, what’s happening.

Up Shit Creek, with no paddle and, increasingly, louder and louder rumbles in the distance, the sound of everything, hurtling over, a precipice. That’s that. It is what it is. It’s what’s happening.

What’s happening are crises, multiple. Nobels are lost; I’m gonna lose too, by a landslide, the election. Alas, the people seem, not to believe me. I’ve gotta get Art another platform. To tell

his stories; to tell, our stories; actually, The Creator’s stories, one way, or another. me. I’ve gotta get Art another platform so he go on telling the story I’ve been ghostwriting, to tell.

MY FELLOW URANTIANS: NOW READ THIS:

Shocked recently was I, when I read six words: ‘The Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship.’ Shocked was I, additionally, because my stay out of jail electoral strategy, ever increasingly,

is failing and this year’s Nobels for Peace and Literature were awarded to others, not to me. Increasingly, I’m in trouble. And so I’ll need to redouble my efforts to help Art save, humanity.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

I floated an idea recently; ripping open my button-down shirt to reveal my Superman t-shirt, underneath. No one, it seems, has a sense of humor, anymore. I can’t imagine, why.

I don’t know why. I can’t for the life of me even imagine why everyone thought it was such a bad, morbid, idea. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost their sense of humor? Has anyone — died?

Tone-deaf, sometimes, am I. I can’t believe that I asked that. In all honesty, too many have died. Too many more, remain to die. It is, what it is. Still, there’s a silver lining in my legacy, possibly.

Given my run, in 2020, of bad luck, it was my good luck to notice (because I rarely, read) a story about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship. I alerted Arthur, near immediately.

In a safe house, Arthur’s been hiding out from a virus and from Vladimir’s assassins. And I’ve been writing; ghostwriting for him, a tall tale for the ages. Still it’s a tale only seemingly, fictional.

Fictional is this less than cryptic instruction; this algorithm, poetic; this, panacea. Because there can be no mistake, know all men by these presents — MAYDAYS is fiction — nonfictional.

A PROGRESSIVE, OPPORTUNITY 

Help me make Urantia, a welfare state. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. An innovative novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; fictional and nonfictional; not your father’s satire; something topical, edgy, and compelling. Compelling, multi-tasking; my MAYDAYS is a satire, fully intended, to inspire.

To be forewarned, is to be forearmed. The committee administering the scholarship in Amy’s name aims to name a poet of Ame­ri­can birth, and of good standing, or able promise,

preference being given, to those of progressive, literary, tendencies. Aiming to avoid extremes of academic conservatism on the one hand and that radicalism which springs from the promise 

of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee invites all to submit, cautioning however that a literary pedigree may promise 

a greater likelihood of traveling to Boston and accepting an invaluable prize, which amount pales next to, the value to Earth of a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. A promise; 

a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. An algorithm. Life; and evolution of the species don’t come with anything resembling a map or book; or a helpful blueprint set, of instructions.

So here it is, my fellow Urantians. A helpful, algorithm. Because life and evolution doesn’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or helpful, blueprint, sets, of instructions.

There are black holes in the centers of galaxies. Event horizons, mysterious. Analogously, there is something akin to a black hole in each of us; a flame co-existing, with a black hole, inside us.

A flame co-exists with a black hole, deep inside of us. Ever since the administration of Urantia, of Caligastia succumbed to, Satan’s, siren song; ever since, Satan decided, for him — and for us,

that he’d and we’d be happier and better off, being not shmucks, believing in our eternally absent, celestial, still, colonial, rulers. Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said.

Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said. Satan’s seductive siren song seduced, easily, resentful and gullible, masses. And they chanted if I can’t be free I’d be better off dead.

I’m penning a satire; a blueprint map; a yellow brick road to a welfare state; I’m penning colors and pictures in words and I’ll do right by Amy and the possessive Ezra Pound of the imagists.

A satirical, ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. It’s not hagiographical but rather confessional. Colorful satire may be the mark of a copy-cat, innovatively progressive, imagist.

PENEMUE’S COMMISSION 

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; they whom are the disembodied spiritual counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim of Genesis; the progeny some say of the union of rebel angels and earthling women, rebelling.

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.

SURREAL TALL TALES

2016 through 2019; three years in ebbing, best of times. The first three years of 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.

LOCKING DOWN; RAMPING UP

Lockdown the nation! Medical and financial systems are folding, like the houses of cards, they are. Lockdown the nation! We’re now living in an unprecedented 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 struggle with a novel virus, not unexpected by some, life and death matters 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.

EUREKA!

Antonio Guterres: Eureka! I have found it! It was in plain sight, hidden. But I have found it. And just in time. To exchange the paradigms. I found it in Twitter’s algorithm right here online.

I found Antonio, hidden in Twitter’s algorithm, space and time. Space enough for all of 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 my rhymes 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 due 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, turns surreally, 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.

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.

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. Let’s make 

peace; and 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 nonfictional warning, posing as fiction; in allegory — epic stories — of weakling men — in evolution.

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

people’s lives; this is precisely how Covid-19, spreads. Thanks Albert Einstein for the thought experiment, I tweeted on Twitter to my followers, from the Democrats, 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 karmic predetermination, America leads the planet in Covid-19 deaths. 

The virus has stymied mankind but it hasn’t stymied me. In fact the virus is why, in part, I’ll survive, no matter how many die. Why’s another matter. I just don’t dwell on death.

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. And then we bury ye. Life is short. Then ye die. And then we bury ye.

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. Don’t be afraid. I’m endorsing Joe, an American ye need not, fear.

Online conspiracy theories are describing the COVID-19 pandemic as a government-perpetrated hoax. Blame for the pandemic lies, the conspiracy theorists alternately 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, We’ve got to stop the fear-mongering — I’d say.

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

Over my, very own, failures? But WHO knows, that along with China, along with everybody that I‘m the one who dropped the ball on this and so — that’s why — I’m blaming WHO.

I blame everyone. WHO too. Why not? That’s always worked for me. My followers know not civil discourse nor civil disobedience from armed insurrection. Why not — blame WHO?

Some continuing education is in order. Dying by the thousands, now whither cometh the millions? As in the pogroms of the old days. Who knew I’d be so nostalgic over the old days?

Cometh possibly, the pogroms, anew. And God forbid they be like what happened to the Armenians in Turkey and to the Syrian Yazidis. Clashes of civilizations; like in the old days.

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

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

PANDEMIC DELUSION

It is one thing to be harmlessly, delusional. As one in a daydream often is. As we all at times, are. But when one is as delusional as I am and to such death am causal and no one believes

me, my reality shall collide with the American, all too real surreality of my responsibility for these preventable deaths. I’ll own these deaths. But lying’s a problem if no one believes.

The bare-cupboard Obama alibi was an outright lie from the outset. My ultimate responsibility for these preventable deaths, 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. My 

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. Art’s in a viral hotspot, right now. And Art as ye know is old, slow and compromised. Have ye an apartment 

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, by the way, too. If only 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.

We need one nation and one Rule, Golden. And we’ll need to start over. But I suspect that if polled, men too would elect His egalitarianism — over base nationalism’s — rule.

Switching paradigms; and starting over; given a governmental infrastructure already in place, we can do this and we can do it in short order. We can do it in a generation.

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. We can do this in a generation.

EPIGRAMMING

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.

THEATER OF THE ABSURD

What’s happening across Urantia’s America are blessings from God. Making it that much more incumbent upon US not leaving it entirely up to Him. He will help US help ourselves. In theaters 

of the absurd, both the illness and the cure are, in my VP’s view, Heaven-sent, blessings. His snow-white hair attests to his age. And the fly atop it attests to the absurdities — of theater.

What happens when human existence lacks meaning or purpose and our communications break down? How on Earth do we make a come back, from something possibly fatal, like that?

That’s just one existential question, I’ve asked myself. It’s an existential question, I’ve also, answered. When one’s a genius, one’s able too ask and answer, existential questions, like that.

For 122 seconds on Wednesday night the vice presidential debate was hijacked by a fly. What appeared to be a residential housefly rested or did its thing for more than two minutes on my

VP’s white hair. That’ll mean treatment for him with antibiotics, experimental viricidals and a shampoo. For 122 seconds, no one listened, because atop him, doing something, was a fly.

And whether that fly was resting or evacuating on Mike’s hair matters less than matters this series of indignities, unbroken; near unbroken; the string of calamities since around, January.

Since January, it’s seemingly been for me, a string of calamities and indignities, unbroken. That last night painfully symbolized for me, the Chinese pox arisen, since the onset — of 2020.

In all honesty, I’m not given to lying; nor the leaking of misinformation. But I’ve reason to believe that Joe’s in cahoots with the Chinese. They’ve sickened me. And the fly, was a drone.

Joe’s colluding with the Chinese, sickening me, already. And under investigation is whether the fly in Mike’s hair was a fake fly, Chinese, drone. They’ve sickened me. And the fly, was a drone.

Biden-Harris fly swatters quickly sold out but there’s bobblehead Mike Pence complete with a fly and swatter. And apparently, there’s an abiding conviction that Joe Biden and Kamala

Harris will always choose truth over lies and real science, over fictional fare. There’s an abiding conviction about Joe and Kamala that they’re the good guys on the planet of Urantia.

Theater, truly absurd. Pence’s bobblehead joins a lineup of 2020 bobbleheads including the collectibles of Carole and Howard Baskin and the coronaviral, fighting doctors, the fly-bys,

Anthony Fauci and Deborah Birx. Visit the National Bobblehead Hall of Fame online store, for delivery, sometime, post-2020. Meanwhile, I’ll check reports of Chinese drones — and flies.

GOOD, NOT FAKE, NEWS

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, on the other hand, 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, crudely and unabashedly; I dare say, proudly, cheated.

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 means, elsewhere. Americans — love their dogs. Koreans, like to eat — dog.

MY FELLOW URANTIANS: NOW READ THIS:

Shocked recently was I, when I read six words: ‘The Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship.’ Shocked was I, additionally, because my stay out of jail electoral strategy, ever increasingly,

is failing and this year’s Nobels for Peace and Literature were awarded to others, not to me. Increasingly, I’m in trouble. And so I’ll need to redouble my efforts to help Art save, humanity.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

I floated an idea yesterday; ripping open my button-down shirt to reveal my Superman t-shirt, underneath. No one, it seems, has a sense of humor anymore. I can’t imagine, why.

I don’t know why. I can’t for the life of me even imagine why everyone thought it was such a bad, morbid, idea. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost their sense of humor? Has anyone — died?

Tone-deaf, sometimes, am I. I can’t believe that I asked that. In all honesty, too many have died. Too many more, remain to die. It is, what it is. Still, there’s a silver lining in my legacy, possibly.

Given my run, in 2020, of bad luck, it was my good luck to notice (because I rarely, read) a story about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship. I alerted Arthur, near immediately.

In a safe house, Arthur’s been hiding out from a virus and from Vladimir’s assassins. And I’ve been writing; ghostwriting for him, a tall tale for the ages. Still it’s a tale only seemingly, fictional.

Fictional is this less than cryptic instruction; this algorithm, poetic; this, panacea. Because there can be no mistake, know all men by these presents — MAYDAYS is fiction — nonfictional.

A PROGRESSIVE, OPPORTUNITY

Help me make Urantia, a welfare state. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. An innovative novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; fictional and nonfictional; not your father’s satire; something topical, edgy and compelling. Compelling, multi-tasking; my MAYDAYS is a satire, fully intended, to inspire.

To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee administering the scholarship in Amy’s name aims to name a poet of Ame­ri­can birth and of good standing or able promise,

preference, being given to those of progressive, literary, tendencies. Aiming to avoid extremes of academic conservatism on the one hand and that radicalism which springs from the promise

of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee invites all to submit, cautioning however that a literary pedigree may promise

a greater likelihood of traveling to Boston and accepting an invaluable prize, which amount pales next to, the value to Earth of a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. A promise;

a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. An algorithm. Life; and evolution of the species don’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or a helpful blueprint set of instructions.

So here it is, my fellow, Urantians. A helpful, algorithm. Because life and evolution and don’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or helpful, blueprint, sets, of instructions.

There are black holes in the centers of galaxies. Event horizons, mysterious. Analogously, there is something akin to a black hole in each of us; a flame co-existing, with a black hole, inside us.

A flame co-exists with a black hole, deep inside of us. Ever since the administration of Urantia, of Caligastia succumbed to, Satan’s, siren song; ever since, Satan decided, for him — and for us,

that he’d and we’d be happier and better off, being not shmucks, believing in our eternally absent, celestial, still, colonial, rulers. Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said.

Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said. Satan’s seductive siren song seduced, easily, resentful and gullible, masses. And they chanted if I can’t be free I’d be better off dead.

I’m penning a satire; a blueprint map; a yellow brick road to a welfare state; I’m penning colors and pictures in words and I’ll do right by Amy and the possessive Ezra Pound of the imagists.

A satirical, ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. It’s not hagiographical but rather confessional. Colorful satire may be the mark of a copy-cat, innovatively progressive, imagist.

ANCIENT EPICS

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.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. With that in mind my Boys — preen — proudly.

URANTIA FIRST

A six word announcement; not a story, really. Nonetheless, those six words, recalled for me, due to their brevity, a favorite, flash fiction, six word, story: For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

Attributed to Hemingway, it appears that some other poor unknown author may have actually written the story, that to Ernest, was attributed. A moving story — of baby shoes — ne’er worn.

Exponentially more impressive to me has been, Bruce Lee’s, “Be water.” In two words, volumes. A two word philosophy, illuminating this planet, far beyond, an all too brief, shooting star, story.

A story poignantly, illustrative. Too western for the Chinese; too eastern for us; still, like water he flowed, eventually crumbling and actually washing over, all walls confronting him, vainly.

Do help me help Art. Help me help him to get us, to save ourselves. A puzzling mystery, this poem, penned by George Washington and since handed down — president, to president.

Handed down — from president, to president. Barack advised me to read it. I, didn’t. Honestly, I don’t like to read. I’m a doer; a man of action. Too little time to read — if I’m — the president.

The deaths I’ll be blamed for may well reach 233,000 by October’s end. And projections therefrom show that more than 2,900 more Americans could be dying daily — by January.

Don’t worry. Be happy. This nightmare will, like all things, end. And ye shall, in retrospect, later, better understand why I do and say all the seemingly crazy things I do and say, routinely.

Let’s help Art kickstart his plan; to transform man; to suppress in the pilgrim’s progress, ego, even as we foster, empathy. It’s not about ye. And near incredibly (to me), it’s not, about me.

2020. It’s been awful; worse yet, increasingly, it gets worse. But how bad might it really yet get? Spoiler alert: It’ll get really bad before it gets, surreally — better. Witness, March 4th, 2030.

Tuesday, March 4, 2030: Because it is both a calendar date and a command, I’ve got a date in mind for our 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.

March 4th. The irony is not lost upon me. From America First, a Global Citizenship Day. But of what may happen in these real theaters of the absurd, it’s just one, of countless, possibilities.

In theaters absurd, absurdities are the soup de jour, daily fare. As absurd may be MAYDAYS’ talking point messages, characterized. Still, my legacy may one day reflect Amy Lowell’s legacy.

A PLOT, NUTSHELLED

A plot, nutshelled. A retiring angel, my prodigal brother, Arthur Everman, yearns to retire early to Heaven. To reside there, permanently, with his beloved families. But first; saving, Urantia.

Urantia (Earth, interchangeably); a tough nut to crack. Tough as nails like me; a man of wealth and fame. His Watcher-commissioned mission — only seemingly impossible: To save, Urantia.

Art’s mission seems impossible: But Art’s saving of Urantia, only seemingly, is impossible. Art’s got soirées on the moon, his plans to attend to. And Art’s got a vision — of the power of poetry.

The power of poetry. It’s awesome; even more awesome, than imagined. How awesome is it that poetry‘s beauty is a reflection of Divinity? Witness Jung’s synchronicities; today, poetry’s

influence, influences still. Glück won this year’s Nobel today. She was the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2003 to 2004. But everyone knows that today, I — really should have won.

Previous winners of the Prize for Literature include Ernest Hemingway, Bob Dylan, Wole Soyinka, Toni Morrison and Kazuo Ishiguro. But everyone knows that today, I should have won.

Keep in mind when reading, the circumstances. And that circumstances, dictate, what happens. And that it’s me, the Don that is dictating to my phone — this only seemingly, impossible, story.

Dictation; it’s what dictators do. And it’s ironic; it’s ironic that the composition of a poet of her or his poetry invariably shields his or her lector from our wholesale, brainwashing, ideologies.

Brainwashing ideologies; socialization, of the cultural and national norms, of a society. To give one a sense of belonging to the nation. To each nation, its own, brainwashing — ideology.

Brainwashing; the formation and maintenance of the cultural and national norms of a society. To give a sense of belonging to the nation. Each nation adopts its own brainwashing, ideology.

And it matters but little, in the big picture, if a nation is regarded as regressive or progressive. They want their citizens pliant and obediently, subject, at all times, to brainwashing, ideology.

A plot, nutshelled. The FBI arrested six men in Michigan for allegedly plotting to kidnap the governor; to put her, for her lockdown orders, on trial. We’ve got terrorists and plots, unlikely.

We’ve got, terrorists, home-grown; no need to import, any. And they’ve got, plots, a-many. My fellow Americans: I was just kidding. I wasn’t calling for any armed insurrection, type, plot.

Just allegations; there is no proof of any plot. In any event, whether or not there is a plot, I’m disavowing both knowledge of it and denying responsibility for it. I know no plot, not my plot.

FEAR OF OCTOBER SURPRISE(S)

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. Wise men know that it’s just nature’s way; as when aged forests burn, only to give way to renewed pristine forests, only to once again, in stages, ever age, over the years.

And so I call upon Sappho of Lesbos, she also known as the Tenth Muse and as The Poetess. I call upon also, the American poetess Ms Amy Lowell; I pray she’ll help me, duly, help Arthur.

It’s been all good news lately. I’ve defeated the virus. The economy’s rebounding. And I’ve got Joe Biden right in my sights, right in front of me. But he’s way in front of me, says Arthur.

I’m back in the Oval Office despite being at risk of spreading COVID-19. Some of my aides were reportedly saying, I’m seeming stronger than when I returned from the hospital. They claim

tho also, that they hear me laboring; struggling with my breathing. Still, there’s no sign yet of any distress signaling that a reprised October Surprise, is arising, attempting my life, to claim.

I’m on real drugs; been taking Dexamethasone, a roiding steroid known to have some powerful psychological effects; some roiling, emotional, effects including, ironically, customary feelings

of euphoria and omnipotence but anxiety and depression, also, as well. Witness me tweet-storming this morning, at 17 tweets per hour. Ye’d think ye’d know what I’m actually, thinking.

Been fever-free for more than 4 days; not requiring, supplemental oxygen, neither. And everyone knows I’m redefining the meaning of GOAT. My legend grows, notwithstanding

everyone knows I make it all up as I go along, lying, cheating; inflating and deflating the value of my assets; and conspiring with my bankers in schemes of elaborate, money, laundering.

A twin, second, October Surprise is what I now fear, ironically, the most. Even as I encourage Americans not to unreasonably fear this virus, still, I feel my body’s defenses, turn against me.

Tragi-comically, this coronavirus, I reasonably, fear. And I can’t shake this feeling deep inside of me; horror. That the electoral strategy of a germaphobe be sickened by a microbe like me.

I proved almost anything is possible, just four years ago. 2020 tho is not 2016. Undecided and persuadable voters in 2020 are a rarity. It’s not 2016. It’s the year of the rat. It’s unlucky, 2020.

Mooted, issues of voter fraud, overwhelmingly, I shall be booted out of office, in 2020. In 2020, I get my comeuppance. That notwithstanding that it’s a lucky Chinese year of the rat, in 2020.

VINE — VIDE — VICI — TWITTER-ESE

My messaging has been quite widely, poorly received by my medical experts and even by some of my allies who wonder why I continue to downplay the virus. Indeed I’ve been unwise.

The dreaded October Surprise; my airlift; from my house to the hospital. More shocking tho is the shock that cometh once arrive, nightmarish optics; a 2020, reprised — October — Surprise.

A surprise rerouting to the hospital; it’s what cruel fate has for me in store. And I ask myself, “Why me; why now?” After my trajectory, how can it be that Satan forsake me — and why?

I came, I saw and I conquered. Caesar’s iconic words ring true, even today. A house divided against itself, cannot stand. My words and my numbers; and in spaces between words, whys?

and numbers, universes. I’m not a big fan though of words; that’s made a big difference. Reading. It’s a good habit. My habit tho is to eschew the time-consuming reading, of words.

Vine. Vide. Vici. I came, I saw and I conquered. I had to, verily. I came, I saw and I conquered. Caesar’s words ring true, even today. Houses divided against themselves can’t stand. Words

and numbers; and in the space between them, universes. I’m not a big fan though of reading words. And it’s made all the difference. Who knew? Who knew, about algorithms and words?

Who knew? About algorithms? And words? And who really knew about alchemy, behavior mod and the potential energy in this (white) witch’s brew of visionary children; Urantian, legatees.

