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.


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.


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.


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 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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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; 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.


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.


Tuesday, March 4, 2030: Because it is both a calendar date and a command, I’ve got a date in mind for Urantia‘s citizens’ inaugural celebration of their first, Global Citizenship Day.

On Tuesday, March 4, in the year of Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. 2030. A perfect fit. And the surreal irony of it all, is not at all, lost upon me. From America First, a Global Citizenship — Day.

No, ironies are not, upon me, lost. Magnificent, is His timing; Carl Jung’s synchronicities serve to accentuate that magnificence, suggesting that perhaps, indeed, that’s their purpose, everyday.

The synchronicities are clues; clues to what’s happening; clues to this incomprehensibly baffling mix of predeterminations, free will, miracles aplenty and magic apparent everyday.

That — speak volumes. For I’m either an idiot, or an idiot, savant. A wrecking ball or wrecking ball precursor, antecedent to a transcendental, transformation’s — belated — reconstruction.

With Election Day fast approaching, I want to speak clearly, as I often don’t do to my sallow, fellow, Americans. TV has had a dramatic effect on me; a chronic condition; my prevarications.

Not as threatening to me as it is, believe ye me, to the nation. Too much TV-watching has had a tragi-comic effect on me. Witness; much taken was I with my hero the eloquent sailor, Popeye.

Popeye‘s why I like to say I ams what I ams; that’s part of the comic part. Then — there’s Iran. The made for TV — 444 days. Verily, TV hath left an indelible mark on me, bye and bye.

The point of this verse, inter alia, is to declare my unfitness to hold the office I do in fact hold. Pursuant to my agreement with Arthur; to say, unequivocally, I’m sick and tired of being unfit.

Too sick and let me be perfectly clear; indeed, too clinically mentally ill am I, to be a president. Indeed I have been from the very beginning of my presidency, all along, mentally ill, and unfit.

That’s not to say that I’m not a genius. There’s no denying that. It’s just to say that for serving as the president of a nation — mind ye — any nation, I am — most supremely — uber-unfit.

And so in lieu of resignation, I offer instead an unequivocal endorsement of my esteemed opponent, the most honorable most Sleepy, Joe Biden. Personally, I don’t sleep but I am, unfit.

Sign me in closing, your favorite president, President Tweety Trump; and post-script it, Sorry, Sleepy, about all that Ukrainian-Hunter, stuff. I was just kidding. Don’t even bother to

investigate me; nor investigate anybody in my family; not Barbie; not Ken. By the way, I’ve taken the liberty of offering and accepting from myself, a presidential pardon — already — too.


I am outta here. Good luck Joe. Be honest, always, with the people. Ne’er lie to them. And check back in here for your updates, daily. But if I somehow win in November, all bets are off.

This epic poem I hereby gift ye, explains, a lot. Not just why I’m undertaking the risk of leaving DC’s unlucky Chinese year of the rat to ye but also why I’m undertaking to take some time off.

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

it Joe. Refer to and defer to it. I wish, I had. But only my hindsight is 20-20. Leave it to the children. Just not, the Beaver. But natural leaders, just like everybody else, are measured

different from the follower rest of ye. Most follow where leaders, lead. But some are their own leader. Leaders like Greta. She may well, in due time, lead us to, a brand new, perspective.

There is a vast potential, not in plain sight, but hidden. Hidden as if in the bowels of an algorithm. Almost perfectly hidden. Things placed in bowels, are well hidden, irrespective.

But relax; algorithms, unlike bowels, are really super-duper, clean — metaphysical — things. The children may be just the open, sponge-like minds mankind needs to see the persuasive

value in poetry. Leave it surely, to the children. Some say I’m not perfect; but reasonable men, may differ. I’ve made a commitment to Arthur, a second class, American citizen — persuasive.

Enter the dragon. No; the dragon’s not the so-called, novel, coronavirus. The dragon is Arthur and he has entered as dragons are wont to do; spitting — hot ash and spitting — hotter, fire.

Abraham Lincoln earned his eventual political stature to due to an ability to compromise and supreme confidence. George Washington, a close reading of history — reveals — a higher,

calling. To my chagrin, I’d done no real work to earn my wealth. Been getting enrichened, since I was a toddler. Like Citizen Kane, my wealth had been a mere stepping stone, to my power.

But what good can power really do? Indeed, what good can power do, I have often thought even as I have done, wrong. Now, however, second thoughts — empower me — further.