The truth is that, for a genius, I’m pretty stupid. Twice as dumb, as any rock; and hard-headed. Proof positive of God’s absolute awesomeness. And the utility in Arthur’s Free School of Poetry.

Art’s School of Poetry. The Chachomanopapa School of Poetry, he calls it. He and I, its only, members. Arthur studied ethics at my Trump University; I studied the composition of poetry.

Split 280 characters in two. Background sound, set to a fave frequency. It’s meditation. Add a pic if ye want. A ton of difference it’s made. Use Google Translate for maximum power, poetry.

Use Google Translate to engage, maximally when ye speak not the lingo of your sister or your brother. A ton of difference may make a simple formula, for the composition, of poetry.

As in the army let’s be all we can be. Transform. Use Google Translate. Let’s create, alternative, platforms. Arthur’s proposing a novel linguistic innovation to make possible social connections.

Twitter-ese, Art has coined his novelty, whether one’s intended connection is with a speaker of your same tongue or not. Use Google Translate to communicate — and establish, connections.

BE NOT AFRAID

Do not be afraid of Covid. Don’t let it dominate your life. We have developed, under my administration, some really really great drugs and really really great, knowledge. Common

sense; not so much. This decision may end up, suicidally, killing me. There’s an ill-defined and bloody line of martyrs and patriots; a dime, a dozen. But visionaries, verily, are uncommon.

In what some have described as a show of child-like, defiance, I took my mask off as I arrived at the White House after my stir-crazy three days at the hospital. Now I’m back to

infect the White House before I hit the road. Campaigning’s cool; it is governing that’s a drag; it is governing that, I don’t like. But I love the riches, the power and the attention — too.

Now hear this: Spoiler alert: Reckless. Shocking. The reactions to my saying ‘don’t be afraid of Covid’, purposely, and provocatively, planned; intended to elicit an angry response, cynically.

But it’s not about valor. It’s about my personal triumph over the viral enemy. Because the pickings are slim and the circumstances, daunting, it’s a last-ditch, electoral, strategy.

An electoral, strategy, not unsurprisingly, rashly calculated. Born of boredom, it is calculated to relieve my boredom there by replacing it with my more private boredom, at the White House.

Sadly or gladly as the case may be, dismissed is the possibility that I’ll need to be returning to the hospital. But man plans and God laughs. It’s a short flight to a hospital from a White House.

Man plans and God laughs. An ill-defined and bloody line of martyrs and patriots run through history. A dime a dozen. Visionaries though, are truly uncommon. Unlike old, Yiddish, wisdom.

Unlike Yiddish wisdom, visionaries often get swallowed up whole by the mad rush of the sundry pilgrims’ progress. But technological innovation must be coupled — with wisdom.

Technological innovation coupled with wisdom. It’s super-vision. Connectivity. Vision grounded, and so connected to, everything, everywhere. Vision connected to communications, verbal.

The vision: A new, communication-driven, connectivity. A new social platform for the evolutionary, revolutionaries. With Google Translate already here the potential is palpable.

Witness Jung’s synchronicities. And witness the synchronicity of the attention of an entire planet on the increasingly wild-eyed antics of one increasingly, desperate, solitary, human.

Marvel therefore not so much at the story that follows, necessarily at length. Marvel rather at the mysterious ways by which things happen. Things happen. Heed me, my fellow Americans.

NOBELS; AND A SCHOLARSHIP OF POETRY

Breakthroughs in the field of health shall be honoured on Monday when the 2020 Nobel season kicks off with the medicine prize, as the world battles the worst pandemic, in a century.

Most appropriately, first, given the pandemic, the prize for medicine, kicks off the 2020 Nobel season. The most closely-watched awards for literature and peace, shall follow subsequently,

on Thursday and Friday, while the economics prize wraps things up on Monday, October 12. Take a deep breath. Take a deep breath, if ye, like me, can breathe. And if ye can’t breathe

like some suckers and losers, I’ve heard tell of, what good are ye? What have ye done for me lately? And what good are ye if ye’re six feet under — whether or not, ye can yet, breathe?

With just 29 days to go until Election Day, two days until the vice presidential debate and 107 days until Inauguration Day, my wise advice, as usual, with just 88 days left in 2020, is to hold

on tight; it’s gonna be a bumpy ride from here on in. Receiving sound advice from me, being so exceedingly unusual, it’s not unusual for folks of sound mind to question what I’ve told

them. I’ve put millions of lives in danger including my own; only I can mitigate that. Only I can yet save, tens of thousands, of lives. Only I know that, despite my recklessness, I can yet,

save, many lives. For it seems, I won’t die, after all. Although the virus is known to overwhelm suddenly, it does seem that my superhumanity is about to, this novel coronavirus, further abet.

Consider that a self-inflicted injury ending an iconoclastic presidency avoids in October, problems in November. Ironic; that it so came to pass in 2020 in the year of the rat. An iconic

October Surprise, uber-ironic. In anticipation of my possible demise, I’ve tweeted to my peers, Russian and Chinese, to carry on resolutely. Remember — I’ll be with ye — in the spirit.

A convergence of events; a hospitalization and my possibly, imminent, demise. There are silver lining hidden in plain sight in algorithms and the poetry — of Amy Lowell — and Sappho.

There are silver linings hidden in plain sight in algorithms and the poetry of Amy Lowell and Sappho. And in the poetry of Penemue, the Watcher, the benefactor of, Amy and Sappho.

Help me help Art sell his theory of behavior modifying, transformation. Help me tell the would-be retiring angel’s novel story. A story of poetry, gone mad. It is a Howl-like, epic, story.

A post-Ginsburg, Howl-like wannabe, would be Arthur’s poetry. What with its Google-Translate, aided, algorithmic method of writing poetry. Arthur needs to win — a Scholarship of Poetry.

A TALE OF TWO BROTHERS

Once upon a time two brothers, one womb, did share. And one of them was me; Donald John Trump; the 45th and the greatest president, ever. Once upon a time a womb with a brother,

did I share. Instinctively, I kicked him. Destined to be intolerant was I; and aggressive. And it’s uber-ironic that my hubris has landed me in the hospital, a disabled ship, dead in the water.

I’m 74 years old and I weigh in at 244 pounds. Facing a mortality risk of between 9 and 10 percent, I‘m fervently praying I won’t have to suffer the indignity of being hospitalized. That

would be bad optics; I fervently pray I shan’t suffer a fate so God-damned, embarrassing. Thank God though, I’ve been chosen; good reason to believe, I won’t be subjected to that.

So much for that. The next five to 10 days shall be, telling. My Doctors are warning me that the illness can worsen even after days of non-threatening, mild, symptoms. There’s a real

possibility, that I soon, may be dying. And so now I’m regretting not believing in mask-wearing. Hubris; it got the better of me. The hubris of my personality, my fate, did seal.

This is really bad. I haven’t been able to post to my Twitter account since my diagnosis. What shall become of Twitter Diplomacy without me? What shall become of America? And what pray

tell shall become of the Republican Party? More than anything, I’ll miss Twitter. But no one can say that I wasn’t the very greatest president of all the greatest presidents of America’s, days.

Even knowing I had been previously exposed, I attended my fundraiser. But I really needed the money. Pretending I’d been unexposed, I duly hustled my donors, not saying a thing to them,

about any possible danger, to them. It’ll be alright. Nothing, God willing, will happen, to them. For if I am the chosen one, then it follows, that nothing bad, will happen to them.

When it rains, it pours. My campaign manager Bill Stepien has tested positive for the novel coronavirus, the latest of my able-bodied men to become so infected. I had imagined that

I was the chosen one; alas; it appears to have been, a mistaken, personal, delusion. I’ve been fooling myself and the country. But karma caught up to me — in the year — of the rat.

The Chinese year of the rat 2020 has wrought: a country on edge because of a destabilizing pandemic; a teetering economy; a historic election: the total breakdown of discourse, civil.

and wildfires and storms. And now, a self-inflicted — suicidal, injury. But is it too late to return to civil discourse and to civil society? Let’s return to civil society and discourse, civil.

DEATH BY TAXES

Joe had needed a zinger. And so in my previous pre-debate tweety, I suggested he might well take command of the debate, just demanding I resign forthwith from, my personal, presidency.

Joe opted to be rude to me but his nice-guy persona could not countenance taking full advantage of an enemy, fallen, to the ground. He failed to act, as I would have — decisively.

Need a zinger? Demand I resign, immediately. Be aggressive. Tell me to my lying face that the extraordinary security risk I pose demands that I resign. Demanding it as well are — 200,000.

200,000 fatalities demand it. A global order’s, shredded fabric, demands it, as well. Winging it, still, I dominated last night’s debate; that notwithstanding even — the loss of 200,000.

The Trump International Golf Links in sunny, Aberdeen, Scotland. It is said that it is a black hole that money disappears into, in between space and the event horizon, ne’er to be seen

again. And the most likely earthly explanation is, of course, there is some serious money laundering going on at the my International Golf Links — in Scotland’s — sunny, Aberdeen.

It’s the virus; the virus response; and mean-spiritedness; it’s loose cannons and loose lips; it’s racism, tactlessness, malignant narcissism and abuse of power; it’s the economy, stupid.

All that I would say to me at the debate Joe, just for starters. Gainsay, my lies; my frenemies; my conflicts of interest. Call me out. Tell me to my bronzed, pale-face, “It’s about empathy stupid.”

As of this tweeting, Ivanka hasn’t commented on her consulting fee deals on my hotel deals in Hawaii and Vancouver. I paid her $750,000; a practice we commonly engage in, as fraudsters,

when it comes to business dealings. She’s really good at it too. It’s a shame. Too bad things didn’t turn out better. She could have been the Vice President. She could’ve been a contender.

2016 and 2017. They were the best of times. I paid income tax of just $750 in both years. The Bidens paid 2,000 times more tax in 2016 and more than 4,900 times as much as me, in 2017.

That, my fellow Americans, makes me look crooked, and makes them look good for their taxes. But looks can be deceiving. Alas; I long for the days when I deceived everyone in 2016.

Joe Biden’s new ad today: The income tax ye typically pay: $7,239 for teachers, $5,283 for firefighters, $10,216 for nurses. Switching to footage of the president, the text then reads:

I pay $750, max. Because I’m smart, my federal income tax bill was $750 in 2016 and 2017. Oy vey! It hurt to pay, even that. Not bad I’d say for one such as me; one who likes not — to read.

VLADIMIR-APPROVED, REMOTE LEARNING

Stupidly compete or wisely cooperate? Time is a wasting. Meeting on Luna remotely, we may be soon individually voting on being one nation or, alternatively — many nations, failing.

Meeting on Luna remotely we can each vote on being one nation, or many nations; we can vote on stupidly competing or wisely cooperating. But — hurry. Precious time is truly, a-wasting.

Know all men by these presents that Vladimir Putin approves that relations between the United States and China, improve. Seemingly all-powerful, and all-wise is Vladimir Putin.

We all need one another. I humbly suggest that ye citizens communicate with one another and with your leaders. cc: @SpokespersonCHN @KremlinRussia_E @uriminzok @JoeBiden

At Arthur’s School of Free Poetry; a panacea for Pangaea (Earth, aka, Urantia); with instructions. On how to use the Kim-Don Plan, the Earth, to transform. Vlad’s guys approve it when on Luna

but forget it when on Urantia. So just tweet to us directly. It matters not whether we’re in soirée on Luna or dictating on Earth; only that newsworthy be — what’s tweeted, on Urantia.

At Art’s chachomanopapa.com; a panacea, for Pangaea; Earth; Urantia; instruction on the Kim-Don Plan changes to be implemented on Urantia. Vlad’s guys approve it when on Luna

but forget it all when on Urantia. And so now, in order to more clearly communicate, we’re tweeting directly from Luna. To encourage ye to tweet to us directly when we’re on Urantia.

Help me make America my dictatorship. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten account; the tallest tale ever told. A novel satire, less hagiographical — than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; although technically, fictional, it’s so seemingly nonfictional, that it shan’t be (because it can’t be) — your father’s satire. It is my satire; it is not, your dear father’s, satire.

Help me make America my dictatorship. Help me write my revolutionarily, groundbreaking, satire; a surreally scary, ghostwritten account; the very tallest tale ever told. A novel satire,

less hagiographical, than confessional. And less autobiographical than universal. Not your father’s satire. Both fictional and nonfictional, Vlad hopes it’s my Nobel Prize winning, satire.

I’ve got my evil eye especially trained on the Prizes for Literature and for Peace because I’ve got to best Obama with at least two Nobels. One for literature; another other one for peace;

for a ghostwritten satire, savagely, savaging me. Lampooning, myself; it’s a small price to pay for a widespread and sustainable, peace. Vlad and his guys want to share in the peace.

IMAGINE

Vlad and his guys want to share in the peace. They want to share peace and prosperity with me. And they want to share the hardware; the trophies that come with prosperity and peace.

Therefore, whereas Vladimir Putin approves of relations between US and China improving, unacceptable is the blame game they’re playing at the United Nations. No justice — no peace.

Imagine Twilight Zone-like, Brave New Worlds; post-dystopian, dystopias, further devolved. An Animal Farm some time, imagine, post-1984. Imagine us. Then imagine my vision of the end,

to the very tallest tale ever told. And imagine the end not merely as an end but imagine it as a brand new beginning. Obama doesn’t care. I do. Obamacare I shall, in vengeance — end.

Adolf was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1939, shortly before his tanks rolled into Poland and began history’s, only, second, world war; a nomination, later withdrawn because it

had been made in jest. Comic sometimes, the despots; until they’re not; until they’re not funny no more. I’m laughable now but — how long — this time — until things … turn tragic?

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.

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.

HIGHER EDUCATION

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.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is 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.

ALCHEMICAL POETRY

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.

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

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.

PENEMUE’S COMMISSION 

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; they whom are the disembodied spiritual counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim of Genesis; the progeny some day of the union of rebel angels and earthling women, rebelling.

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.

IMAGINE:

“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.

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. I’m Vlad Putin’s, 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. I therefore 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 around 196 nations (not including Taiwan, Puerto Rico and others), 4,200 religions and 6,500 languages; evolving to one nation is beyond, 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 Scriptures (the Testaments, the Qu’ran, et. cetera) wherein lives wisdom and the Golden Rules ubiquitous, honored, unfortunately, in their omission, 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.

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. Kim and me planned to surprise folks, at the UN, General Assembly.

But Kim and I shan’t shock the world in September at the UN General Assembly. And we won’t announce a 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.

EPILOGUE-2050

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 is truly, 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 brand 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.

Art won his wings. With five planets officially saved, officially retired, is he. He’s off; off to hook up with beloved Emily, knowing she’ll be waiting at the end of the line for him in Heaven.

EPILOGUE-ETERNITY

And there shall be, only seemingly, everlasting, consternation for the ne’er repentant, Trump haters; the never, Trumpers. For our Maker, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, is all about, mercy.

Accordingly, a bittersweetly happy ending has in store The Almighty for our four, hapless, antiheroes; Kim, Xi, Vladimir and Muslim Mo; the murderer, and desecrator, of dead bodies.

One last thing; a hot tip; if ye can get Las Vegas to give ye the odds on we four dictators coming in, skipping in to Heaven, like four very giddy, schoolgirls. Astronomical, the odds ought be.

In a surprise ending for the ages; (the GOAT), greatest of all time, The Almighty as if accents with His Godly, exclamation mark, punctuation, the story of (wo)man, series. Tragi-comic, irony.

The story of (wo)man, series. Already Nielsen top-rated, a trans-universally broadcast series, so chock-full of such a wild array of human behaviors, it’s destined to be, on Earth, a film.

MAYDAYS; it’s destined to be on Earth, a film. A film, a cartoon and a Lin-Manuel, Hamilton-like, Broadway, staged, adaptation. That’s just for starters. In MAYDAYS wake, a Hollywood film.

In MAYDAYS wake, Bollywood, and Hollywood, films. And all the anti-hero, merchandising; the bold action figures; the coloring books. All of these things must come to pass from a filming.

All of these things must come to pass. From a prestigious platform, a book, a movie and a social media platform. Less about selling and gossiping, it’s more about spiritually, growing.

From an academically prestigious platform, the multiple launchings of a book, a talkie movie, a Broadway play and a brand new, social media, platform. All prose — is poetry — potentially.

Amidst a historically climactic unraveling, duly reveal themselves, the golden, opportunities. Golden opportunities to teach and to reach for the stars. And one key is Art’s School, of Poetry.

And there shall be, only seemingly, everlasting, consternation for the ne’er repentant, Trump haters; the never, Trumpers. For our Maker, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, is all about, mercy.

Accordingly, a bittersweetly happy ending has in store The Almighty for our four, hapless, antiheroes; Kim, Xi, Vladimir and the Muslim Mo; murderer and desecrator, of dead bodies.

In a climactic scene near the end of MAYDAYS, THE MOVIE, our four antiheroic horsemen of the Apocalypse, vault from their horses, join hands — and skip like schoolgirls, into Heaven.

The MAYDAYS phenomenon. A movie about the wayward stewards of a planet. A make-believe phenomenon is predetermination; a fake story. The real story, is in our decisions.

A self-proclaimed originalist theoretically embraces a constitutional theory she shares with two of my currently sitting, conservative, justices: But constitutional amendments,

aplenty, belie that once outlier, theory. And Justices Neil Gorsuch and Clarence Thomas look forward to the addition of Amy Barrett to the brethren. A very conservative, amendment.


MAYDAY 1835: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 27, 2020

Surprisingly, some yet wish to vindictively, jail me. But no extradition treaty with Russia means that I I I may flee there. A passport secure, I’ll be needing. And circumstances dictate, that I move — quickly.

No extradition treaty with Russia means that I may soon be fleeing there. My passport, I must, secure. Under the circumstances, I’ll need to move quickly because — many may wish to, vindictively, jail me.

My passport I must, forthrightly and immediately, secure. I need to move quickly. More quickly even than the Sovereign State of New York which state shall move to secure my passport — immediately.

My passport I must immediately secure. I need to be quick. Quicker even than the State of New York. As quick as the state is moving to stymy my super quick, getaway — securing my passport and quick.

A PLAN — TO FLEE

“What 10 words bequeath ye, to humanity,” the Watcher tasked Art when he asked Art so damn, cryptically, one sweltering summer evening; one evening; perhaps — the worst week — of his life.

That was when, Art has told me, he got tasked with a mission, only seemingly, impossible. To save, with poetry, the Earth — even its non-white and non-English speaking, citizen — phenotypes.

The Watcher bade Art save with his poetry, Earth and its denizens; even, to my surprise, non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school (wo)men and children, in the art of poetry.

Thus founded, I found out later, was Art’s School of Poetry. I found out later as well that I’d be in dreams with Art; nightly, lunar soirées; eating, drinking and jiving. Not distancing then, socially.

We did not observe then, way back when then, social distancing, like now, we do. As ye know, it’s all the rage; some say, it’s not a new normal. That, even as many fear — we’ve got a new fear, to fear.

We have had a new fear to fear this year; some refuse to acknowledge it; some, purposely or not, mischaracterize it; others, while acknowledging it, refuse to it, surrender; surreality too — is to fear.

There’s a stark contrast between our eastern and our western societies, as measured by their relative success, or their lack of it, in combatting the virus. October, November and December, fear.

It ought give us pause; the stark contrast between our eastern and our western societies; one measured by the relative success, or lack of it, against the virus. Two months to go yet, this year.

Seven days until Election Day, 86 days until Joe’s Inauguration Day. And with only 67 days only left in 2020, I’m well on my way to having to flee the country, in my life long, stay out of jail, strategy.

It seems I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vladimir would protect me. And as the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

It seems I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vladimir would protect me. And as the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

It seems I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vladimir would protect me. And as the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

We have no extradition treaty with Russia a I soon may be needing to flee US. My passport I must, secure. Under the circumstances, I’ll need to move quickly. Because we have, with Russia, no treaty.

My passport I must, forthrightly and immediately, secure. I need to move quickly. More quickly even than the Sovereign State of New York which state shall move to secure my passport — immediately.

1835 SOIRÉES … AND COUNTING

The Watcher bade Art save with his poetry, Earth and its denizens; even, to my surprise, non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school (wo)men and children, in the art of poetry.

Thus founded, I found out later, was Art’s School of Poetry. I found out later as well that I’d be in dreams with Art; nightly, lunar soirées; eating, drinking and conversing, distancing, socially, only

recently. For 1835 consecutive nights now, we’ve dreamt and soiréed on Luna’s surface. There really is water up there. Art needs me to protect him from Vlad, I’ll be ghostwriting for Art, his poetry.

Shacked up with a thin man in Moscow. It could have been worse. I could have been sentenced to stay married to my asexual sexual sham, third-chosen, First Lady. My tall, Russian-looking lady.

And I’ll be damned if everything ain’t really, a God-damned, sham. Unless, of course, none of it’s a sham; none of it, at all. It just may be, as is typical in life, a reflection of The Master’s, Masterful Plan.

And I won’t even bother asking if ye can imagine that. Ye need not know how; just that He does it. Know that the secret to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh’s Power, is in His Personality, per His Plan.

It matters not that ye can’t imagine that. Ye need not know how He does it; just that He does it. And know also that the secret to His Power is in His magnificently, life-creative, Almighty, Personality.