I’m having second thoughts. Excellent, second thoughts. I’m studying composition at Arthur’s very much besought School of Poetry. He in turn, studied ethics at my Trump University.

Now defunct, once upon a time, it was as well,
much besought and very highly, regarded, amongst the subset seeking an e=mc² type, formula to success, once upon a time, formerly.


Whether or not Arthur’s alleged electrocution actually happened I can’t say. I wasn’t there. Nor can I say with any certainty that that’s when it happened that Arthur began versing.

And I wasn’t there either when Arthur alleges he had his Archimedean, EUREKA moment, in his bathtub and then promptly went and got himself arrested, by a policewoman, arresting.

The arresting policewoman, a good-looking one also, indeed did Arthur arrest. But I’ll say this, if only to end any debate as to what’s happening here. Arthur’s verse, truly is, miraculous, verse.

Dissolve the UN; one nation, reconvene. One Rule per nation; each nation its own; everybody gets her or his Basic Income, Universal. What pray tell is the globally, universal Rule, in verse?

The universal Rule that the nations need rule and be ruled by — a poetic verse itself — is none other than our very much beloved albeit, our very much underutilized — Golden Rule.

Dissolve the UN. One nation, reconvene. And decree the Golden Rule to be the Law in every nation. And everyone on the planet gets his or her Universal Basic Income — pursuant to Rule.

In these crises multi-task, efficiently. Follow the data. And the science. Let’s let tech help us to crunch the numbers. Let us aspire to well use everyone. And aspire — also, to lose — no one.

It’s 2020. Set 2030 as the inaugural GCD; the 1st global citizenship day. I’ll be there, God willing; and never mind Congress. Because March 4th is both a date and a command — to everyone.

March 4th; both a date and a command; to celebrate citizenship and to recall, perhaps, when more myopic men than I ruled. And I’ll be there if can just scrap these illegal, term limits.

Seize the day; but for God’s sake have a plan around. All my blather of instinct and gut feelings, sounds discomfortingly digestive than battlefield — instinctive. A man, has his limits.

Notwithstanding a cacophony of bellyaching sounds, sounds most unbecoming to many, my approval ratings are rising again. Coming soon; dramatic plot twists — in an American tall tale;

of four antiheroic dictators and a More-Mart greeter — hero. Four for humanity we’d have ye believe we are. But with Art — we are five not four, looking for Nobels for we four, failed,

antiheroes. I know I’m not paranoid because I know they’re really out to get me; the deep state; other states too. China and Iran go out of their way — especially to bedevil — me as well.

Dissolve the UN. One nation, reconvene. Decree the Golden Rule to be the Law in every nation. Everyone on the planet gets his or her UIB pursuant to Rule. It’s the plan, in a nutshell.


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

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

What makes an inhuman act immoral if ye lose and not immoral if ye win? A question as relevant today and in today’s wars as it was about Hiroshima and Nagasaki. History is not

written only by the victors, who win. History no longer is written exclusively by the winning victors. Progress; albeit too little, and perhaps, too late. What makes victors’ criminal acts, not

immoral? Imagine a planet utopian not like this Earth, dystopian. A pilgrim’s progress — to the reader — victor. History no longer is written exclusively by the winning victors. Progress;

albeit too little too late. What makes the victors’ criminal acts, not immoral? Imagine a planet utopian not dystopian. It’s the 1st step in a pilgrim’s progress for the reader. It’s progress.

What makes the victors’ criminal acts not immoral everywhere? Boldly planning on going boldly, to Heaven — to Heaven where no man has ere so dreamt of going. That’s where I dare

say I’m going, more or less like Elijah, directly. And if ye are reading my soliloquy, I’m already, halfway there. Only I, Donald John Trump, dare say that I’m going to Heaven; there, where

my Creator resides. Moreover, I dare say I’m going directly there, more or less like Elijah. If that seems implausible, I’m halfway there. And if ye are reading my soliloquy I’m almost, there.

The Lord and the Founding Fathers created executive orders because of partisan bickering and divided government. Orders, executive; they’re just what the doctor orders where there

is no legislation, or legislation‘s too slow. I know that to be true because I too was there with the Lord and with the Founding Fathers. In the spirit, anyway. Only I, The Donald dareth say

that I’m not dying but going alive to where my Creator resides. Only I dare say that, like Elijah I am going there directly and that I am going there alive — at that. How dare anyone gainsay

or naysay me? Lock him up. Lock her up too. Lock them all up, Because first they’ll come for the rich; then they’ll come for the white nationalists; then for real estate developers.