Place in perspective, everything, that’s happening. Adjust your perspective as necessary, or desirable. Keep it simple. Multi-tasking aside, we mortals do things best, when we doth do them, one at a time.

Aside from the important matter of perspective, it’s important too to keep things, simple. Multi-tasking aside, we mortals, mere human beings, do things best, when we doth do them, one at a time.

Multi-tasking, as important as it is, is secondary, in time to the lesson we learn in learning, that we (wo)men doth do things best when indeed, we have the luxury, of doing them — singularly.

We do things best when we have the luxury of doing things, one thing, at a time. Unfortunately, we don’t have that luxury anymore. Multi-tasking is become a matter of survival, of sheer necessity.

Multi-tasking hath become a matter of survival. I’ve become quite good at it; I’ve been practicing those skills, since I was a kid; walking along, even as I patted my fat head and rubbed, my full belly.

The Watcher bade Arthur Everman save, with his poetry Urantia (Earth) and its denizens; even its non-white and non-English speaking denizens. He bade Art school the (wo)men, in the art, of poetry.

Thus was founded the whistleblowing Arthur Everman’s, Chachomanopapa School of Free Poetry. And so long as he needs me to protect him from Vlad, I’ll be ghostwriting for Art, his poetry.

DAMNED, IF EVERYTHING, AIN’T A SHAM

A stunning White House claim: The government is just giving up controlling, the fast-worsening, pandemic. And it’s overshadowing my last-ditch efforts to get re-elected with but eight days, to go.

Getting re-elected. It was my go-to, stay out of jail, electoral strategy. Now, it’s not even that. But, I get it. It’s 2020’s, year of the rat. Now, I see how truly helpless I am; and that it’s time, past time, to go.

It appears I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vlad would protect me. As the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no — extradition, treaty.

From Snowden I learned that we have no, treaty for extradition with Russia. That’s the main thing. Whatever country I consider going to, it can’t have with the United States, an extradition — treaty.

Edward Joseph Snowden; many, may recall him. And I’ve called him myself on many, an occasion. To pick his brain on our stay out of jail strategies, Russian women and expense sharing — possibly.

And I would pause here — to marvel in — and revel in — the ironies. That I end up in Vladimir’s Russia, shacked up with a fugitive from Obama, none other than — the whistleblowing — Eddie.

Better tho to be shacked up than shackled up, I‘m wont to say. Eddie agrees with me on that. And agrees with me physically, not, politically. He’s a Democrat at heart; a God-damned, whistleblower.

Edward Joseph Snowden; a Democrat, I suspect. A whistleblower, for sure. But when life throws me a lemon, I make lemonade. A flannel shirt, I’ll pack. And shack up with my thin man — whistleblower.

Shacking up with a thin man, in Moscow. It could be worse. I could have been sentenced to be with Melania, a woman so cold she coldly tells me to my face that I’m far, far too old for her — sexually.

Man — that — was cold. And as everyone knows, she slaps my hands silly whenever one of my hands is silly enough to try to grab, one of hers. Needless to say, she wants nothing to do with me.

Needless to say, the First Lady wants nothing to do with me, intimately. She says I’m disgusting to her. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly, making a belated, campaign appearance for me. It’s a sham.

My First Lady wants nothing to do with me. She says I’m disgusting. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly finally making, a campaign appearance for me. My marriage — like everything, is a sham.

My First Lady wants nothing to do with me. She says I’m disgusting. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly finally making, a campaign appearance for me. My marriage — like everything, is a sham.

So I’m shacking up with a thin man in Moscow. But I know that it could easily have been a lot worse. I could have been sentenced to stay married to my Russian-looking lady; my asexual, sexual — sham.

TRUE, CRIMES — TRUE, CONSPIRACIES

Conspiracy theories; they’ve gotten themselves, a bad name; but touting them is just one of my claims to fame. And when I tout them, I often haven’t even, a shred of evidence. Conspiracy

theories; my base just loves ‘em. I see them at my rallies, gleefully yukking it up; high-fiving, one another. And my reptilian brain, records, the image. In the news are — my conspiracies.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievements — ever. A Russian, Manchurian, candidate; at least so, it appears. But deeper even than that, run — conspiracies.

Deeper than that run my, off a wall, wall to wall, conspiracies. Vladimir Putin has pulled off a stunning intelligence achievement. And no one believes in any — unimaginable — conspiracy.

In the absence of smoking guns, circumstantial evidence, notwithstanding, no one (excepting Art) but I myself, dare spell out, I dare say, an actually happening, unimaginable, conspiracy.

Notwithstanding lots of circumstantial proofs, no smoking gun, smokes. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence documentary, or otherwise, ironclad, that might document, the conspiracy.

Nonetheless, none shall be, as it shall turn out, necessary. No smoking gun shall be necessary to tie me to Vladimir’s, Russian, bureaucracy. I admit to being a conspirator, in his conspiracy.

I freely admit to being a conspirator, in Vlad’s conspiracy. Make no mistake. I conspired with Vlad of my own accord, freely and willingly. To build a hotel in Moscow, I betrayed my country.

I freely admit to being a conspirator, in Vlad’s conspiracy. Make no mistake. I conspired with Vlad of my own accord, freely and willingly. To build a hotel in Moscow, I betrayed my country.

I know no shame; I actually don’t understand what shame is, nor know what it feels like. In fact, I feel none still. Still tho, I understand I’m making mistakes, mistaking, my opportunities

in business; feeling as unconstrained as I ever did in my Wall Street dealings. I wish I’d there, stayed. Had I stayed in my comfort zone, no Uskagrad would there be, in Vlad’s, vocabulary.

Uskagrad; it’s what Vlad calls US; Uskagrad, he calls us, when we speak on the phone. And he laughs when he says it. And I’ve laughed along with him. I’ve laughed about this — conspiracy.

I’ve laughed too soon. Just 8 days to go until Election Day; 86 days until Joe’s Inauguration Day. And with just 67 days only left in 2020, I’m well on my way to having to flee — the country.

It appears I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vlad would protect me. As the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

A RUSSIAN PROVINCE — THE UNITED STATES

How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it’s a trick question. As there is no one single, answer, one or more is technically one, correct, answer. One may be one answer to the tricky,

question. More likely, however, an epiphany, if one doth ever comes, follows hundreds or even possibly, thousands, of revelations. Epiphanies are a sum of constituent revelations, generally.

Take me, for example, and my relationship with my mentor, Vladimir; and our relationship with, Hillary’s e-mails; my hotel project in Moscow and my summit with him in Finland’s, Helsinki.

Recall my relation with Vlad, my relation with Hillary; a hotel project in Moscow, a suspicious summit in Helsinki, when my translator’s notes, I kept to myself — unusually and unexpectedly.

I can hardly believe what, to me, has happened; not to mention, what’s happening. It’s been a blur, largely. As an original TV kid, early on, my mind got stunted by, outsized — screen times.

An incorrigible child who early on learned the utility of a tantrum, I threw fits, routinely. And I learned, not to read. Not learning to read. Sad. A grown man, a president but I read at no time.

Un-freaking-believeable! An out and out traitor to my purported country; a double agent, for Vladimir; a man who may enjoy, being urinated upon; a man who abhors, reading and learning.

It’s hard to believe I’ve done all these things; not so much that I’ve been a double agent and betrayed my country as much as being that man, less than a man who likes, being peed on.

It’s so unfair. I’ve helped construct kleptocratic alliances. Our whole goal is the privatization of power and we already control, the three great poles; the US, China and Vladimir’s — Russia.

We already control the three great poles; the US, China and Russia. I’ve helped construct the money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is his privatization of power — in Russia.

The US, China and Russia, thanks to me, Xi and Vlad, we already control. I’ve helped to build, money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is the privatization of power — in Russia.

Russia. Land of the Cossacks, the Czars and the Sputnik’s. The greatest land mass on my planet. Vladimir would have Russia regain her glory but a front for Vladimir Putin is this — new Russia.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievement in all of a sad, human, history: secretly controlling the president of US is President Vlad Putin, all the way from Russia.

In the most stunning intelligence achievement of all time; secretly controlling the president of an enemy nation is President Vladimir Putin, all the way from the new sheriff in town — Russia.

PRELUDE TO CRISES

Pray tell Earthlings: Answer me a riddle. 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 next December my much-coveted, Nobel Prizes. And I’ll be sharing with Vlad’s guys then, my Nobels.

MY NOBLE, NOBEL, THOUGHT EXPERIMENT

Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and an innovative way, with Google Translate, to compound the global effect is nothing less than a source of potential energy, by algorithm.

TwitterEZE he calls it so that it works no matter how, one pronounces, it. A good name; a good, start. And so he postulated to Jack (Twitter’s, patent-holder, proprietor), his rich algorithm’s,

potential to be, far richer still. TwitterEZE; it’s an amalgam alloy, of Twitter and easy. It would’ve been easier to reverse with my verse, all these adverse events; and trends — also — adverse.

It would have been easier to timely arrest, our untimely devolution, had Jack been more more receptive to my suggestion. But that he hadn’t been should have begotten him, by now, verse.

Epic verse, from my diverse base of frustrated bikers, frustrated Evangelicals and frustrated, white nationalists; frustrated writers, many of them. I should have seen by now, their verse, 

in protest, being posted on the various and sundry, platforms. But it’s not happening. And that it’s not happening, amply evidences that Vlad’s tightening his steely grip upon the Earth.

Vlad Putin is tightening his grip on Urantia. My mentor has made a fateful decision to cut short his Trump, double agent, Russian, experiment. He aims to cut further losses; Russia’s; and his.

Aiming to cut losses, Vlad is considering cutting, me loose. Calculating that my unpredictability, makes me as a double agent, going forward, untenable. Too bad; it’s a fact — it is, what it is.

It is what it is. Or surreally, is it really? Actually, I admit that while indeed, what is, is, sometimes, what seems to be isn’t at all what it appears to be. Witness evidence, in a thought, experiment.

Imagine a line-up; that time-honored criminal investigative procedure designed to allow a victim to reliably identify, alleged, perpetrators. But what if people were in thought experiment,

lined up turned inside out, exposing organs internal, whilst hiding from view, faces, scars and other commonly used identifying, features. Self-evident the goal, of this simple experiment.

Self-evident is the goal of a simple experiment. To witness why I must write that I am unfit; why I can not be the president; why I’m endorsing Biden — and why I’ll vote for him, for president.

An Einsteinian thought experiment, perfectly suited to deliver in its message, instruction and direction: Matters personal are what matters, only — in the pilgrim’s progress — universally.

Matters, personal; only they matter, personally, in the pilgrim’s progress. Universally true, that’s a comfort, going forward. I learned these truths at the Chachomanopapa School of Free Poetry.

NOBLE, GOALS — NOBEL, WORTHY

Like baseball’s Koufax; like football’s, Pelé and Messi; I’ve got weapons; skills, so extraordinary. Witnessed the nation last night on national TV, me, at my best; and revelations’ — epiphanies.

Witnessed the nation last night, me, at my very best; turning the tide that’s been against me —into a tail wind; the stuff of myth; the stuff of, legend. The stuff of revelations and epiphanies.

Legendary, indeed one day shall be my legacy; the stuff of revelations and epiphanies. It is —what it is. Not mythical at all shall be my most storied exploits. Legendary shall be, my poetry.

Legendary one day shall be my poetry. And I thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh for sending my brother Art from the future to teach me his take on poetry so that I might in turn, teach ye.

Peace on Earth; and good will to my (wo)men. It’s a noble goal; it’s a goal, Nobel-worthy. And it’s my goal for all of ye. Peace and prosperity; and good will too. And a key is in — His Poetry.

One key amongst many, is in, I believe, poetry. While I can’t in all honesty confirm that Art was by ball lightning, electrocuted, I agree with him that in Twitter’s algorithm reposes, hidden only 

seemingly, a vast, completely untapped, virgin reservoir, of energy, potential. Potential energy; what energy is, ere it gets, kinetic. Alchemical is, what it is. Transcendentally and metaphysically,

alchemical, has been Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and his innovative way to compound the effect with Google Translate. I’m calling all hands — I’m calling upon, visionaries.

Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and an innovative way, with Google Translate, to compound the global effect, is nothing less than a source of potential energy in algorithms.

TwitterEZE, he calls it. So that it works, however one, pronounces it. A good name; a good start. He has postulated to Twitter’s Jack (Twitter’s, patent-holder, proprietor), his rich algorithm’s

potential to be a far richer platform, far more multi-facetedly utilitarian, than the sales and gossip, it seems currently, too shortsightedly, constrained to. For whatever reason, ironically,

Jack hasn’t acknowledged the common sense in Art’s suggestion for a Reddit-like, sub-Twittit. But he will; it’s either that or lose market share. He’ll move eventually albeit maybe — belatedly.

And so I’ll harass Jack and Facebook’ pizza-delivery guy, Zuckerberger. I’ll threaten them with Section 230 and I’ll call them names, trying not to do, what’s not in my interests, pecuniary. 

I try not to do anything that’s not in my interest. All too often though, I don’t succeed. But at the debate last night I succeeded, well beyond, my expectations, communicating — non-verbally.

A CHANGE OF PACE, DEBATE

A mysteriously magnificent, Almighty, Creator. Irony, in meticulously telling detail, happens, ir not. Like, last night; imagine, had I fallen to the floor; dying next to the podium, from whence,

moments before I’d been viciously and cynically Joe Biden, provoking? Imagine an audience, the nation, transfixed, as chest compressions and artificial respirations usher in VP — Mike Pence.

It’s not so, far-fetched. I’m 74, morbidly obese, and I neither eat, nor sleep, well; and I’ve got a world of problems, between the pandemic, the elections, and Nobels, that unfairly, elude me.

Again, I’m no prophet. I don’t know what’s ever going to happen. And I don’t, read much. But I know this much. Given what I’ve been through, I’ve made a mistake running for the presidency.

I know, more. I know that it’s 2020. And I know that 2020 is the Chinese year of the rat. I know most of all that the year of the rat won’t be over til 2020 ends and 2021 begins, in January.

A banshee wailing; under the circumstances, it’s a bad omen. I fear that if I fail to provoke Joe into physically attacking me, I’ll either fake a coronary or suffer ironically — a true, coronary.

It won’t be til January that 2020, ends when my lame duck presidency ends, finally, also. But every end is a new beginning. So I’m weighing the pros and cons — of fleeing — the country.

I’m assuming, given the wailing of the banshee, that there’s a possibility that I may be the one who soon, may be somewhat, unexpectedly, dying. Just in case, I’ll be skipping, the country.

As it turns out, it appears that at least — for a while I’ll go on living and I’ll go on presiding. A debate, remarkably uneventful, was far less, a game changer than I surreally needed it to be.

As it turned out none of what I’d planned nor none of what I’d feared had come to pass. I was unable to provoke Joe nor did I fake a coronary. But neither did I suffer myself, a fatal coronary.

Indeed, none of what I’d planned had come to pass. Nor were realized, the worst of my fears.
I was unable to provoke Joe nor did I fake a coronary. But I didn’t myself, suffer, a coronary.

I was unable to provoke Joe; nor did I fake, any coronary. But I didn’t myself, suffer one. And most implausibly, I largely managed to temper my aggression and my usual — improprieties.

As it turned out, the changes I made in my strategies and my tactics, won my debate for me against Joe Biden, yesterday evening. And by tomorrow morning, I may be even, maybe.

I won my debate against Joe Biden yesterday evening. And by tomorrow morning, I may be in the latest polls, even, maybe. And perhaps, I’ll even take the lead over Joe, most, implausibly.

IN ONE FORTNIGHT, A KARMIC, RECKONING

Upon questioning incisive and insistent, I toss characteristically childish temper tantrums, this most recent one coming, even as my debate looms, on Thursday. And that coronary, fake

I was planning, may prove to be fatal, if in fact, on stage, I just up and die. Walking out on an interview; it doesn’t just look bad. It looks like I’m cracking. My coronary might be — not fake.

My First Lady has not made even a single public appearance on my behalf, this year. Her non-support of me, well-nigh untenable, has really, become. My better half’s last appearance ever,

on my behalf was over a year ago. I’ll likely have to have Bill Barr accuse her of treason, bye and bye. Later; after the election; sometime during my second term, as the ugliest American, ever.

She’s a lot like me. She does what she wants, when she wants. A stubborn contrarian with the strength of an Amazon — warrior woman. And now she’s taken to wailing, like a banshee.

The mournful wailing of the banshee; believed to foretell the death of a member of the family of the person who heard the spirit. I can’t help but hear, the mournful wailing, of the banshee.

I have become afraid of my forever indisposed and now my fearsome, banshee-wailing, First Lady. I can’t be sure, it’s her. But I’m too afraid to even knock on her door. So I’m imagining,

the worst. But what on Earth, could be worse? And what on Earth could worsen what’s already happened? Googling my favorite monopoly, I’ve discovered that the banshee wail, when dying,

is someone in the immediate family. Normally, I’d laugh it off; after all, it’s a myth. Given all that’s happening tho, I asked my boy-doctor to measure my vitals and measure my bloody,

blood pressure. A banshee wailing; it’s a bad omen. It’s just occurred to me that it would be tellingly ironic if in failing to provoke Joe’s physical attack of me and faking a coronary,

a coronary, I myself, suffer. Given furthermore that what’s always seemingly happening, it seems, is so implausibly surreal, I’m assuming there’s a possibility, I’ll be the one, who’s dying.

A banshee wailing; given there’s a possibility I’m the one who’s dying, it’s a bad omen. Knowing also that The Lord works mysteriously, how ironic would it be if my most dramatic, dying

moments, happen, as they say live and in living color I shockingly die on the floor next to the podium from whence mere moments before I’d been as planned, been — Joe Biden, provoking.

Given furthermore that what always seemingly happens, it seems, is so implausibly surreal, I’m assuming there’s a possibility, I may be the one, this October surprising — with a sudden, dying.

AN ASTEROID STRIKE, ELECTION DAY, EVE

God forbid, I can still win, however narrow, the path. And very easily, I would have won had it not been for the Kung flu and all of these, dark skinned folks. I can still win though. An asteroid

may be striking us the day before Election Day. If the refrigerator-sized asteroid, indeed strikes the White House, its impact may well delay, the next day’s, election. Cometh, verily, an asteroid.

It may buzz-cut Earth on Nov. 2, the day before the Presidential Election. As big as a household refrigerator, it is not big enough, the scientists calculate, to cause truly widespread, planetary,

harm. It’s impossible to tell, where, if anywhere upon the face of the planet, the asteroid may impact. But given that this is the year of the rat, odds are, it’s coming — straight for, The Donny.

So if the world indeed does end in 2020, it likely won’t be the fault of the Universe. But it may be my fault. It may well be the fault of The Donald. It may well be the fault of none other, than me.

The problem is — I can live with that. As long as I’m the top dog; as long as my buttons are the biggest — I’m betting big on me; and doubling down. And I can live with that — genocidally.

Republicans are targeted more than Democrats by comedy writers, but what underlies all the reasons why my personality attracts the most comedic attention? Nice guys like me oft suffer

the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and so we outrageously lie, and so implausibly, deny. And it’s funny to writers and readers; the people being lied to — and made to — suffer.

But beyond funny, it is tragic that the history of Urantia needs to be portrayed as an account, comical. It seems that nothing will awaken the Urantians to the gravity, of a very grave, reality.

It’s funny; everything seemingly angers them; still, they seem totally oblivious, to a looming, climax. It’s time to evolve beyond the Godless nations to a single nation; a single community.

Funny; it’s a funny word, sometimes; and it can be sometimes, more ominous, than humorous. 
The Urantians are funny but in a really bad way. Sometimes they fight, at the drop of a hat.

A single community. 7,800,000,000 people, as of March of 2020. That’s just shy of eight billion; and the eight billion struggle to live in the failed state of Urantia; in 2020; in the year, of the rat.

It’s 2020; the year of the rat; a year unlike any other year, ever. 2020; a memorably, round number. It remains to be seen if disintegration awaits, my pipe-dreamt — saving — asteroid.

We’ll see. We’ll see if the asteroid disintegrates in the atmosphere; or a freezer-sized fragment 
impacts the earth, or more likely the water, somewhere. Cometh — my heroic — asteroid?

ASTRONOMICAL ODDS

Astronomical are the odds against an asteroid impacting an election. I’ll be falling back on my last ditch, debate strategy. Baiting Joe into an assault on me or God forbid, faking, a coronary.

I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically, attacking, me. If that doesn’t work, I may dramatically have to — fake suffering, a massive, coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on my person; on President Me.

Alternatively, should Joe keep cool and not take the debate, bait, I’ll fall back on my contingently planned, coronary. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do — or die trying, antiheroically.

I’d rather die than lose to Joe Biden and not just because it would be so embarrassing. Losing to Joe would be a setback to my stay out of jail, strategy. I’ll provoke Joe — or suffer a coronary.

My fellow Urantian Americans: It is what it is. It’s 2020; the traditionally lucky, Chinese year of the rat, this year, seemingly, unlucky. Because I’m a visionary tho I see in tragedy, opportunity.