I’ll neither hang nor go to jail. I’m helping him that’ll put in a good word for us when they come for us. But for now fear of viruses pales next to the wannabe assassins, stalking Arthur.


Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in 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.


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.


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.


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.


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

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

a useful tool to help us modify our barbaric behaviors. Karma certainly works, mysteriously. But it isn’t, trust me, as mysterious as it seems. What is happening on Earth is not — magically,

happening. It is nothing less than miraculous, actually. What’s happening isn’t magical.  It’s magnificently, miraculous. And in more ways than ye imagine. Karma works, seemingly

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

not magical, is Karma. But it’s less mysterious if everything’s scripted and choreographed. It’s less mysterious once one understands that everything fits and everything’s — miraculous.

Everything fits; everything is connected. Everything, in stasis; and changing, constantly. Surreptitiously, rule the dictators, whilst we Earthling sheep-men — graze semi-obliviously.

People want to know why I lie for Vladimir; he who allegedly compromised me with sex, lies and videotaped, Goddamned, orgies. Sex, lies — and videotape. Had I just watched the movie

none of this would have happened. Sure, all lives matter. But white privilege won’t die easy. It’ll take a generation. That’s why the plan that follows is designed for March fourth — in 2030.

Surreptitiously rule the selfless dictators, whilst we benevolently ruled sheep-men graze, semi-obliviously. Fat and happy were the sheep men til recently — and humming, their economies.

We are sick now but by March 4, 2030, our nations, will be ready. White privilege won’t die easy. It’ll take a generation. That’s why the plan that follows is designed for March fourth, 2030.

Or not. It all depends on the decisions we make, or alternatively, [lol], the decisions that have been made for us, previously, already. Prepare to march forth on March fourth, 2030.

The Kim-Don Plan has been designed to officially inaugurate on March fourth of 2030. We can’t wait until then tho to implement the changes, we’ll commemorate on March 4, 2030.

We certainly can’t wait until then to implement the changes that we’ll commemorate on March 4, 2030. Or not; it all depends on what happens at the end of the year of the rat — that is 2020.


Occam’s razor; it has been hailed as an invaluable tool in the discipline of problem solving because the simplest explanation, in the usual, case and in the usual, eventuality —

is the right one. And the simplest explanation, bar none, is that predetermined has been each and every, actual, happening; predetermined has been — each and every single, eventuality.

The simplest explanation, bar none, is that predetermined is each and every day and each and every eventuality that actually happens during the course — of each — and every day.

In an irony,  supreme, we are the universe’s must see — reality — TV; we are the daily fare for a universal viewership; watched live, in living color or on replay, each and — everyday.

We are the universe’s absolutely must see TV; daily fare for a universal viewership, often viewing the action on the edge of their seats, live or replayed, daily. The viewing universals

binge-watch, just like we do — back episodes; rooting for their favorite heroes. And rooting against their favorite villains. Heroes like Kim, Don, Xi and Vlad, Mo and me; heroes, universal.

Antiheroes actually are Kim, Don, Xi and Vladimir Putin; antiheroes, universal. Art is the only hero. We are the universe’s must see, reality TV; daily fare, for the universal citizenry,

live, or replayed. And the universals root for their favorite heroes; and against their favorite villain. Imagine Kim all the possibilities for ye and for me. I’m excited about the possibilities.

Imagine Kim the possibilities should ye and I make a blockbuster deal at the last moment; just imagine how grateful I’d be if such were the impetus — for my re-election, blockbuster,

and for Nobels for Peace and Literature, very possibly shared by all of us, come what may,  come December, once passed, is November. Come December, once passed, is November,

share Kim the stage with me and the others; in December, once passed, is November. preview 2020’s Nobel-winning, MAYDAYS; unlike Arthur, I have in my bully pulpit — a gigantic, platform.

It’s the platform, Art lacks. I’m trumpeting MAYDAYS because I’m cynically repenting. As are also, Xi Vlad and even the fake Muslim, Mohammed, I am so very pleased — to inform.

Arthur’s serial tweets, ghostwritten by me. Allow me to introduce myself; I’m a man of wealth and fame; a complex simpleton; simply, a genius — an idiot savant — some others, say.