I see in in our common tragedy, a superlative opportunity. Verily, I see great transformational opportunity in the tragedy that has befallen the nations. It’s critical Americans, not, re-elect me.

Don’t ye dare re-elect me. Vote Joe in. It’s not for nothing that I’ve come to endorse him. He’ll undo, all I’ve done. It’s not for nothing I’ll be voting for Joe, and only seemingly, insincerely.

Astronomical are the odds against an asteroid impacting an election. I’ll be falling back on my last ditch, debate strategy. Baiting Joe into an assault on me or God forbid, faking, a coronary.

I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically, attacking, me. If that doesn’t work, I may dramatically have to — fake suffering, a massive, coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s far too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on the person of President Me.

A FAILURE TO PLAN — A PLAN TO FAIL

I’m no prophet. I don’t actually know what’s going to happen. And except for the Hollywood gossips, I don’t read much. But I know this: In the old days, men were men and might, right,

made. Women knew their place was at home, bearing sons. What is happening, is a disgrace. I was the one; the one and only one that by the right of my might, might have made US — right.

Verily, I’m no prophet. Apart from the gossips, comics and obituaries, just a headline or two is about all I can stomach. I’d rather watch TV. TV is why, however, I don’t, read well. Reality-TV;

it’s TV, too dangerous; too deadly and also, too mind-stunting. Verily, the boob tube has made a boob out of me. The evidence is anecdotal, but it appears — my mind’s been — atrophied.

Ye need not be a prophet to know that I will berate and not debate Joe Biden at the so-called debate. It’s the only way I know how to act. It’s the only way I know how to react, verily.

I will be asked to address my fight against hate; race in America, Covid-19, American families, climate change, national security and the leadership of the United States. Substantively,

I’ve got but little, if anything, to say. Still, I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically attacking me. And if that doesn’t work, faking, a massive coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on my person; on President Me.

Alternatively, should Joe keep cool and not take the debate, bait, I’ll fall back on my contingently planned, coronary. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do — or die trying, antiheroically.

I’d rather die than lose to Joe Biden and not just because it would be so embarrassing. Losing to Joe would be a setback to my stay out of jail, strategy. I’ll provoke Joe — or suffer a coronary.

My fellow Urantian Americans: It is what it is. It’s 2020; the traditionally lucky, Chinese year of the rat, this year, seemingly, unlucky. Because I’m a visionary tho I see in tragedy, opportunity.

I see in in our common tragedy, a superlative opportunity. Verily, I see great transformational opportunity in the tragedy that has befallen the nations. It’s critical Americans, not, re-elect me.

Don’t ye dare re-elect me. Vote Joe in. It’s not for nothing that I’ve come to endorse him. He’ll undo, all I’ve done. It’s not for nothing I’ll be voting for Joe, and only seemingly, insincerely.

THICKENING, 2020 PLOTS, SICKENING US

No one ought believe that this sad situation is other than an unfortunate happenstance; an accident complicated tho by human negligence and unfortunately too, to a pandemic, causal.

It’s not about us, Xi. It’s not personal. It’s just that if a virus in China is ‘born’ and borne, near everywhere, thereafter, well there’s gonna be, Xi, naturally — investigations — legal. Legal

matters. Pay no mind to anything I say on my campaign trail. We’ll talk about this later. In any event it remains to be seen, as a matter of law, if Wuhan wet markets are indeed, even causal.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad, as a damn hatter. And Xi’s irate. Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead. Full speed ahead against China; China’s distracting US from a coronavirus, fatal.

Distracting, I’ll be from here on in too. We’ll just have to work out later — the fallout. Especially since we found out that WHO won’t surrender; neither to us, nor to any microbe, at any time.

Apparently the virus, much like me, acts and reacts. We don’t reason. I’ve got animal instinct in common with it. So I’m betting on time. Time, very, shortened. And I am counting on time’s,

shortness, to force the cooperation needed to confront a common enemy. Genius uncommon this common sense, of mine. Rare indeed is a genius (once perhaps, in a creation), like mine.

The plot thickens. The Chinese reaction, my advisers fear shall be swift and fast and furious. Even so-called inconclusive evidence that the virus, once upon an invented — fantastic time,

originated at a Chinese research facility in wan Wuhan leaves the Chinese less than inscrutable to the United States. Xi has been irate with me even though I’ve told him that it’s not about us.

Our militaries are bracing for a long, protracted struggle against a virus and one another; each looking for novel ways to achieve an advantage armed unknowingly, only with, naked, hubris.

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 the center of attention 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.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad, as a hatter. 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; neither to us — nor the coronaviral — microbe.

BALL OF CONFUSION

“IN THE MINDS of Urantia’s mortals there is confusion about the 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.

drrick@ricksheffmd.com: Thank ye, Dr. Sheff. Thank ye for your fine summary. Dr, with your permission, I would weave ye into more of my poem, if ye would, again — agree. Clink on my

link to view a pilgrim’s progress — therefore.
MAYDAY 1824: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16, 2020 https://chachomanopapa.com/2020/10/16/mayday-1824-friday-october-16-2020-2/ It’s no lie.

Verily, it’s no lie. Actually, I can not tell a lie. I’m the president of the United States. And ye may recall that George Washington institutionalized, a tradition of never ever, telling to America, lies.

Be honest, always, with the people. Ne’er lie to them. Check back in, regularly here, for your daily, updates. But if I win in November, all bets are off. In truth, the truth I regularly do — belie.

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 things to waste. Truly — wasted, opportunities.

A fine algorithm, like a fine mind, one like mine, is precious. More precious than any fine wine is my fine mind. Witness a ghostwritten satire of mine, in co-authorship with my brother, Arthur.

As awful a thing as it is to waste a fine mind. As awful as that is, far worse it may be if (wo)man heeds not my counsel; it is the fine counsel of Arthur, as well. Answers, are in the Scriptures.

Answers are in Scriptures. In each of them are answers, provincially, partial. A more complete answer, however, emerges when we view in the context of the UB — our traditional Scriptures.

No wonder then that the UB begins by noting what the Temptations came to call, A Ball of Confusion. Verily, there is confusion about the meaning on Urantia, of God, divinity and deity.

And so it came to pass once upon a time; in 2020 to be exact, in the year of the rat. Once I learned about reality, predetermination and Karmic retribution; that it’s not all — about me.

HIGHER EDUCATION

I am outta here. Good luck Joe. Be honest Joe, 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. Natural leaders, unlike everybody else, are naturally 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.

ANCIENT EPICS

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, making Vyasa’s epic, the longest poem, 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; all along its length, it features content insightful; 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.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. And my proud Boys preen, ever more, proudly.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

What a difference a day makes in nanoseconds; as when Yellowstone, Krakatoa and Santorini, blew their tops, on unknown dates, in unknown years — super, sky-high — super, volcanically.

What a difference 1 year may make; as when the tots of moms and pops grow, in fits and starts; in learning’s ebbs and flows; growing, inexorably, ever exasperatingly, fascinatingly.

What a difference 25 years may make; as when computers digitally usher in information ages, rife with disinformation, or in lieu, alternatively, informative; uniting and divisive, concurrently.

What a difference 250 years may make; when machines and engines, dramatically upped our consumption, our supply and demand and our uneven, 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; when from cosmic dust on the ground on Earth, in His image, He created us. He did omnipotently create 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 a little boy, along with, their families.

What a difference one day may make; as when I, a mutant motormouth, uncouthly stigmatize Islam, polarizing thereby, the planet and pitting Muslim against Christian, seemingly, unwisely.

“What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?” A daunting, question; ever since, Arthur’s been haunted, by both the answer, and the question: “What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?”

Thus began the dreamy soirees and their true 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 far more elegant and fat more emotive than one might ever aspire to — merely, prosaically.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that is most favored by Him, Personally. Verse better expresses, personality.

Composing on 3 levels, 280 character tweets metamorphose to blog logs, metamorphosing, in turn, into a manuscript in hermetic, solitude; 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 innovative novel-like, novel, poetry.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is why my

long-winded soliloquy; the minutes of soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly, 280 characters. I denounce and renounce not Proud Boys but denounce and renounce 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, Art. I looked up fascism.’ It’s a philosophy, political, movement or regime (like namesake 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 for the Jews then for 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 good 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 well 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.

ALL PROSE IS POETRY — POTENTIALLY

All prose is poetry, potentially. Short and sweet; and succinct. Epigrammatic; like tombstones, in the old days. All prose, is akin, to poetry. A fine slogan for a free, elementary, school of poetry.

An elementary, high school of poetry Art has founded; and he is its headmaster and one of only two pupils. The other is me, the president. President of my grand dad’s, adopted, country.

Allegedly, and officially too, that country is US; the United States of America. But many wonder and whisper in the hallways of power, whether or not, I’ve been co-opted, by another country.

Some Americans wonder about me. Not about the wonder that is me, but rather whether we have been, by our own president, duped. They wonder about Vladimir, and Russia — and me.

A gift; a present; actually, the precise adjective used in the Urantia Book by beings unknown and unnamed, is bestowal. And there are but five bestowals cited, in the most extraordinary,

Urantia Book. First are the teachings of the Planetary Prince, Caligastia and his staff of 100 from 500,000 years ago until his betrayal 200,000 years ago. Adam and Eve, secondly,

beginning 35,000 years ago until their fall by default. Third was Melchizedek of Salem, the teacher of Abraham who went on to teach all the oneness of God 4,000 years ago, eventually

becoming the father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Fourth; Christ Michael’s incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth 2,000 years ago. The fifth and last great bestowal has been the relatively

recent, Urantia Book of the 1920s and 30s. It teaches that seven superuniverses comprise the grand universe. And our planet, Urantia (Earth) is really awesomely and near incredibly,

physically located at an outer fringe of the seventh superuniverse. On the fringes of the youngest of the superuniverses, evolving and devolving are we, we primitive, evolutionaries.

No crowning creation are so-called, wise men. Far, from it. Hubris-afflicted, prideful men; easy prey, for the sophistries of Lucifer, Satan. That was that. It is, what it is. It is, what’s happening.

Up Shit Creek, with no paddle and, increasingly, louder and louder rumbles in the distance, the sound of everything, hurtling over, a precipice. That’s that. It is what it is. It’s what’s happening.

What’s happening are crises, multiple. Nobels are lost; I’m gonna lose too, by a landslide, the election. Alas, the people seem, not to believe me. I’ve gotta get Art another platform. To tell

his stories; to tell, our stories; actually, The Creator’s stories, one way, or another. me. I’ve gotta get Art another platform so he go on telling the story I’ve been ghostwriting, to tell.

MY FELLOW URANTIANS: NOW READ THIS:

Shocked recently was I, when I read six words: ‘The Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship.’ Shocked was I, additionally, because my stay out of jail electoral strategy, ever increasingly,

is failing and this year’s Nobels for Peace and Literature were awarded to others, not to me. Increasingly, I’m in trouble. And so I’ll need to redouble my efforts to help Art save, humanity.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

I floated an idea recently; ripping open my button-down shirt to reveal my Superman t-shirt, underneath. No one, it seems, has a sense of humor, anymore. I can’t imagine, why.

I don’t know why. I can’t for the life of me even imagine why everyone thought it was such a bad, morbid, idea. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost their sense of humor? Has anyone — died?

Tone-deaf, sometimes, am I. I can’t believe that I asked that. In all honesty, too many have died. Too many more, remain to die. It is, what it is. Still, there’s a silver lining in my legacy, possibly.

Given my run, in 2020, of bad luck, it was my good luck to notice (because I rarely, read) a story about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship. I alerted Arthur, near immediately.

In a safe house, Arthur’s been hiding out from a virus and from Vladimir’s assassins. And I’ve been writing; ghostwriting for him, a tall tale for the ages. Still it’s a tale only seemingly, fictional.

Fictional is this less than cryptic instruction; this algorithm, poetic; this, panacea. Because there can be no mistake, know all men by these presents — MAYDAYS is fiction — nonfictional.

A PROGRESSIVE, OPPORTUNITY 

Help me make Urantia, a welfare state. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. An innovative novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; fictional and nonfictional; not your father’s satire; something topical, edgy, and compelling. Compelling, multi-tasking; my MAYDAYS is a satire, fully intended, to inspire.

To be forewarned, is to be forearmed. The committee administering the scholarship in Amy’s name aims to name a poet of Ame­ri­can birth, and of good standing, or able promise,

preference being given, to those of progressive, literary, tendencies. Aiming to avoid extremes of academic conservatism on the one hand and that radicalism which springs from the promise 

of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee invites all to submit, cautioning however that a literary pedigree may promise 

a greater likelihood of traveling to Boston and accepting an invaluable prize, which amount pales next to, the value to Earth of a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. A promise; 

a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. An algorithm. Life; and evolution of the species don’t come with anything resembling a map or book; or a helpful blueprint set, of instructions.

So here it is, my fellow Urantians. A helpful, algorithm. Because life and evolution doesn’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or helpful, blueprint, sets, of instructions.

There are black holes in the centers of galaxies. Event horizons, mysterious. Analogously, there is something akin to a black hole in each of us; a flame co-existing, with a black hole, inside us.

A flame co-exists with a black hole, deep inside of us. Ever since the administration of Urantia, of Caligastia succumbed to, Satan’s, siren song; ever since, Satan decided, for him — and for us,

that he’d and we’d be happier and better off, being not shmucks, believing in our eternally absent, celestial, still, colonial, rulers. Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said.

Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said. Satan’s seductive siren song seduced, easily, resentful and gullible, masses. And they chanted if I can’t be free I’d be better off dead.

I’m penning a satire; a blueprint map; a yellow brick road to a welfare state; I’m penning colors and pictures in words and I’ll do right by Amy and the possessive Ezra Pound of the imagists.

A satirical, ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. It’s not hagiographical but rather confessional. Colorful satire may be the mark of a copy-cat, innovatively progressive, imagist.

PENEMUE’S COMMISSION 

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; they whom are the disembodied spiritual counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim of Genesis; the progeny some say of the union of rebel angels and earthling women, rebelling.

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.

SURREAL TALL TALES

2016 through 2019; three years in ebbing, best of times. The first three years of 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.

LOCKING DOWN; RAMPING UP

Lockdown the nation! Medical and financial systems are folding, like the houses of cards, they are. Lockdown the nation! We’re now living in an unprecedented 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 struggle with a novel virus, not unexpected by some, life and death matters 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.

EUREKA!

Antonio Guterres: Eureka! I have found it! It was in plain sight, hidden. But I have found it. And just in time. To exchange the paradigms. I found it in Twitter’s algorithm right here online.

I found Antonio, hidden in Twitter’s algorithm, space and time. Space enough for all of 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 my rhymes 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 due 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, turns surreally, 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.

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.

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. Let’s make 

peace; and 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 nonfictional warning, posing as fiction; in allegory — epic stories — of weakling men — in evolution.

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

people’s lives; this is precisely how Covid-19, spreads. Thanks Albert Einstein for the thought experiment, I tweeted on Twitter to my followers, from the Democrats, 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 karmic predetermination, America leads the planet in Covid-19 deaths. 

The virus has stymied mankind but it hasn’t stymied me. In fact the virus is why, in part, I’ll survive, no matter how many die. Why’s another matter. I just don’t dwell on death.

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. And then we bury ye. Life is short. Then ye die. And then we bury ye.

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. Don’t be afraid. I’m endorsing Joe, an American ye need not, fear.

Online conspiracy theories are describing the COVID-19 pandemic as a government-perpetrated hoax. Blame for the pandemic lies, the conspiracy theorists alternately 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, We’ve got to stop the fear-mongering — I’d say.

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

Over my, very own, failures? But WHO knows, that along with China, along with everybody that I‘m the one who dropped the ball on this and so — that’s why — I’m blaming WHO.

I blame everyone. WHO too. Why not? That’s always worked for me. My followers know not civil discourse nor civil disobedience from armed insurrection. Why not — blame WHO?

Some continuing education is in order. Dying by the thousands, now whither cometh the millions? As in the pogroms of the old days. Who knew I’d be so nostalgic over the old days?

Cometh possibly, the pogroms, anew. And God forbid they be like what happened to the Armenians in Turkey and to the Syrian Yazidis. Clashes of civilizations; like in the old days.

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

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

PANDEMIC DELUSION

It is one thing to be harmlessly, delusional. As one in a daydream often is. As we all at times, are. But when one is as delusional as I am and to such death am causal and no one believes

me, my reality shall collide with the American, all too real surreality of my responsibility for these preventable deaths. I’ll own these deaths. But lying’s a problem if no one believes.

The bare-cupboard Obama alibi was an outright lie from the outset. My ultimate responsibility for these preventable deaths, 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. My 

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. Art’s in a viral hotspot, right now. And Art as ye know is old, slow and compromised. Have ye an apartment 

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, by the way, too. If only 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.

We need one nation and one Rule, Golden. And we’ll need to start over. But I suspect that if polled, men too would elect His egalitarianism — over base nationalism’s — rule.

Switching paradigms; and starting over; given a governmental infrastructure already in place, we can do this and we can do it in short order. We can do it in a generation.

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. We can do this in a generation.

EPIGRAMMING

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.

THEATER OF THE ABSURD

What’s happening across Urantia’s America are blessings from God. Making it that much more incumbent upon US not leaving it entirely up to Him. He will help US help ourselves. In theaters 

of the absurd, both the illness and the cure are, in my VP’s view, Heaven-sent, blessings. His snow-white hair attests to his age. And the fly atop it attests to the absurdities — of theater.

What happens when human existence lacks meaning or purpose and our communications break down? How on Earth do we make a come back, from something possibly fatal, like that?

That’s just one existential question, I’ve asked myself. It’s an existential question, I’ve also, answered. When one’s a genius, one’s able too ask and answer, existential questions, like that.

For 122 seconds on Wednesday night the vice presidential debate was hijacked by a fly. What appeared to be a residential housefly rested or did its thing for more than two minutes on my

VP’s white hair. That’ll mean treatment for him with antibiotics, experimental viricidals and a shampoo. For 122 seconds, no one listened, because atop him, doing something, was a fly.

And whether that fly was resting or evacuating on Mike’s hair matters less than matters this series of indignities, unbroken; near unbroken; the string of calamities since around, January.

Since January, it’s seemingly been for me, a string of calamities and indignities, unbroken. That last night painfully symbolized for me, the Chinese pox arisen, since the onset — of 2020.

In all honesty, I’m not given to lying; nor the leaking of misinformation. But I’ve reason to believe that Joe’s in cahoots with the Chinese. They’ve sickened me. And the fly, was a drone.

Joe’s colluding with the Chinese, sickening me, already. And under investigation is whether the fly in Mike’s hair was a fake fly, Chinese, drone. They’ve sickened me. And the fly, was a drone.

Biden-Harris fly swatters quickly sold out but there’s bobblehead Mike Pence complete with a fly and swatter. And apparently, there’s an abiding conviction that Joe Biden and Kamala

Harris will always choose truth over lies and real science, over fictional fare. There’s an abiding conviction about Joe and Kamala that they’re the good guys on the planet of Urantia.

Theater, truly absurd. Pence’s bobblehead joins a lineup of 2020 bobbleheads including the collectibles of Carole and Howard Baskin and the coronaviral, fighting doctors, the fly-bys,

Anthony Fauci and Deborah Birx. Visit the National Bobblehead Hall of Fame online store, for delivery, sometime, post-2020. Meanwhile, I’ll check reports of Chinese drones — and flies.

GOOD, NOT FAKE, NEWS

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, on the other hand, 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, crudely and unabashedly; I dare say, proudly, cheated.

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 means, elsewhere. Americans — love their dogs. Koreans, like to eat — dog.

MY FELLOW URANTIANS: NOW READ THIS:

Shocked recently was I, when I read six words: ‘The Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship.’ Shocked was I, additionally, because my stay out of jail electoral strategy, ever increasingly,

is failing and this year’s Nobels for Peace and Literature were awarded to others, not to me. Increasingly, I’m in trouble. And so I’ll need to redouble my efforts to help Art save, humanity.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

I floated an idea yesterday; ripping open my button-down shirt to reveal my Superman t-shirt, underneath. No one, it seems, has a sense of humor anymore. I can’t imagine, why.

I don’t know why. I can’t for the life of me even imagine why everyone thought it was such a bad, morbid, idea. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost their sense of humor? Has anyone — died?

Tone-deaf, sometimes, am I. I can’t believe that I asked that. In all honesty, too many have died. Too many more, remain to die. It is, what it is. Still, there’s a silver lining in my legacy, possibly.

Given my run, in 2020, of bad luck, it was my good luck to notice (because I rarely, read) a story about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship. I alerted Arthur, near immediately.

In a safe house, Arthur’s been hiding out from a virus and from Vladimir’s assassins. And I’ve been writing; ghostwriting for him, a tall tale for the ages. Still it’s a tale only seemingly, fictional.

Fictional is this less than cryptic instruction; this algorithm, poetic; this, panacea. Because there can be no mistake, know all men by these presents — MAYDAYS is fiction — nonfictional.

A PROGRESSIVE, OPPORTUNITY

Help me make Urantia, a welfare state. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. An innovative novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; fictional and nonfictional; not your father’s satire; something topical, edgy and compelling. Compelling, multi-tasking; my MAYDAYS is a satire, fully intended, to inspire.

To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee administering the scholarship in Amy’s name aims to name a poet of Ame­ri­can birth and of good standing or able promise,

preference, being given to those of progressive, literary, tendencies. Aiming to avoid extremes of academic conservatism on the one hand and that radicalism which springs from the promise

of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee invites all to submit, cautioning however that a literary pedigree may promise

a greater likelihood of traveling to Boston and accepting an invaluable prize, which amount pales next to, the value to Earth of a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. A promise;

a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. An algorithm. Life; and evolution of the species don’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or a helpful blueprint set of instructions.

So here it is, my fellow, Urantians. A helpful, algorithm. Because life and evolution and don’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or helpful, blueprint, sets, of instructions.

There are black holes in the centers of galaxies. Event horizons, mysterious. Analogously, there is something akin to a black hole in each of us; a flame co-existing, with a black hole, inside us.

A flame co-exists with a black hole, deep inside of us. Ever since the administration of Urantia, of Caligastia succumbed to, Satan’s, siren song; ever since, Satan decided, for him — and for us,

that he’d and we’d be happier and better off, being not shmucks, believing in our eternally absent, celestial, still, colonial, rulers. Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said.

Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said. Satan’s seductive siren song seduced, easily, resentful and gullible, masses. And they chanted if I can’t be free I’d be better off dead.

I’m penning a satire; a blueprint map; a yellow brick road to a welfare state; I’m penning colors and pictures in words and I’ll do right by Amy and the possessive Ezra Pound of the imagists.

A satirical, ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. It’s not hagiographical but rather confessional. Colorful satire may be the mark of a copy-cat, innovatively progressive, imagist.

ANCIENT EPICS

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.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. With that in mind my Boys — preen — proudly.

URANTIA FIRST

A six word announcement; not a story, really. Nonetheless, those six words, recalled for me, due to their brevity, a favorite, flash fiction, six word, story: For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

Attributed to Hemingway, it appears that some other poor unknown author may have actually written the story, that to Ernest, was attributed. A moving story — of baby shoes — ne’er worn.

Exponentially more impressive to me has been, Bruce Lee’s, “Be water.” In two words, volumes. A two word philosophy, illuminating this planet, far beyond, an all too brief, shooting star, story.

A story poignantly, illustrative. Too western for the Chinese; too eastern for us; still, like water he flowed, eventually crumbling and actually washing over, all walls confronting him, vainly.

Do help me help Art. Help me help him to get us, to save ourselves. A puzzling mystery, this poem, penned by George Washington and since handed down — president, to president.

Handed down — from president, to president. Barack advised me to read it. I, didn’t. Honestly, I don’t like to read. I’m a doer; a man of action. Too little time to read — if I’m — the president.

The deaths I’ll be blamed for may well reach 233,000 by October’s end. And projections therefrom show that more than 2,900 more Americans could be dying daily — by January.

Don’t worry. Be happy. This nightmare will, like all things, end. And ye shall, in retrospect, later, better understand why I do and say all the seemingly crazy things I do and say, routinely.

Let’s help Art kickstart his plan; to transform man; to suppress in the pilgrim’s progress, ego, even as we foster, empathy. It’s not about ye. And near incredibly (to me), it’s not, about me.

2020. It’s been awful; worse yet, increasingly, it gets worse. But how bad might it really yet get? Spoiler alert: It’ll get really bad before it gets, surreally — better. Witness, March 4th, 2030.

Tuesday, March 4, 2030: Because it is both a calendar date and a command, I’ve got a date in mind for our 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.

March 4th. The irony is not lost upon me. From America First, a Global Citizenship Day. But of what may happen in these real theaters of the absurd, it’s just one, of countless, possibilities.

In theaters absurd, absurdities are the soup de jour, daily fare. As absurd may be MAYDAYS’ talking point messages, characterized. Still, my legacy may one day reflect Amy Lowell’s legacy.

A PLOT, NUTSHELLED

A plot, nutshelled. A retiring angel, my prodigal brother, Arthur Everman, yearns to retire early to Heaven. To reside there, permanently, with his beloved families. But first; saving, Urantia.

Urantia (Earth, interchangeably); a tough nut to crack. Tough as nails like me; a man of wealth and fame. His Watcher-commissioned mission — only seemingly impossible: To save, Urantia.

Art’s mission seems impossible: But Art’s saving of Urantia, only seemingly, is impossible. Art’s got soirées on the moon, his plans to attend to. And Art’s got a vision — of the power of poetry.

The power of poetry. It’s awesome; even more awesome, than imagined. How awesome is it that poetry‘s beauty is a reflection of Divinity? Witness Jung’s synchronicities; today, poetry’s

influence, influences still. Glück won this year’s Nobel today. She was the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2003 to 2004. But everyone knows that today, I — really should have won.

Previous winners of the Prize for Literature include Ernest Hemingway, Bob Dylan, Wole Soyinka, Toni Morrison and Kazuo Ishiguro. But everyone knows that today, I should have won.

Keep in mind when reading, the circumstances. And that circumstances, dictate, what happens. And that it’s me, the Don that is dictating to my phone — this only seemingly, impossible, story.

Dictation; it’s what dictators do. And it’s ironic; it’s ironic that the composition of a poet of her or his poetry invariably shields his or her lector from our wholesale, brainwashing, ideologies.

Brainwashing ideologies; socialization, of the cultural and national norms, of a society. To give one a sense of belonging to the nation. To each nation, its own, brainwashing — ideology.

Brainwashing; the formation and maintenance of the cultural and national norms of a society. To give a sense of belonging to the nation. Each nation adopts its own brainwashing, ideology.

And it matters but little, in the big picture, if a nation is regarded as regressive or progressive. They want their citizens pliant and obediently, subject, at all times, to brainwashing, ideology.

A plot, nutshelled. The FBI arrested six men in Michigan for allegedly plotting to kidnap the governor; to put her, for her lockdown orders, on trial. We’ve got terrorists and plots, unlikely.

We’ve got, terrorists, home-grown; no need to import, any. And they’ve got, plots, a-many. My fellow Americans: I was just kidding. I wasn’t calling for any armed insurrection, type, plot.

Just allegations; there is no proof of any plot. In any event, whether or not there is a plot, I’m disavowing both knowledge of it and denying responsibility for it. I know no plot, not my plot.

FEAR OF OCTOBER SURPRISE(S)

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. Wise men know that it’s just nature’s way; as when aged forests burn, only to give way to renewed pristine forests, only to once again, in stages, ever age, over the years.

And so I call upon Sappho of Lesbos, she also known as the Tenth Muse and as The Poetess. I call upon also, the American poetess Ms Amy Lowell; I pray she’ll help me, duly, help Arthur.

It’s been all good news lately. I’ve defeated the virus. The economy’s rebounding. And I’ve got Joe Biden right in my sights, right in front of me. But he’s way in front of me, says Arthur.

I’m back in the Oval Office despite being at risk of spreading COVID-19. Some of my aides were reportedly saying, I’m seeming stronger than when I returned from the hospital. They claim

tho also, that they hear me laboring; struggling with my breathing. Still, there’s no sign yet of any distress signaling that a reprised October Surprise, is arising, attempting my life, to claim.

I’m on real drugs; been taking Dexamethasone, a roiding steroid known to have some powerful psychological effects; some roiling, emotional, effects including, ironically, customary feelings

of euphoria and omnipotence but anxiety and depression, also, as well. Witness me tweet-storming this morning, at 17 tweets per hour. Ye’d think ye’d know what I’m actually, thinking.

Been fever-free for more than 4 days; not requiring, supplemental oxygen, neither. And everyone knows I’m redefining the meaning of GOAT. My legend grows, notwithstanding

everyone knows I make it all up as I go along, lying, cheating; inflating and deflating the value of my assets; and conspiring with my bankers in schemes of elaborate, money, laundering.

A twin, second, October Surprise is what I now fear, ironically, the most. Even as I encourage Americans not to unreasonably fear this virus, still, I feel my body’s defenses, turn against me.

Tragi-comically, this coronavirus, I reasonably, fear. And I can’t shake this feeling deep inside of me; horror. That the electoral strategy of a germaphobe be sickened by a microbe like me.

I proved almost anything is possible, just four years ago. 2020 tho is not 2016. Undecided and persuadable voters in 2020 are a rarity. It’s not 2016. It’s the year of the rat. It’s unlucky, 2020.

Mooted, issues of voter fraud, overwhelmingly, I shall be booted out of office, in 2020. In 2020, I get my comeuppance. That notwithstanding that it’s a lucky Chinese year of the rat, in 2020.

VINE — VIDE — VICI — TWITTER-ESE

My messaging has been quite widely, poorly received by my medical experts and even by some of my allies who wonder why I continue to downplay the virus. Indeed I’ve been unwise.

The dreaded October Surprise; my airlift; from my house to the hospital. More shocking tho is the shock that cometh once arrive, nightmarish optics; a 2020, reprised — October — Surprise.

A surprise rerouting to the hospital; it’s what cruel fate has for me in store. And I ask myself, “Why me; why now?” After my trajectory, how can it be that Satan forsake me — and why?

I came, I saw and I conquered. Caesar’s iconic words ring true, even today. A house divided against itself, cannot stand. My words and my numbers; and in spaces between words, whys?

and numbers, universes. I’m not a big fan though of words; that’s made a big difference. Reading. It’s a good habit. My habit tho is to eschew the time-consuming reading, of words.

Vine. Vide. Vici. I came, I saw and I conquered. I had to, verily. I came, I saw and I conquered. Caesar’s words ring true, even today. Houses divided against themselves can’t stand. Words

and numbers; and in the space between them, universes. I’m not a big fan though of reading words. And it’s made all the difference. Who knew? Who knew, about algorithms and words?

Who knew? About algorithms? And words? And who really knew about alchemy, behavior mod and the potential energy in this (white) witch’s brew of visionary children; Urantian, legatees.

The truth is that, for a genius, I’m pretty stupid. Twice as dumb, as any rock; and hard-headed. Proof positive of God’s absolute awesomeness. And the utility in Arthur’s Free School of Poetry.

Art’s School of Poetry. The Chachomanopapa School of Poetry, he calls it. He and I, its only, members. Arthur studied ethics at my Trump University; I studied the composition of poetry.

Split 280 characters in two. Background sound, set to a fave frequency. It’s meditation. Add a pic if ye want. A ton of difference it’s made. Use Google Translate for maximum power, poetry.

Use Google Translate to engage, maximally when ye speak not the lingo of your sister or your brother. A ton of difference may make a simple formula, for the composition, of poetry.

As in the army let’s be all we can be. Transform. Use Google Translate. Let’s create, alternative, platforms. Arthur’s proposing a novel linguistic innovation to make possible social connections.

Twitter-ese, Art has coined his novelty, whether one’s intended connection is with a speaker of your same tongue or not. Use Google Translate to communicate — and establish, connections.

BE NOT AFRAID

Do not be afraid of Covid. Don’t let it dominate your life. We have developed, under my administration, some really really great drugs and really really great, knowledge. Common

sense; not so much. This decision may end up, suicidally, killing me. There’s an ill-defined and bloody line of martyrs and patriots; a dime, a dozen. But visionaries, verily, are uncommon.

In what some have described as a show of child-like, defiance, I took my mask off as I arrived at the White House after my stir-crazy three days at the hospital. Now I’m back to

infect the White House before I hit the road. Campaigning’s cool; it is governing that’s a drag; it is governing that, I don’t like. But I love the riches, the power and the attention — too.

Now hear this: Spoiler alert: Reckless. Shocking. The reactions to my saying ‘don’t be afraid of Covid’, purposely, and provocatively, planned; intended to elicit an angry response, cynically.

But it’s not about valor. It’s about my personal triumph over the viral enemy. Because the pickings are slim and the circumstances, daunting, it’s a last-ditch, electoral, strategy.

An electoral, strategy, not unsurprisingly, rashly calculated. Born of boredom, it is calculated to relieve my boredom there by replacing it with my more private boredom, at the White House.

Sadly or gladly as the case may be, dismissed is the possibility that I’ll need to be returning to the hospital. But man plans and God laughs. It’s a short flight to a hospital from a White House.

Man plans and God laughs. An ill-defined and bloody line of martyrs and patriots run through history. A dime a dozen. Visionaries though, are truly uncommon. Unlike old, Yiddish, wisdom.

Unlike Yiddish wisdom, visionaries often get swallowed up whole by the mad rush of the sundry pilgrims’ progress. But technological innovation must be coupled — with wisdom.

Technological innovation coupled with wisdom. It’s super-vision. Connectivity. Vision grounded, and so connected to, everything, everywhere. Vision connected to communications, verbal.

The vision: A new, communication-driven, connectivity. A new social platform for the evolutionary, revolutionaries. With Google Translate already here the potential is palpable.

Witness Jung’s synchronicities. And witness the synchronicity of the attention of an entire planet on the increasingly wild-eyed antics of one increasingly, desperate, solitary, human.

Marvel therefore not so much at the story that follows, necessarily at length. Marvel rather at the mysterious ways by which things happen. Things happen. Heed me, my fellow Americans.

NOBELS; AND A SCHOLARSHIP OF POETRY

Breakthroughs in the field of health shall be honoured on Monday when the 2020 Nobel season kicks off with the medicine prize, as the world battles the worst pandemic, in a century.

Most appropriately, first, given the pandemic, the prize for medicine, kicks off the 2020 Nobel season. The most closely-watched awards for literature and peace, shall follow subsequently,

on Thursday and Friday, while the economics prize wraps things up on Monday, October 12. Take a deep breath. Take a deep breath, if ye, like me, can breathe. And if ye can’t breathe

like some suckers and losers, I’ve heard tell of, what good are ye? What have ye done for me lately? And what good are ye if ye’re six feet under — whether or not, ye can yet, breathe?

With just 29 days to go until Election Day, two days until the vice presidential debate and 107 days until Inauguration Day, my wise advice, as usual, with just 88 days left in 2020, is to hold

on tight; it’s gonna be a bumpy ride from here on in. Receiving sound advice from me, being so exceedingly unusual, it’s not unusual for folks of sound mind to question what I’ve told

them. I’ve put millions of lives in danger including my own; only I can mitigate that. Only I can yet save, tens of thousands, of lives. Only I know that, despite my recklessness, I can yet,

save, many lives. For it seems, I won’t die, after all. Although the virus is known to overwhelm suddenly, it does seem that my superhumanity is about to, this novel coronavirus, further abet.

Consider that a self-inflicted injury ending an iconoclastic presidency avoids in October, problems in November. Ironic; that it so came to pass in 2020 in the year of the rat. An iconic

October Surprise, uber-ironic. In anticipation of my possible demise, I’ve tweeted to my peers, Russian and Chinese, to carry on resolutely. Remember — I’ll be with ye — in the spirit.

A convergence of events; a hospitalization and my possibly, imminent, demise. There are silver lining hidden in plain sight in algorithms and the poetry — of Amy Lowell — and Sappho.

There are silver linings hidden in plain sight in algorithms and the poetry of Amy Lowell and Sappho. And in the poetry of Penemue, the Watcher, the benefactor of, Amy and Sappho.

Help me help Art sell his theory of behavior modifying, transformation. Help me tell the would-be retiring angel’s novel story. A story of poetry, gone mad. It is a Howl-like, epic, story.

A post-Ginsburg, Howl-like wannabe, would be Arthur’s poetry. What with its Google-Translate, aided, algorithmic method of writing poetry. Arthur needs to win — a Scholarship of Poetry.

A TALE OF TWO BROTHERS

Once upon a time two brothers, one womb, did share. And one of them was me; Donald John Trump; the 45th and the greatest president, ever. Once upon a time a womb with a brother,

did I share. Instinctively, I kicked him. Destined to be intolerant was I; and aggressive. And it’s uber-ironic that my hubris has landed me in the hospital, a disabled ship, dead in the water.

I’m 74 years old and I weigh in at 244 pounds. Facing a mortality risk of between 9 and 10 percent, I‘m fervently praying I won’t have to suffer the indignity of being hospitalized. That

would be bad optics; I fervently pray I shan’t suffer a fate so God-damned, embarrassing. Thank God though, I’ve been chosen; good reason to believe, I won’t be subjected to that.

So much for that. The next five to 10 days shall be, telling. My Doctors are warning me that the illness can worsen even after days of non-threatening, mild, symptoms. There’s a real

possibility, that I soon, may be dying. And so now I’m regretting not believing in mask-wearing. Hubris; it got the better of me. The hubris of my personality, my fate, did seal.

This is really bad. I haven’t been able to post to my Twitter account since my diagnosis. What shall become of Twitter Diplomacy without me? What shall become of America? And what pray

tell shall become of the Republican Party? More than anything, I’ll miss Twitter. But no one can say that I wasn’t the very greatest president of all the greatest presidents of America’s, days.

Even knowing I had been previously exposed, I attended my fundraiser. But I really needed the money. Pretending I’d been unexposed, I duly hustled my donors, not saying a thing to them,

about any possible danger, to them. It’ll be alright. Nothing, God willing, will happen, to them. For if I am the chosen one, then it follows, that nothing bad, will happen to them.

When it rains, it pours. My campaign manager Bill Stepien has tested positive for the novel coronavirus, the latest of my able-bodied men to become so infected. I had imagined that

I was the chosen one; alas; it appears to have been, a mistaken, personal, delusion. I’ve been fooling myself and the country. But karma caught up to me — in the year — of the rat.

The Chinese year of the rat 2020 has wrought: a country on edge because of a destabilizing pandemic; a teetering economy; a historic election: the total breakdown of discourse, civil.

and wildfires and storms. And now, a self-inflicted — suicidal, injury. But is it too late to return to civil discourse and to civil society? Let’s return to civil society and discourse, civil.

DEATH BY TAXES

Joe had needed a zinger. And so in my previous pre-debate tweety, I suggested he might well take command of the debate, just demanding I resign forthwith from, my personal, presidency.

Joe opted to be rude to me but his nice-guy persona could not countenance taking full advantage of an enemy, fallen, to the ground. He failed to act, as I would have — decisively.

Need a zinger? Demand I resign, immediately. Be aggressive. Tell me to my lying face that the extraordinary security risk I pose demands that I resign. Demanding it as well are — 200,000.

200,000 fatalities demand it. A global order’s, shredded fabric, demands it, as well. Winging it, still, I dominated last night’s debate; that notwithstanding even — the loss of 200,000.

The Trump International Golf Links in sunny, Aberdeen, Scotland. It is said that it is a black hole that money disappears into, in between space and the event horizon, ne’er to be seen

again. And the most likely earthly explanation is, of course, there is some serious money laundering going on at the my International Golf Links — in Scotland’s — sunny, Aberdeen.

It’s the virus; the virus response; and mean-spiritedness; it’s loose cannons and loose lips; it’s racism, tactlessness, malignant narcissism and abuse of power; it’s the economy, stupid.

All that I would say to me at the debate Joe, just for starters. Gainsay, my lies; my frenemies; my conflicts of interest. Call me out. Tell me to my bronzed, pale-face, “It’s about empathy stupid.”

As of this tweeting, Ivanka hasn’t commented on her consulting fee deals on my hotel deals in Hawaii and Vancouver. I paid her $750,000; a practice we commonly engage in, as fraudsters,

when it comes to business dealings. She’s really good at it too. It’s a shame. Too bad things didn’t turn out better. She could have been the Vice President. She could’ve been a contender.

2016 and 2017. They were the best of times. I paid income tax of just $750 in both years. The Bidens paid 2,000 times more tax in 2016 and more than 4,900 times as much as me, in 2017.

That, my fellow Americans, makes me look crooked, and makes them look good for their taxes. But looks can be deceiving. Alas; I long for the days when I deceived everyone in 2016.

Joe Biden’s new ad today: The income tax ye typically pay: $7,239 for teachers, $5,283 for firefighters, $10,216 for nurses. Switching to footage of the president, the text then reads:

I pay $750, max. Because I’m smart, my federal income tax bill was $750 in 2016 and 2017. Oy vey! It hurt to pay, even that. Not bad I’d say for one such as me; one who likes not — to read.

VLADIMIR-APPROVED, REMOTE LEARNING

Stupidly compete or wisely cooperate? Time is a wasting. Meeting on Luna remotely, we may be soon individually voting on being one nation or, alternatively — many nations, failing.

Meeting on Luna remotely we can each vote on being one nation, or many nations; we can vote on stupidly competing or wisely cooperating. But — hurry. Precious time is truly, a-wasting.

Know all men by these presents that Vladimir Putin approves that relations between the United States and China, improve. Seemingly all-powerful, and all-wise is Vladimir Putin.

We all need one another. I humbly suggest that ye citizens communicate with one another and with your leaders. cc: @SpokespersonCHN @KremlinRussia_E @uriminzok @JoeBiden

At Arthur’s School of Free Poetry; a panacea for Pangaea (Earth, aka, Urantia); with instructions. On how to use the Kim-Don Plan, the Earth, to transform. Vlad’s guys approve it when on Luna

but forget it when on Urantia. So just tweet to us directly. It matters not whether we’re in soirée on Luna or dictating on Earth; only that newsworthy be — what’s tweeted, on Urantia.

At Art’s chachomanopapa.com; a panacea, for Pangaea; Earth; Urantia; instruction on the Kim-Don Plan changes to be implemented on Urantia. Vlad’s guys approve it when on Luna

but forget it all when on Urantia. And so now, in order to more clearly communicate, we’re tweeting directly from Luna. To encourage ye to tweet to us directly when we’re on Urantia.

Help me make America my dictatorship. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten account; the tallest tale ever told. A novel satire, less hagiographical — than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; although technically, fictional, it’s so seemingly nonfictional, that it shan’t be (because it can’t be) — your father’s satire. It is my satire; it is not, your dear father’s, satire.

Help me make America my dictatorship. Help me write my revolutionarily, groundbreaking, satire; a surreally scary, ghostwritten account; the very tallest tale ever told. A novel satire,

less hagiographical, than confessional. And less autobiographical than universal. Not your father’s satire. Both fictional and nonfictional, Vlad hopes it’s my Nobel Prize winning, satire.

I’ve got my evil eye especially trained on the Prizes for Literature and for Peace because I’ve got to best Obama with at least two Nobels. One for literature; another other one for peace;

for a ghostwritten satire, savagely, savaging me. Lampooning, myself; it’s a small price to pay for a widespread and sustainable, peace. Vlad and his guys want to share in the peace.

IMAGINE

Vlad and his guys want to share in the peace. They want to share peace and prosperity with me. And they want to share the hardware; the trophies that come with prosperity and peace.

Therefore, whereas Vladimir Putin approves of relations between US and China improving, unacceptable is the blame game they’re playing at the United Nations. No justice — no peace.

Imagine Twilight Zone-like, Brave New Worlds; post-dystopian, dystopias, further devolved. An Animal Farm some time, imagine, post-1984. Imagine us. Then imagine my vision of the end,

to the very tallest tale ever told. And imagine the end not merely as an end but imagine it as a brand new beginning. Obama doesn’t care. I do. Obamacare I shall, in vengeance — end.

Adolf was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1939, shortly before his tanks rolled into Poland and began history’s, only, second, world war; a nomination, later withdrawn because it

had been made in jest. Comic sometimes, the despots; until they’re not; until they’re not funny no more. I’m laughable now but — how long — this time — until things … turn tragic?

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.

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.

HIGHER EDUCATION

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.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is 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.

ALCHEMICAL POETRY

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.

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

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.

PENEMUE’S COMMISSION 

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; they whom are the disembodied spiritual counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim of Genesis; the progeny some day of the union of rebel angels and earthling women, rebelling.

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.

IMAGINE:

“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.

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. I’m Vlad Putin’s, 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. I therefore 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 around 196 nations (not including Taiwan, Puerto Rico and others), 4,200 religions and 6,500 languages; evolving to one nation is beyond, 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 Scriptures (the Testaments, the Qu’ran, et. cetera) wherein lives wisdom and the Golden Rules ubiquitous, honored, unfortunately, in their omission, 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.

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. Kim and me planned to surprise folks, at the UN, General Assembly.

But Kim and I shan’t shock the world in September at the UN General Assembly. And we won’t announce a 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.

EPILOGUE-2050

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 is truly, 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 brand 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.

Art won his wings. With five planets officially saved, officially retired, is he. He’s off; off to hook up with beloved Emily, knowing she’ll be waiting at the end of the line for him in Heaven.

EPILOGUE-ETERNITY

And there shall be, only seemingly, everlasting, consternation for the ne’er repentant, Trump haters; the never, Trumpers. For our Maker, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, is all about, mercy.

Accordingly, a bittersweetly happy ending has in store The Almighty for our four, hapless, antiheroes; Kim, Xi, Vladimir and Muslim Mo; the murderer, and desecrator, of dead bodies.

One last thing; a hot tip; if ye can get Las Vegas to give ye the odds on we four dictators coming in, skipping in to Heaven, like four very giddy, schoolgirls. Astronomical, the odds ought be.

In a surprise ending for the ages; (the GOAT), greatest of all time, The Almighty as if accents with His Godly, exclamation mark, punctuation, the story of (wo)man, series. Tragi-comic, irony.

The story of (wo)man, series. Already Nielsen top-rated, a trans-universally broadcast series, so chock-full of such a wild array of human behaviors, it’s destined to be, on Earth, a film.

MAYDAYS; it’s destined to be on Earth, a film. A film, a cartoon and a Lin-Manuel, Hamilton-like, Broadway, staged, adaptation. That’s just for starters. In MAYDAYS wake, a Hollywood film.

In MAYDAYS wake, Bollywood, and Hollywood, films. And all the anti-hero, merchandising; the bold action figures; the coloring books. All of these things must come to pass from a filming.

All of these things must come to pass. From a prestigious platform, a book, a movie and a social media platform. Less about selling and gossiping, it’s more about spiritually, growing.

From an academically prestigious platform, the multiple launchings of a book, a talkie movie, a Broadway play and a brand new, social media, platform. All prose — is poetry — potentially.

Amidst a historically climactic unraveling, duly reveal themselves, the golden, opportunities. Golden opportunities to teach and to reach for the stars. And one key is Art’s School, of Poetry.

And there shall be, only seemingly, everlasting, consternation for the ne’er repentant, Trump haters; the never, Trumpers. For our Maker, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, is all about, mercy.

Accordingly, a bittersweetly happy ending has in store The Almighty for our four, hapless, antiheroes; Kim, Xi, Vladimir and the Muslim Mo; murderer and desecrator, of dead bodies.

In a climactic scene near the end of MAYDAYS, THE MOVIE, our four antiheroic horsemen of the Apocalypse, vault from their horses, join hands — and skip like schoolgirls, into Heaven.

The MAYDAYS phenomenon. A movie about the wayward stewards of a planet. A make-believe phenomenon is predetermination; a fake story. The real story, is in our decisions.

A self-proclaimed originalist theoretically embraces a constitutional theory she shares with two of my currently sitting, conservative, justices: But constitutional amendments,

aplenty, belie that once outlier, theory. And Justices Neil Gorsuch and Clarence Thomas look forward to the addition of Amy Barrett to the brethren. A very conservative, amendment.


MAYDAY 1834: MONDAY, OCTOBER 26, 2020

Shacked up with a thin man in Moscow. It could have been worse. I could have been sentenced to stay married to my third-chosen, First Lady. My Russian-looking lady; my asexual, sexual — sham.

And I’ll be damned if everything ain’t really, a God-damned, sham. Unless, of course, none of it’s a sham; none of it, at all. It just may be, as is typical in life, a reflection of The Master’s, Masterful Plan.

And I won’t even bother asking if ye can imagine that. Ye need not know how; just that He does it. And know that the secret to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh’s Power, is in — His Almighty, Personality.

It matters not that ye can’t imagine that. Ye need not know how He does it; just that He does it. And know also that the secret to His Power is in His magnificently, life-creative, Almighty, Personality.

None of it’s a sham; none of it, at all. It is instead, a creative reflection of a Masterful Plan. Actually, ye needn’t imagine much of anything if ye place in its proper perspective, everything, in space and time.

Place in perspective, everything, that’s happening. Adjust your perspective as necessary, or desirable. Keep it simple. Multi-tasking aside, we mortals do things best, when we doth do them, one at a time.

Aside from the important matter of perspective, it’s important too to keep things, simple. Multi-tasking aside, we mortals, mere human beings, do things best, when we doth do them, one at a time.

Multi-tasking, as important as it is, is secondary, in time to the lesson we learn in learning, that we (wo)men doth do things best when indeed, we have the luxury, of doing them — one, at a time.

We do things best when we have the luxury of doing things, one thing, at a time. Unfortunately, we don’t have that luxury anymore. Multi-tasking is become a matter of survival, of sheer necessity.

Multi-tasking hath become a matter of survival. I’ve become quite good at it; I’ve been practicing those skills, since I was a kid; walking along, even as I patted my fat head and rubbed, my full belly.

“What 10 words bequeath ye, to humanity,” the Watcher tasked Art when he asked Art so damn, cryptically, one evening. It was a summer evening; an evening in perhaps, the worst week of his life.

DAMNED, IF EVERYTHING, AIN’T A SHAM

A stunning White House claim: The government is just giving up controlling, the fast-worsening, pandemic. And it’s overshadowing my last-ditch efforts to get re-elected with but eight days, to go.

Getting re-elected. It was my go-to, stay out of jail, electoral strategy. Now, it’s not even that. But, I get it. It’s 2020’s, year of the rat. Now, I see how truly helpless I am; and that it’s time, past time, to go.

It appears I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vlad would protect me. As the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no — extradition, treaty.

From Snowden I learned that we have no, treaty for extradition with Russia. That’s the main thing. Whatever country I consider going to, it can’t have with the United States, an extradition — treaty.

Edward Joseph Snowden; many, may recall him. And I’ve called him myself on many, an occasion. To pick his brain on our stay out of jail strategies, Russian women and expense sharing — possibly.

And I would pause here — to marvel in — and revel in — the ironies. That I end up in Vladimir’s Russia, shacked up with a fugitive from Obama, none other than — the whistleblowing — Eddie.

Better tho to be shacked up than shackled up, I‘m wont to say. Eddie agrees with me on that. And agrees with me physically, not, politically. He’s a Democrat at heart; a God-damned, whistleblower.

Edward Joseph Snowden; a Democrat, I suspect. A whistleblower, for sure. But when life throws me a lemon, I make lemonade. A flannel shirt, I’ll pack. And shack up with my thin man — whistleblower.

Shacking up with a thin man, in Moscow. It could be worse. I could have been sentenced to be with Melania, a woman so cold she coldly tells me to my face that I’m far, far too old for her — sexually.

Man — that — was cold. And as everyone knows, she slaps my hands silly whenever one of my hands is silly enough to try to grab, one of hers. Needless to say, she wants nothing to do with me.

Needless to say, the First Lady wants nothing to do with me, intimately. She says I’m disgusting to her. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly, making a belated, campaign appearance for me. It’s a sham.

My First Lady wants nothing to do with me. She says I’m disgusting. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly finally making, a campaign appearance for me. My marriage — like everything, is a sham.

My First Lady wants nothing to do with me. She says I’m disgusting. Everybody knows she’s only reluctantly finally making, a campaign appearance for me. My marriage — like everything, is a sham.

So I’m shacking up with a thin man in Moscow. But I know that it could easily have been a lot worse. I could have been sentenced to stay married to my Russian-looking lady; my asexual, sexual — sham.

TRUE, CRIMES — TRUE, CONSPIRACIES

Conspiracy theories; they’ve gotten themselves, a bad name; but touting them is just one of my claims to fame. And when I tout them, I often haven’t even, a shred of evidence. Conspiracy

theories; my base just loves ‘em. I see them at my rallies, gleefully yukking it up; high-fiving, one another. And my reptilian brain, records, the image. In the news are — my conspiracies.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievements — ever. A Russian, Manchurian, candidate; at least so, it appears. But deeper even than that, run — conspiracies.

Deeper than that run my, off a wall, wall to wall, conspiracies. Vladimir Putin has pulled off a stunning intelligence achievement. And no one believes in any — unimaginable — conspiracy.

In the absence of smoking guns, circumstantial evidence, notwithstanding, no one (excepting Art) but I myself, dare spell out, I dare say, an actually happening, unimaginable, conspiracy.

Notwithstanding lots of circumstantial proofs, no smoking gun, smokes. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence documentary, or otherwise, ironclad, that might document, the conspiracy.

Nonetheless, none shall be, as it shall turn out, necessary. No smoking gun shall be necessary to tie me to Vladimir’s, Russian, bureaucracy. I admit to being a conspirator, in his conspiracy.

I freely admit to being a conspirator, in Vlad’s conspiracy. Make no mistake. I conspired with Vlad of my own accord, freely and willingly. To build a hotel in Moscow, I betrayed my country.

I freely admit to being a conspirator, in Vlad’s conspiracy. Make no mistake. I conspired with Vlad of my own accord, freely and willingly. To build a hotel in Moscow, I betrayed my country.

I know no shame; I actually don’t understand what shame is, nor know what it feels like. In fact, I feel none still. Still tho, I understand I’m making mistakes, mistaking, my opportunities

in business; feeling as unconstrained as I ever did in my Wall Street dealings. I wish I’d there, stayed. Had I stayed in my comfort zone, no Uskagrad would there be, in Vlad’s, vocabulary.

Uskagrad; it’s what Vlad calls US; Uskagrad, he calls us, when we speak on the phone. And he laughs when he says it. And I’ve laughed along with him. I’ve laughed about this — conspiracy.

I’ve laughed too soon. Just 8 days to go until Election Day; 86 days until Joe’s Inauguration Day. And with just 67 days only left in 2020, I’m well on my way to having to flee — the country.

It appears I may be needing to flee the country. But where to? Russia seems logical. Vlad would protect me. As the President of US, I know that with Russia — we have no, extradition, treaty.

A RUSSIAN PROVINCE — THE UNITED STATES

How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it’s a trick question. As there is no one single, answer, one or more is technically one, correct, answer. One may be one answer to the tricky,

question. More likely, however, an epiphany, if one doth ever comes, follows hundreds or even possibly, thousands, of revelations. Epiphanies are a sum of constituent revelations, generally.

Take me, for example, and my relationship with my mentor, Vladimir; and our relationship with, Hillary’s e-mails; my hotel project in Moscow and my summit with him in Finland’s, Helsinki.

Recall my relation with Vlad, my relation with Hillary; a hotel project in Moscow, a suspicious summit in Helsinki, when my translator’s notes, I kept to myself — unusually and unexpectedly.

I can hardly believe what, to me, has happened; not to mention, what’s happening. It’s been a blur, largely. As an original TV kid, early on, my mind got stunted by, outsized — screen times.

An incorrigible child who early on learned the utility of a tantrum, I threw fits, routinely. And I learned, not to read. Not learning to read. Sad. A grown man, a president but I read at no time.

Un-freaking-believeable! An out and out traitor to my purported country; a double agent, for Vladimir; a man who may enjoy, being urinated upon; a man who abhors, reading and learning.

It’s hard to believe I’ve done all these things; not so much that I’ve been a double agent and betrayed my country as much as being that man, less than a man who likes, being peed on.

It’s so unfair. I’ve helped construct kleptocratic alliances. Our whole goal is the privatization of power and we already control, the three great poles; the US, China and Vladimir’s — Russia.

We already control the three great poles; the US, China and Russia. I’ve helped construct the money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is his privatization of power — in Russia.

The US, China and Russia, thanks to me, Xi and Vlad, we already control. I’ve helped to build, money-laundering, kleptocratic alliances. Vlad’s goal is the privatization of power — in Russia.

Russia. Land of the Cossacks, the Czars and the Sputnik’s. The greatest land mass on my planet. Vladimir would have Russia regain her glory but a front for Vladimir Putin is this — new Russia.

Vladimir Putin has pulled off the most stunning intelligence achievement in all of a sad, human, history: secretly controlling the president of US is President Vlad Putin, all the way from Russia.

In the most stunning intelligence achievement of all time; secretly controlling the president of an enemy nation is President Vladimir Putin, all the way from the new sheriff in town — Russia.

PRELUDE TO CRISES

Pray tell Earthlings: Answer me a riddle. 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 next December my much-coveted, Nobel Prizes. And I’ll be sharing with Vlad’s guys then, my Nobels.

MY NOBLE, NOBEL, THOUGHT EXPERIMENT

Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and an innovative way, with Google Translate, to compound the global effect is nothing less than a source of potential energy, by algorithm.

TwitterEZE he calls it so that it works no matter how, one pronounces, it. A good name; a good, start. And so he postulated to Jack (Twitter’s, patent-holder, proprietor), his rich algorithm’s,

potential to be, far richer still. TwitterEZE; it’s an amalgam alloy, of Twitter and easy. It would’ve been easier to reverse with my verse, all these adverse events; and trends — also — adverse.

It would have been easier to timely arrest, our untimely devolution, had Jack been more more receptive to my suggestion. But that he hadn’t been should have begotten him, by now, verse.

Epic verse, from my diverse base of frustrated bikers, frustrated Evangelicals and frustrated, white nationalists; frustrated writers, many of them. I should have seen by now, their verse, 

in protest, being posted on the various and sundry, platforms. But it’s not happening. And that it’s not happening, amply evidences that Vlad’s tightening his steely grip upon the Earth.

Vlad Putin is tightening his grip on Urantia. My mentor has made a fateful decision to cut short his Trump, double agent, Russian, experiment. He aims to cut further losses; Russia’s; and his.

Aiming to cut losses, Vlad is considering cutting, me loose. Calculating that my unpredictability, makes me as a double agent, going forward, untenable. Too bad; it’s a fact — it is, what it is.

It is what it is. Or surreally, is it really? Actually, I admit that while indeed, what is, is, sometimes, what seems to be isn’t at all what it appears to be. Witness evidence, in a thought, experiment.

Imagine a line-up; that time-honored criminal investigative procedure designed to allow a victim to reliably identify, alleged, perpetrators. But what if people were in thought experiment,

lined up turned inside out, exposing organs internal, whilst hiding from view, faces, scars and other commonly used identifying, features. Self-evident the goal, of this simple experiment.

Self-evident is the goal of a simple experiment. To witness why I must write that I am unfit; why I can not be the president; why I’m endorsing Biden — and why I’ll vote for him, for president.

An Einsteinian thought experiment, perfectly suited to deliver in its message, instruction and direction: Matters personal are what matters, only — in the pilgrim’s progress — universally.

Matters, personal; only they matter, personally, in the pilgrim’s progress. Universally true, that’s a comfort, going forward. I learned these truths at the Chachomanopapa School of Free Poetry.

NOBLE, GOALS — NOBEL, WORTHY

Like baseball’s Koufax; like football’s, Pelé and Messi; I’ve got weapons; skills, so extraordinary. Witnessed the nation last night on national TV, me, at my best; and revelations’ — epiphanies.

Witnessed the nation last night, me, at my very best; turning the tide that’s been against me —into a tail wind; the stuff of myth; the stuff of, legend. The stuff of revelations and epiphanies.

Legendary, indeed one day shall be my legacy; the stuff of revelations and epiphanies. It is —what it is. Not mythical at all shall be my most storied exploits. Legendary shall be, my poetry.

Legendary one day shall be my poetry. And I thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh for sending my brother Art from the future to teach me his take on poetry so that I might in turn, teach ye.

Peace on Earth; and good will to my (wo)men. It’s a noble goal; it’s a goal, Nobel-worthy. And it’s my goal for all of ye. Peace and prosperity; and good will too. And a key is in — His Poetry.

One key amongst many, is in, I believe, poetry. While I can’t in all honesty confirm that Art was by ball lightning, electrocuted, I agree with him that in Twitter’s algorithm reposes, hidden only 

seemingly, a vast, completely untapped, virgin reservoir, of energy, potential. Potential energy; what energy is, ere it gets, kinetic. Alchemical is, what it is. Transcendentally and metaphysically,

alchemical, has been Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and his innovative way to compound the effect with Google Translate. I’m calling all hands — I’m calling upon, visionaries.

Art’s discovery of a novel way to communicate and an innovative way, with Google Translate, to compound the global effect, is nothing less than a source of potential energy in algorithms.

TwitterEZE, he calls it. So that it works, however one, pronounces it. A good name; a good start. He has postulated to Twitter’s Jack (Twitter’s, patent-holder, proprietor), his rich algorithm’s

potential to be a far richer platform, far more multi-facetedly utilitarian, than the sales and gossip, it seems currently, too shortsightedly, constrained to. For whatever reason, ironically,

Jack hasn’t acknowledged the common sense in Art’s suggestion for a Reddit-like, sub-Twittit. But he will; it’s either that or lose market share. He’ll move eventually albeit maybe — belatedly.

And so I’ll harass Jack and Facebook’ pizza-delivery guy, Zuckerberger. I’ll threaten them with Section 230 and I’ll call them names, trying not to do, what’s not in my interests, pecuniary. 

I try not to do anything that’s not in my interest. All too often though, I don’t succeed. But at the debate last night I succeeded, well beyond, my expectations, communicating — non-verbally.

A CHANGE OF PACE, DEBATE

A mysteriously magnificent, Almighty, Creator. Irony, in meticulously telling detail, happens, ir not. Like, last night; imagine, had I fallen to the floor; dying next to the podium, from whence,

moments before I’d been viciously and cynically Joe Biden, provoking? Imagine an audience, the nation, transfixed, as chest compressions and artificial respirations usher in VP — Mike Pence.

It’s not so, far-fetched. I’m 74, morbidly obese, and I neither eat, nor sleep, well; and I’ve got a world of problems, between the pandemic, the elections, and Nobels, that unfairly, elude me.

Again, I’m no prophet. I don’t know what’s ever going to happen. And I don’t, read much. But I know this much. Given what I’ve been through, I’ve made a mistake running for the presidency.

I know, more. I know that it’s 2020. And I know that 2020 is the Chinese year of the rat. I know most of all that the year of the rat won’t be over til 2020 ends and 2021 begins, in January.

A banshee wailing; under the circumstances, it’s a bad omen. I fear that if I fail to provoke Joe into physically attacking me, I’ll either fake a coronary or suffer ironically — a true, coronary.

It won’t be til January that 2020, ends when my lame duck presidency ends, finally, also. But every end is a new beginning. So I’m weighing the pros and cons — of fleeing — the country.

I’m assuming, given the wailing of the banshee, that there’s a possibility that I may be the one who soon, may be somewhat, unexpectedly, dying. Just in case, I’ll be skipping, the country.

As it turns out, it appears that at least — for a while I’ll go on living and I’ll go on presiding. A debate, remarkably uneventful, was far less, a game changer than I surreally needed it to be.

As it turned out none of what I’d planned nor none of what I’d feared had come to pass. I was unable to provoke Joe nor did I fake a coronary. But neither did I suffer myself, a fatal coronary.

Indeed, none of what I’d planned had come to pass. Nor were realized, the worst of my fears.
I was unable to provoke Joe nor did I fake a coronary. But I didn’t myself, suffer, a coronary.

I was unable to provoke Joe; nor did I fake, any coronary. But I didn’t myself, suffer one. And most implausibly, I largely managed to temper my aggression and my usual — improprieties.

As it turned out, the changes I made in my strategies and my tactics, won my debate for me against Joe Biden, yesterday evening. And by tomorrow morning, I may be even, maybe.

I won my debate against Joe Biden yesterday evening. And by tomorrow morning, I may be in the latest polls, even, maybe. And perhaps, I’ll even take the lead over Joe, most, implausibly.

IN ONE FORTNIGHT, A KARMIC, RECKONING

Upon questioning incisive and insistent, I toss characteristically childish temper tantrums, this most recent one coming, even as my debate looms, on Thursday. And that coronary, fake

I was planning, may prove to be fatal, if in fact, on stage, I just up and die. Walking out on an interview; it doesn’t just look bad. It looks like I’m cracking. My coronary might be — not fake.

My First Lady has not made even a single public appearance on my behalf, this year. Her non-support of me, well-nigh untenable, has really, become. My better half’s last appearance ever,

on my behalf was over a year ago. I’ll likely have to have Bill Barr accuse her of treason, bye and bye. Later; after the election; sometime during my second term, as the ugliest American, ever.

She’s a lot like me. She does what she wants, when she wants. A stubborn contrarian with the strength of an Amazon — warrior woman. And now she’s taken to wailing, like a banshee.

The mournful wailing of the banshee; believed to foretell the death of a member of the family of the person who heard the spirit. I can’t help but hear, the mournful wailing, of the banshee.

I have become afraid of my forever indisposed and now my fearsome, banshee-wailing, First Lady. I can’t be sure, it’s her. But I’m too afraid to even knock on her door. So I’m imagining,

the worst. But what on Earth, could be worse? And what on Earth could worsen what’s already happened? Googling my favorite monopoly, I’ve discovered that the banshee wail, when dying,

is someone in the immediate family. Normally, I’d laugh it off; after all, it’s a myth. Given all that’s happening tho, I asked my boy-doctor to measure my vitals and measure my bloody,

blood pressure. A banshee wailing; it’s a bad omen. It’s just occurred to me that it would be tellingly ironic if in failing to provoke Joe’s physical attack of me and faking a coronary,

a coronary, I myself, suffer. Given furthermore that what’s always seemingly happening, it seems, is so implausibly surreal, I’m assuming there’s a possibility, I’ll be the one, who’s dying.

A banshee wailing; given there’s a possibility I’m the one who’s dying, it’s a bad omen. Knowing also that The Lord works mysteriously, how ironic would it be if my most dramatic, dying

moments, happen, as they say live and in living color I shockingly die on the floor next to the podium from whence mere moments before I’d been as planned, been — Joe Biden, provoking.

Given furthermore that what always seemingly happens, it seems, is so implausibly surreal, I’m assuming there’s a possibility, I may be the one, this October surprising — with a sudden, dying.

AN ASTEROID STRIKE, ELECTION DAY, EVE

God forbid, I can still win, however narrow, the path. And very easily, I would have won had it not been for the Kung flu and all of these, dark skinned folks. I can still win though. An asteroid

may be striking us the day before Election Day. If the refrigerator-sized asteroid, indeed strikes the White House, its impact may well delay, the next day’s, election. Cometh, verily, an asteroid.

It may buzz-cut Earth on Nov. 2, the day before the Presidential Election. As big as a household refrigerator, it is not big enough, the scientists calculate, to cause truly widespread, planetary,

harm. It’s impossible to tell, where, if anywhere upon the face of the planet, the asteroid may impact. But given that this is the year of the rat, odds are, it’s coming — straight for, The Donny.

So if the world indeed does end in 2020, it likely won’t be the fault of the Universe. But it may be my fault. It may well be the fault of The Donald. It may well be the fault of none other, than me.

The problem is — I can live with that. As long as I’m the top dog; as long as my buttons are the biggest — I’m betting big on me; and doubling down. And I can live with that — genocidally.

Republicans are targeted more than Democrats by comedy writers, but what underlies all the reasons why my personality attracts the most comedic attention? Nice guys like me oft suffer

the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and so we outrageously lie, and so implausibly, deny. And it’s funny to writers and readers; the people being lied to — and made to — suffer.

But beyond funny, it is tragic that the history of Urantia needs to be portrayed as an account, comical. It seems that nothing will awaken the Urantians to the gravity, of a very grave, reality.

It’s funny; everything seemingly angers them; still, they seem totally oblivious, to a looming, climax. It’s time to evolve beyond the Godless nations to a single nation; a single community.

Funny; it’s a funny word, sometimes; and it can be sometimes, more ominous, than humorous. 
The Urantians are funny but in a really bad way. Sometimes they fight, at the drop of a hat.

A single community. 7,800,000,000 people, as of March of 2020. That’s just shy of eight billion; and the eight billion struggle to live in the failed state of Urantia; in 2020; in the year, of the rat.

It’s 2020; the year of the rat; a year unlike any other year, ever. 2020; a memorably, round number. It remains to be seen if disintegration awaits, my pipe-dreamt — saving — asteroid.

We’ll see. We’ll see if the asteroid disintegrates in the atmosphere; or a freezer-sized fragment 
impacts the earth, or more likely the water, somewhere. Cometh — my heroic — asteroid?

ASTRONOMICAL ODDS

Astronomical are the odds against an asteroid impacting an election. I’ll be falling back on my last ditch, debate strategy. Baiting Joe into an assault on me or God forbid, faking, a coronary.

I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically, attacking, me. If that doesn’t work, I may dramatically have to — fake suffering, a massive, coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on my person; on President Me.

Alternatively, should Joe keep cool and not take the debate, bait, I’ll fall back on my contingently planned, coronary. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do — or die trying, antiheroically.

I’d rather die than lose to Joe Biden and not just because it would be so embarrassing. Losing to Joe would be a setback to my stay out of jail, strategy. I’ll provoke Joe — or suffer a coronary.

My fellow Urantian Americans: It is what it is. It’s 2020; the traditionally lucky, Chinese year of the rat, this year, seemingly, unlucky. Because I’m a visionary tho I see in tragedy, opportunity.

I see in in our common tragedy, a superlative opportunity. Verily, I see great transformational opportunity in the tragedy that has befallen the nations. It’s critical Americans, not, re-elect me.

Don’t ye dare re-elect me. Vote Joe in. It’s not for nothing that I’ve come to endorse him. He’ll undo, all I’ve done. It’s not for nothing I’ll be voting for Joe, and only seemingly, insincerely.

Astronomical are the odds against an asteroid impacting an election. I’ll be falling back on my last ditch, debate strategy. Baiting Joe into an assault on me or God forbid, faking, a coronary.

I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically, attacking, me. If that doesn’t work, I may dramatically have to — fake suffering, a massive, coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s far too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on the person of President Me.

A FAILURE TO PLAN — A PLAN TO FAIL

I’m no prophet. I don’t actually know what’s going to happen. And except for the Hollywood gossips, I don’t read much. But I know this: In the old days, men were men and might, right,

made. Women knew their place was at home, bearing sons. What is happening, is a disgrace. I was the one; the one and only one that by the right of my might, might have made US — right.

Verily, I’m no prophet. Apart from the gossips, comics and obituaries, just a headline or two is about all I can stomach. I’d rather watch TV. TV is why, however, I don’t, read well. Reality-TV;

it’s TV, too dangerous; too deadly and also, too mind-stunting. Verily, the boob tube has made a boob out of me. The evidence is anecdotal, but it appears — my mind’s been — atrophied.

Ye need not be a prophet to know that I will berate and not debate Joe Biden at the so-called debate. It’s the only way I know how to act. It’s the only way I know how to react, verily.

I will be asked to address my fight against hate; race in America, Covid-19, American families, climate change, national security and the leadership of the United States. Substantively,

I’ve got but little, if anything, to say. Still, I’ve got a two-pronged debate plan, top-secret. I plan on inciting Joe into physically attacking me. And if that doesn’t work, faking, a massive coronary.

It’s a plan born of desperation; a two-pronged plan to elicit an eleventh hour, sympathy vote, in my favor. It won’t be easy. Joe’s way too easy-going. I may well need to resort to, a coronary.

A failure to plan is a plan to fail. And so for the next debate, in furtherance of my stay out of jail electoral strategy, I’ll provoke Joe into a physical attack on my person; on President Me.

Alternatively, should Joe keep cool and not take the debate, bait, I’ll fall back on my contingently planned, coronary. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do — or die trying, antiheroically.

I’d rather die than lose to Joe Biden and not just because it would be so embarrassing. Losing to Joe would be a setback to my stay out of jail, strategy. I’ll provoke Joe — or suffer a coronary.

My fellow Urantian Americans: It is what it is. It’s 2020; the traditionally lucky, Chinese year of the rat, this year, seemingly, unlucky. Because I’m a visionary tho I see in tragedy, opportunity.

I see in in our common tragedy, a superlative opportunity. Verily, I see great transformational opportunity in the tragedy that has befallen the nations. It’s critical Americans, not, re-elect me.

Don’t ye dare re-elect me. Vote Joe in. It’s not for nothing that I’ve come to endorse him. He’ll undo, all I’ve done. It’s not for nothing I’ll be voting for Joe, and only seemingly, insincerely.

THICKENING, 2020 PLOTS, SICKENING US

No one ought believe that this sad situation is other than an unfortunate happenstance; an accident complicated tho by human negligence and unfortunately too, to a pandemic, causal.

It’s not about us, Xi. It’s not personal. It’s just that if a virus in China is ‘born’ and borne, near everywhere, thereafter, well there’s gonna be, Xi, naturally — investigations — legal. Legal

matters. Pay no mind to anything I say on my campaign trail. We’ll talk about this later. In any event it remains to be seen, as a matter of law, if Wuhan wet markets are indeed, even causal.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad, as a damn hatter. And Xi’s irate. Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead. Full speed ahead against China; China’s distracting US from a coronavirus, fatal.

Distracting, I’ll be from here on in too. We’ll just have to work out later — the fallout. Especially since we found out that WHO won’t surrender; neither to us, nor to any microbe, at any time.

Apparently the virus, much like me, acts and reacts. We don’t reason. I’ve got animal instinct in common with it. So I’m betting on time. Time, very, shortened. And I am counting on time’s,

shortness, to force the cooperation needed to confront a common enemy. Genius uncommon this common sense, of mine. Rare indeed is a genius (once perhaps, in a creation), like mine.

The plot thickens. The Chinese reaction, my advisers fear shall be swift and fast and furious. Even so-called inconclusive evidence that the virus, once upon an invented — fantastic time,

originated at a Chinese research facility in wan Wuhan leaves the Chinese less than inscrutable to the United States. Xi has been irate with me even though I’ve told him that it’s not about us.

Our militaries are bracing for a long, protracted struggle against a virus and one another; each looking for novel ways to achieve an advantage armed unknowingly, only with, naked, hubris.

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 the center of attention 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.

I’m obsessive-compulsive. And mad, as a hatter. 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; neither to us — nor the coronaviral — microbe.

BALL OF CONFUSION

“IN THE MINDS of Urantia’s mortals there is confusion about the 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.

drrick@ricksheffmd.com: Thank ye, Dr. Sheff. Thank ye for your fine summary. Dr, with your permission, I would weave ye into more of my poem, if ye would, again — agree. Clink on my

link to view a pilgrim’s progress — therefore.
MAYDAY 1824: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16, 2020 https://chachomanopapa.com/2020/10/16/mayday-1824-friday-october-16-2020-2/ It’s no lie.

Verily, it’s no lie. Actually, I can not tell a lie. I’m the president of the United States. And ye may recall that George Washington institutionalized, a tradition of never ever, telling to America, lies.

Be honest, always, with the people. Ne’er lie to them. Check back in, regularly here, for your daily, updates. But if I win in November, all bets are off. In truth, the truth I regularly do — belie.

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 things to waste. Truly — wasted, opportunities.

A fine algorithm, like a fine mind, one like mine, is precious. More precious than any fine wine is my fine mind. Witness a ghostwritten satire of mine, in co-authorship with my brother, Arthur.

As awful a thing as it is to waste a fine mind. As awful as that is, far worse it may be if (wo)man heeds not my counsel; it is the fine counsel of Arthur, as well. Answers, are in the Scriptures.

Answers are in Scriptures. In each of them are answers, provincially, partial. A more complete answer, however, emerges when we view in the context of the UB — our traditional Scriptures.

No wonder then that the UB begins by noting what the Temptations came to call, A Ball of Confusion. Verily, there is confusion about the meaning on Urantia, of God, divinity and deity.

And so it came to pass once upon a time; in 2020 to be exact, in the year of the rat. Once I learned about reality, predetermination and Karmic retribution; that it’s not all — about me.

HIGHER EDUCATION

I am outta here. Good luck Joe. Be honest Joe, 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. Natural leaders, unlike everybody else, are naturally 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.

ANCIENT EPICS

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, making Vyasa’s epic, the longest poem, 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; all along its length, it features content insightful; 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.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. And my proud Boys preen, ever more, proudly.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

What a difference a day makes in nanoseconds; as when Yellowstone, Krakatoa and Santorini, blew their tops, on unknown dates, in unknown years — super, sky-high — super, volcanically.

What a difference 1 year may make; as when the tots of moms and pops grow, in fits and starts; in learning’s ebbs and flows; growing, inexorably, ever exasperatingly, fascinatingly.

What a difference 25 years may make; as when computers digitally usher in information ages, rife with disinformation, or in lieu, alternatively, informative; uniting and divisive, concurrently.

What a difference 250 years may make; when machines and engines, dramatically upped our consumption, our supply and demand and our uneven, 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; when from cosmic dust on the ground on Earth, in His image, He created us. He did omnipotently create 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 a little boy, along with, their families.

What a difference one day may make; as when I, a mutant motormouth, uncouthly stigmatize Islam, polarizing thereby, the planet and pitting Muslim against Christian, seemingly, unwisely.

“What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?” A daunting, question; ever since, Arthur’s been haunted, by both the answer, and the question: “What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?”

Thus began the dreamy soirees and their true 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 far more elegant and fat more emotive than one might ever aspire to — merely, prosaically.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that is most favored by Him, Personally. Verse better expresses, personality.

Composing on 3 levels, 280 character tweets metamorphose to blog logs, metamorphosing, in turn, into a manuscript in hermetic, solitude; 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 innovative novel-like, novel, poetry.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is why my

long-winded soliloquy; the minutes of soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly, 280 characters. I denounce and renounce not Proud Boys but denounce and renounce 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, Art. I looked up fascism.’ It’s a philosophy, political, movement or regime (like namesake 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 for the Jews then for 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 good 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 well 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.

ALL PROSE IS POETRY — POTENTIALLY

All prose is poetry, potentially. Short and sweet; and succinct. Epigrammatic; like tombstones, in the old days. All prose, is akin, to poetry. A fine slogan for a free, elementary, school of poetry.

An elementary, high school of poetry Art has founded; and he is its headmaster and one of only two pupils. The other is me, the president. President of my grand dad’s, adopted, country.

Allegedly, and officially too, that country is US; the United States of America. But many wonder and whisper in the hallways of power, whether or not, I’ve been co-opted, by another country.

Some Americans wonder about me. Not about the wonder that is me, but rather whether we have been, by our own president, duped. They wonder about Vladimir, and Russia — and me.

A gift; a present; actually, the precise adjective used in the Urantia Book by beings unknown and unnamed, is bestowal. And there are but five bestowals cited, in the most extraordinary,

Urantia Book. First are the teachings of the Planetary Prince, Caligastia and his staff of 100 from 500,000 years ago until his betrayal 200,000 years ago. Adam and Eve, secondly,

beginning 35,000 years ago until their fall by default. Third was Melchizedek of Salem, the teacher of Abraham who went on to teach all the oneness of God 4,000 years ago, eventually

becoming the father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Fourth; Christ Michael’s incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth 2,000 years ago. The fifth and last great bestowal has been the relatively

recent, Urantia Book of the 1920s and 30s. It teaches that seven superuniverses comprise the grand universe. And our planet, Urantia (Earth) is really awesomely and near incredibly,

physically located at an outer fringe of the seventh superuniverse. On the fringes of the youngest of the superuniverses, evolving and devolving are we, we primitive, evolutionaries.

No crowning creation are so-called, wise men. Far, from it. Hubris-afflicted, prideful men; easy prey, for the sophistries of Lucifer, Satan. That was that. It is, what it is. It is, what’s happening.

Up Shit Creek, with no paddle and, increasingly, louder and louder rumbles in the distance, the sound of everything, hurtling over, a precipice. That’s that. It is what it is. It’s what’s happening.

What’s happening are crises, multiple. Nobels are lost; I’m gonna lose too, by a landslide, the election. Alas, the people seem, not to believe me. I’ve gotta get Art another platform. To tell

his stories; to tell, our stories; actually, The Creator’s stories, one way, or another. me. I’ve gotta get Art another platform so he go on telling the story I’ve been ghostwriting, to tell.

MY FELLOW URANTIANS: NOW READ THIS:

Shocked recently was I, when I read six words: ‘The Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship.’ Shocked was I, additionally, because my stay out of jail electoral strategy, ever increasingly,

is failing and this year’s Nobels for Peace and Literature were awarded to others, not to me. Increasingly, I’m in trouble. And so I’ll need to redouble my efforts to help Art save, humanity.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

I floated an idea recently; ripping open my button-down shirt to reveal my Superman t-shirt, underneath. No one, it seems, has a sense of humor, anymore. I can’t imagine, why.

I don’t know why. I can’t for the life of me even imagine why everyone thought it was such a bad, morbid, idea. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost their sense of humor? Has anyone — died?

Tone-deaf, sometimes, am I. I can’t believe that I asked that. In all honesty, too many have died. Too many more, remain to die. It is, what it is. Still, there’s a silver lining in my legacy, possibly.

Given my run, in 2020, of bad luck, it was my good luck to notice (because I rarely, read) a story about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship. I alerted Arthur, near immediately.

In a safe house, Arthur’s been hiding out from a virus and from Vladimir’s assassins. And I’ve been writing; ghostwriting for him, a tall tale for the ages. Still it’s a tale only seemingly, fictional.

Fictional is this less than cryptic instruction; this algorithm, poetic; this, panacea. Because there can be no mistake, know all men by these presents — MAYDAYS is fiction — nonfictional.

A PROGRESSIVE, OPPORTUNITY 

Help me make Urantia, a welfare state. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. An innovative novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; fictional and nonfictional; not your father’s satire; something topical, edgy, and compelling. Compelling, multi-tasking; my MAYDAYS is a satire, fully intended, to inspire.

To be forewarned, is to be forearmed. The committee administering the scholarship in Amy’s name aims to name a poet of Ame­ri­can birth, and of good standing, or able promise,

preference being given, to those of progressive, literary, tendencies. Aiming to avoid extremes of academic conservatism on the one hand and that radicalism which springs from the promise 

of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee invites all to submit, cautioning however that a literary pedigree may promise 

a greater likelihood of traveling to Boston and accepting an invaluable prize, which amount pales next to, the value to Earth of a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. A promise; 

a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. An algorithm. Life; and evolution of the species don’t come with anything resembling a map or book; or a helpful blueprint set, of instructions.

So here it is, my fellow Urantians. A helpful, algorithm. Because life and evolution doesn’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or helpful, blueprint, sets, of instructions.

There are black holes in the centers of galaxies. Event horizons, mysterious. Analogously, there is something akin to a black hole in each of us; a flame co-existing, with a black hole, inside us.

A flame co-exists with a black hole, deep inside of us. Ever since the administration of Urantia, of Caligastia succumbed to, Satan’s, siren song; ever since, Satan decided, for him — and for us,

that he’d and we’d be happier and better off, being not shmucks, believing in our eternally absent, celestial, still, colonial, rulers. Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said.

Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said. Satan’s seductive siren song seduced, easily, resentful and gullible, masses. And they chanted if I can’t be free I’d be better off dead.

I’m penning a satire; a blueprint map; a yellow brick road to a welfare state; I’m penning colors and pictures in words and I’ll do right by Amy and the possessive Ezra Pound of the imagists.

A satirical, ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. It’s not hagiographical but rather confessional. Colorful satire may be the mark of a copy-cat, innovatively progressive, imagist.

PENEMUE’S COMMISSION 

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; they whom are the disembodied spiritual counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim of Genesis; the progeny some say of the union of rebel angels and earthling women, rebelling.

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.

SURREAL TALL TALES

2016 through 2019; three years in ebbing, best of times. The first three years of 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.

LOCKING DOWN; RAMPING UP

Lockdown the nation! Medical and financial systems are folding, like the houses of cards, they are. Lockdown the nation! We’re now living in an unprecedented 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 struggle with a novel virus, not unexpected by some, life and death matters 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.

EUREKA!

Antonio Guterres: Eureka! I have found it! It was in plain sight, hidden. But I have found it. And just in time. To exchange the paradigms. I found it in Twitter’s algorithm right here online.

I found Antonio, hidden in Twitter’s algorithm, space and time. Space enough for all of 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 my rhymes 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 due 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, turns surreally, 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.

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.

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. Let’s make 

peace; and 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 nonfictional warning, posing as fiction; in allegory — epic stories — of weakling men — in evolution.

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

people’s lives; this is precisely how Covid-19, spreads. Thanks Albert Einstein for the thought experiment, I tweeted on Twitter to my followers, from the Democrats, 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 karmic predetermination, America leads the planet in Covid-19 deaths. 

The virus has stymied mankind but it hasn’t stymied me. In fact the virus is why, in part, I’ll survive, no matter how many die. Why’s another matter. I just don’t dwell on death.

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. And then we bury ye. Life is short. Then ye die. And then we bury ye.

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. Don’t be afraid. I’m endorsing Joe, an American ye need not, fear.

Online conspiracy theories are describing the COVID-19 pandemic as a government-perpetrated hoax. Blame for the pandemic lies, the conspiracy theorists alternately 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, We’ve got to stop the fear-mongering — I’d say.

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

Over my, very own, failures? But WHO knows, that along with China, along with everybody that I‘m the one who dropped the ball on this and so — that’s why — I’m blaming WHO.

I blame everyone. WHO too. Why not? That’s always worked for me. My followers know not civil discourse nor civil disobedience from armed insurrection. Why not — blame WHO?

Some continuing education is in order. Dying by the thousands, now whither cometh the millions? As in the pogroms of the old days. Who knew I’d be so nostalgic over the old days?

Cometh possibly, the pogroms, anew. And God forbid they be like what happened to the Armenians in Turkey and to the Syrian Yazidis. Clashes of civilizations; like in the old days.

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

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

PANDEMIC DELUSION

It is one thing to be harmlessly, delusional. As one in a daydream often is. As we all at times, are. But when one is as delusional as I am and to such death am causal and no one believes

me, my reality shall collide with the American, all too real surreality of my responsibility for these preventable deaths. I’ll own these deaths. But lying’s a problem if no one believes.

The bare-cupboard Obama alibi was an outright lie from the outset. My ultimate responsibility for these preventable deaths, 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. My 

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. Art’s in a viral hotspot, right now. And Art as ye know is old, slow and compromised. Have ye an apartment 

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, by the way, too. If only 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.

We need one nation and one Rule, Golden. And we’ll need to start over. But I suspect that if polled, men too would elect His egalitarianism — over base nationalism’s — rule.

Switching paradigms; and starting over; given a governmental infrastructure already in place, we can do this and we can do it in short order. We can do it in a generation.

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. We can do this in a generation.

EPIGRAMMING

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.

THEATER OF THE ABSURD

What’s happening across Urantia’s America are blessings from God. Making it that much more incumbent upon US not leaving it entirely up to Him. He will help US help ourselves. In theaters 

of the absurd, both the illness and the cure are, in my VP’s view, Heaven-sent, blessings. His snow-white hair attests to his age. And the fly atop it attests to the absurdities — of theater.

What happens when human existence lacks meaning or purpose and our communications break down? How on Earth do we make a come back, from something possibly fatal, like that?

That’s just one existential question, I’ve asked myself. It’s an existential question, I’ve also, answered. When one’s a genius, one’s able too ask and answer, existential questions, like that.

For 122 seconds on Wednesday night the vice presidential debate was hijacked by a fly. What appeared to be a residential housefly rested or did its thing for more than two minutes on my

VP’s white hair. That’ll mean treatment for him with antibiotics, experimental viricidals and a shampoo. For 122 seconds, no one listened, because atop him, doing something, was a fly.

And whether that fly was resting or evacuating on Mike’s hair matters less than matters this series of indignities, unbroken; near unbroken; the string of calamities since around, January.

Since January, it’s seemingly been for me, a string of calamities and indignities, unbroken. That last night painfully symbolized for me, the Chinese pox arisen, since the onset — of 2020.

In all honesty, I’m not given to lying; nor the leaking of misinformation. But I’ve reason to believe that Joe’s in cahoots with the Chinese. They’ve sickened me. And the fly, was a drone.

Joe’s colluding with the Chinese, sickening me, already. And under investigation is whether the fly in Mike’s hair was a fake fly, Chinese, drone. They’ve sickened me. And the fly, was a drone.

Biden-Harris fly swatters quickly sold out but there’s bobblehead Mike Pence complete with a fly and swatter. And apparently, there’s an abiding conviction that Joe Biden and Kamala

Harris will always choose truth over lies and real science, over fictional fare. There’s an abiding conviction about Joe and Kamala that they’re the good guys on the planet of Urantia.

Theater, truly absurd. Pence’s bobblehead joins a lineup of 2020 bobbleheads including the collectibles of Carole and Howard Baskin and the coronaviral, fighting doctors, the fly-bys,

Anthony Fauci and Deborah Birx. Visit the National Bobblehead Hall of Fame online store, for delivery, sometime, post-2020. Meanwhile, I’ll check reports of Chinese drones — and flies.

GOOD, NOT FAKE, NEWS

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, on the other hand, 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, crudely and unabashedly; I dare say, proudly, cheated.

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 means, elsewhere. Americans — love their dogs. Koreans, like to eat — dog.

MY FELLOW URANTIANS: NOW READ THIS:

Shocked recently was I, when I read six words: ‘The Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship.’ Shocked was I, additionally, because my stay out of jail electoral strategy, ever increasingly,

is failing and this year’s Nobels for Peace and Literature were awarded to others, not to me. Increasingly, I’m in trouble. And so I’ll need to redouble my efforts to help Art save, humanity.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman — alas, a mother, unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country; wantonly, deporting them.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

I floated an idea yesterday; ripping open my button-down shirt to reveal my Superman t-shirt, underneath. No one, it seems, has a sense of humor anymore. I can’t imagine, why.

I don’t know why. I can’t for the life of me even imagine why everyone thought it was such a bad, morbid, idea. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost their sense of humor? Has anyone — died?

Tone-deaf, sometimes, am I. I can’t believe that I asked that. In all honesty, too many have died. Too many more, remain to die. It is, what it is. Still, there’s a silver lining in my legacy, possibly.

Given my run, in 2020, of bad luck, it was my good luck to notice (because I rarely, read) a story about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poetry Scholarship. I alerted Arthur, near immediately.

In a safe house, Arthur’s been hiding out from a virus and from Vladimir’s assassins. And I’ve been writing; ghostwriting for him, a tall tale for the ages. Still it’s a tale only seemingly, fictional.

Fictional is this less than cryptic instruction; this algorithm, poetic; this, panacea. Because there can be no mistake, know all men by these presents — MAYDAYS is fiction — nonfictional.

A PROGRESSIVE, OPPORTUNITY

Help me make Urantia, a welfare state. Help me write a satire; a ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. An innovative novel satire, less hagiographical, than confessional. Satire,

autobiographical; fictional and nonfictional; not your father’s satire; something topical, edgy and compelling. Compelling, multi-tasking; my MAYDAYS is a satire, fully intended, to inspire.

To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee administering the scholarship in Amy’s name aims to name a poet of Ame­ri­can birth and of good standing or able promise,

preference, being given to those of progressive, literary, tendencies. Aiming to avoid extremes of academic conservatism on the one hand and that radicalism which springs from the promise

of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned, is to be, forearmed. The committee invites all to submit, cautioning however that a literary pedigree may promise

a greater likelihood of traveling to Boston and accepting an invaluable prize, which amount pales next to, the value to Earth of a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. A promise;

a primer; a how-to tome; a set of instructions. An algorithm. Life; and evolution of the species don’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or a helpful blueprint set of instructions.

So here it is, my fellow, Urantians. A helpful, algorithm. Because life and evolution and don’t come with anything resembling a map, or a book or helpful, blueprint, sets, of instructions.

There are black holes in the centers of galaxies. Event horizons, mysterious. Analogously, there is something akin to a black hole in each of us; a flame co-existing, with a black hole, inside us.

A flame co-exists with a black hole, deep inside of us. Ever since the administration of Urantia, of Caligastia succumbed to, Satan’s, siren song; ever since, Satan decided, for him — and for us,

that he’d and we’d be happier and better off, being not shmucks, believing in our eternally absent, celestial, still, colonial, rulers. Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said.

Give me liberty or give me death, dramatically, he said. Satan’s seductive siren song seduced, easily, resentful and gullible, masses. And they chanted if I can’t be free I’d be better off dead.

I’m penning a satire; a blueprint map; a yellow brick road to a welfare state; I’m penning colors and pictures in words and I’ll do right by Amy and the possessive Ezra Pound of the imagists.

A satirical, ghostwritten, account; the tallest tale, ever told. It’s not hagiographical but rather confessional. Colorful satire may be the mark of a copy-cat, innovatively progressive, imagist.

ANCIENT EPICS

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.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. With that in mind my Boys — preen — proudly.

URANTIA FIRST

A six word announcement; not a story, really. Nonetheless, those six words, recalled for me, due to their brevity, a favorite, flash fiction, six word, story: For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

Attributed to Hemingway, it appears that some other poor unknown author may have actually written the story, that to Ernest, was attributed. A moving story — of baby shoes — ne’er worn.

Exponentially more impressive to me has been, Bruce Lee’s, “Be water.” In two words, volumes. A two word philosophy, illuminating this planet, far beyond, an all too brief, shooting star, story.

A story poignantly, illustrative. Too western for the Chinese; too eastern for us; still, like water he flowed, eventually crumbling and actually washing over, all walls confronting him, vainly.

Do help me help Art. Help me help him to get us, to save ourselves. A puzzling mystery, this poem, penned by George Washington and since handed down — president, to president.

Handed down — from president, to president. Barack advised me to read it. I, didn’t. Honestly, I don’t like to read. I’m a doer; a man of action. Too little time to read — if I’m — the president.

The deaths I’ll be blamed for may well reach 233,000 by October’s end. And projections therefrom show that more than 2,900 more Americans could be dying daily — by January.

Don’t worry. Be happy. This nightmare will, like all things, end. And ye shall, in retrospect, later, better understand why I do and say all the seemingly crazy things I do and say, routinely.

Let’s help Art kickstart his plan; to transform man; to suppress in the pilgrim’s progress, ego, even as we foster, empathy. It’s not about ye. And near incredibly (to me), it’s not, about me.

2020. It’s been awful; worse yet, increasingly, it gets worse. But how bad might it really yet get? Spoiler alert: It’ll get really bad before it gets, surreally — better. Witness, March 4th, 2030.

Tuesday, March 4, 2030: Because it is both a calendar date and a command, I’ve got a date in mind for our 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.

March 4th. The irony is not lost upon me. From America First, a Global Citizenship Day. But of what may happen in these real theaters of the absurd, it’s just one, of countless, possibilities.

In theaters absurd, absurdities are the soup de jour, daily fare. As absurd may be MAYDAYS’ talking point messages, characterized. Still, my legacy may one day reflect Amy Lowell’s legacy.

A PLOT, NUTSHELLED

A plot, nutshelled. A retiring angel, my prodigal brother, Arthur Everman, yearns to retire early to Heaven. To reside there, permanently, with his beloved families. But first; saving, Urantia.

Urantia (Earth, interchangeably); a tough nut to crack. Tough as nails like me; a man of wealth and fame. His Watcher-commissioned mission — only seemingly impossible: To save, Urantia.

Art’s mission seems impossible: But Art’s saving of Urantia, only seemingly, is impossible. Art’s got soirées on the moon, his plans to attend to. And Art’s got a vision — of the power of poetry.

The power of poetry. It’s awesome; even more awesome, than imagined. How awesome is it that poetry‘s beauty is a reflection of Divinity? Witness Jung’s synchronicities; today, poetry’s

influence, influences still. Glück won this year’s Nobel today. She was the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2003 to 2004. But everyone knows that today, I — really should have won.

Previous winners of the Prize for Literature include Ernest Hemingway, Bob Dylan, Wole Soyinka, Toni Morrison and Kazuo Ishiguro. But everyone knows that today, I should have won.

Keep in mind when reading, the circumstances. And that circumstances, dictate, what happens. And that it’s me, the Don that is dictating to my phone — this only seemingly, impossible, story.

Dictation; it’s what dictators do. And it’s ironic; it’s ironic that the composition of a poet of her or his poetry invariably shields his or her lector from our wholesale, brainwashing, ideologies.

Brainwashing ideologies; socialization, of the cultural and national norms, of a society. To give one a sense of belonging to the nation. To each nation, its own, brainwashing — ideology.

Brainwashing; the formation and maintenance of the cultural and national norms of a society. To give a sense of belonging to the nation. Each nation adopts its own brainwashing, ideology.

And it matters but little, in the big picture, if a nation is regarded as regressive or progressive. They want their citizens pliant and obediently, subject, at all times, to brainwashing, ideology.

A plot, nutshelled. The FBI arrested six men in Michigan for allegedly plotting to kidnap the governor; to put her, for her lockdown orders, on trial. We’ve got terrorists and plots, unlikely.

We’ve got, terrorists, home-grown; no need to import, any. And they’ve got, plots, a-many. My fellow Americans: I was just kidding. I wasn’t calling for any armed insurrection, type, plot.

Just allegations; there is no proof of any plot. In any event, whether or not there is a plot, I’m disavowing both knowledge of it and denying responsibility for it. I know no plot, not my plot.

FEAR OF OCTOBER SURPRISE(S)

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. Wise men know that it’s just nature’s way; as when aged forests burn, only to give way to renewed pristine forests, only to once again, in stages, ever age, over the years.

And so I call upon Sappho of Lesbos, she also known as the Tenth Muse and as The Poetess. I call upon also, the American poetess Ms Amy Lowell; I pray she’ll help me, duly, help Arthur.

It’s been all good news lately. I’ve defeated the virus. The economy’s rebounding. And I’ve got Joe Biden right in my sights, right in front of me. But he’s way in front of me, says Arthur.

I’m back in the Oval Office despite being at risk of spreading COVID-19. Some of my aides were reportedly saying, I’m seeming stronger than when I returned from the hospital. They claim

tho also, that they hear me laboring; struggling with my breathing. Still, there’s no sign yet of any distress signaling that a reprised October Surprise, is arising, attempting my life, to claim.

I’m on real drugs; been taking Dexamethasone, a roiding steroid known to have some powerful psychological effects; some roiling, emotional, effects including, ironically, customary feelings

of euphoria and omnipotence but anxiety and depression, also, as well. Witness me tweet-storming this morning, at 17 tweets per hour. Ye’d think ye’d know what I’m actually, thinking.

Been fever-free for more than 4 days; not requiring, supplemental oxygen, neither. And everyone knows I’m redefining the meaning of GOAT. My legend grows, notwithstanding

everyone knows I make it all up as I go along, lying, cheating; inflating and deflating the value of my assets; and conspiring with my bankers in schemes of elaborate, money, laundering.

A twin, second, October Surprise is what I now fear, ironically, the most. Even as I encourage Americans not to unreasonably fear this virus, still, I feel my body’s defenses, turn against me.

Tragi-comically, this coronavirus, I reasonably, fear. And I can’t shake this feeling deep inside of me; horror. That the electoral strategy of a germaphobe be sickened by a microbe like me.

I proved almost anything is possible, just four years ago. 2020 tho is not 2016. Undecided and persuadable voters in 2020 are a rarity. It’s not 2016. It’s the year of the rat. It’s unlucky, 2020.

Mooted, issues of voter fraud, overwhelmingly, I shall be booted out of office, in 2020. In 2020, I get my comeuppance. That notwithstanding that it’s a lucky Chinese year of the rat, in 2020.

VINE — VIDE — VICI — TWITTER-ESE

My messaging has been quite widely, poorly received by my medical experts and even by some of my allies who wonder why I continue to downplay the virus. Indeed I’ve been unwise.

The dreaded October Surprise; my airlift; from my house to the hospital. More shocking tho is the shock that cometh once arrive, nightmarish optics; a 2020, reprised — October — Surprise.

A surprise rerouting to the hospital; it’s what cruel fate has for me in store. And I ask myself, “Why me; why now?” After my trajectory, how can it be that Satan forsake me — and why?

I came, I saw and I conquered. Caesar’s iconic words ring true, even today. A house divided against itself, cannot stand. My words and my numbers; and in spaces between words, whys?

and numbers, universes. I’m not a big fan though of words; that’s made a big difference. Reading. It’s a good habit. My habit tho is to eschew the time-consuming reading, of words.

Vine. Vide. Vici. I came, I saw and I conquered. I had to, verily. I came, I saw and I conquered. Caesar’s words ring true, even today. Houses divided against themselves can’t stand. Words

and numbers; and in the space between them, universes. I’m not a big fan though of reading words. And it’s made all the difference. Who knew? Who knew, about algorithms and words?

Who knew? About algorithms? And words? And who really knew about alchemy, behavior mod and the potential energy in this (white) witch’s brew of visionary children; Urantian, legatees.

The truth is that, for a genius, I’m pretty stupid. Twice as dumb, as any rock; and hard-headed. Proof positive of God’s absolute awesomeness. And the utility in Arthur’s Free School of Poetry.

Art’s School of Poetry. The Chachomanopapa School of Poetry, he calls it. He and I, its only, members. Arthur studied ethics at my Trump University; I studied the composition of poetry.

Split 280 characters in two. Background sound, set to a fave frequency. It’s meditation. Add a pic if ye want. A ton of difference it’s made. Use Google Translate for maximum power, poetry.

Use Google Translate to engage, maximally when ye speak not the lingo of your sister or your brother. A ton of difference may make a simple formula, for the composition, of poetry.

As in the army let’s be all we can be. Transform. Use Google Translate. Let’s create, alternative, platforms. Arthur’s proposing a novel linguistic innovation to make possible social connections.

Twitter-ese, Art has coined his novelty, whether one’s intended connection is with a speaker of your same tongue or not. Use Google Translate to communicate — and establish, connections.

BE NOT AFRAID

Do not be afraid of Covid. Don’t let it dominate your life. We have developed, under my administration, some really really great drugs and really really great, knowledge. Common

sense; not so much. This decision may end up, suicidally, killing me. There’s an ill-defined and bloody line of martyrs and patriots; a dime, a dozen. But visionaries, verily, are uncommon.

In what some have described as a show of child-like, defiance, I took my mask off as I arrived at the White House after my stir-crazy three days at the hospital. Now I’m back to

infect the White House before I hit the road. Campaigning’s cool; it is governing that’s a drag; it is governing that, I don’t like. But I love the riches, the power and the attention — too.

Now hear this: Spoiler alert: Reckless. Shocking. The reactions to my saying ‘don’t be afraid of Covid’, purposely, and provocatively, planned; intended to elicit an angry response, cynically.

But it’s not about valor. It’s about my personal triumph over the viral enemy. Because the pickings are slim and the circumstances, daunting, it’s a last-ditch, electoral, strategy.

An electoral, strategy, not unsurprisingly, rashly calculated. Born of boredom, it is calculated to relieve my boredom there by replacing it with my more private boredom, at the White House.

Sadly or gladly as the case may be, dismissed is the possibility that I’ll need to be returning to the hospital. But man plans and God laughs. It’s a short flight to a hospital from a White House.

Man plans and God laughs. An ill-defined and bloody line of martyrs and patriots run through history. A dime a dozen. Visionaries though, are truly uncommon. Unlike old, Yiddish, wisdom.

Unlike Yiddish wisdom, visionaries often get swallowed up whole by the mad rush of the sundry pilgrims’ progress. But technological innovation must be coupled — with wisdom.

Technological innovation coupled with wisdom. It’s super-vision. Connectivity. Vision grounded, and so connected to, everything, everywhere. Vision connected to communications, verbal.

The vision: A new, communication-driven, connectivity. A new social platform for the evolutionary, revolutionaries. With Google Translate already here the potential is palpable.

Witness Jung’s synchronicities. And witness the synchronicity of the attention of an entire planet on the increasingly wild-eyed antics of one increasingly, desperate, solitary, human.

Marvel therefore not so much at the story that follows, necessarily at length. Marvel rather at the mysterious ways by which things happen. Things happen. Heed me, my fellow Americans.

NOBELS; AND A SCHOLARSHIP OF POETRY

Breakthroughs in the field of health shall be honoured on Monday when the 2020 Nobel season kicks off with the medicine prize, as