More importantly, many are indeed saying that the simplest explanation is that this existence is my big bit part and your smaller bit part in this larger Globe Theatre’s morality plays, everyday.


All the world’s still a stage. And all the men and women still merely, players; players though in a much larger morality play than ever played on any Globe Theatre stage in Shakespeare’s day.

Seek, explanations simple. Art Everman’s artful plot device is helpful; it has heroes forgetting what they dreamt about on Luna the previous evening — when back on Earth — the next day.

The plot and the subplots following are the stories of three children of The Creator; three strangely, estranged brothers and billions of others, similarly — estranged — and deranged.

Kim, Don and Art; three megalomaniacals; three lazy liars. Kim and Don became leaders of nations. Art became a leading drinker, becoming thereby uber strangely — deranged.

As is increasingly evident, the plots are thickening in The Creator’s great morality play; a universal showcasing of what is supremely ironically, in fact — a morality play — universal.

What’s so astonishing about that? About being watched by ETs? On Earth we too watch twits like me, on TV, all the time. Lord knows I’ll forever be cashing in, on my royalties, residual.

What’s so astonishing about being watched by extraterrestrials? We watch twits like me all the time on TV. The simplest explanation, happily, is that our existences are mere plays on stages;

with plots, luridly, unusual; what’s not to expect from creatures made in the image of Celestials. Witness creatures just like us; all around us just as viruses surround us virtually on, every stage.

Plots are thickening; simmering; threatening to boil over. Plots, lurid and unusual; Epstein’s dead and Ghislaine’s woes are now also, my woes. She’s got really really long toes as I recall.

The goings on nonfictional on Urantia, read, like fiction. But now that Kim, Don and Art (and Vlad and his guys too), in dreams conspire to inspire, lines blur. When the lines blur, recall,

the Urantia Book is a book drawn from minds, unknown. It’s authors and its medium all, unknown. Still, we share with them One Father. Who’s who, what’s what and what’s happening?

Asked by Art to lend my bully pulpit to serve as his platform, I’m ghost-writing MAYDAYS; my Nobel winning verse; publicly disagreeing with my public — statements and publicly, agreeing,

with Him. Because I’ve reconsidered, my future Nobel winning verse publicly disagrees with my public alter-ego and publicly agrees with Him Who is, no doubt — The Creator — these days.

He’s the One Who knows what’s what and what’s happening. And so I’ve agreed to lend Arthur my bully pulpit, to serve as his platform, for launching planet Earth’s SOS — MAYDAYS.


Behavior modification; tis the modern human imperative; ‘tis so because conflict between brothers is by definition — violence, domestic. By all means — separate — the combatants.

History’s record and our very human natures mitigate against humanity being somehow, miraculously saved, by these tragi-comic, sovereign, keystone-cop styled, governments.

Accordingly, MAYDAYS; my tome on ontology, realism, fiction and nonfiction; with a ready remedy, in neuro-scientific, science-fiction. ‘Tis a red herring, whether it’s fiction, or nonfiction.

What needs to be read by everyone on Earth can not be so read whilst bottled up in Twitter Streams. But placid Twitter streams, toweringly destructive tsunamis, become — in nonfiction,

and fiction. Thin veneers of civilization mask savage beasts lurking, within us. Modification of behavior works (instantly, sometimes), in individuals. Why not try behavior — modifying?

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

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

Islam‘s Jinn; 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.


“IN THE MINDS of Urantia’s mortals there’s confusion about meanings regarding God, divinity and deity.” So begins the Urantia Book (sometimes, hereinafter — merely — the UB).

Of my three works my uber magnum opus is this MAYDAYS alert to Urantia; my take on what‘s happening here, based on an unknown author’s or authors’, UB. To it — I refer thee.

Because all’s predetermined, a Republican once a Democrat, is reborn, an egalitarian. An egalitarian (of all things), have I become in my very own — autobiographical, allegory, novel.

Still, unfit to rule may be, even a noble-minded, egalitarian. And indeed, I’m unfit to rule. Still, fittingly, Someone I pay but lip service to, has me deluding myself about winning — Nobels.

Two settings hath MAYDAYS; Earth and her long-time companion, the moon; Luna and Earth. Settings of character, feisty. They met once, living separate and apart — thereafter.

Settings with character; personality, have Mother Nature and Lady Luna. Mother Nature’s, tempestuous; stormy. Lady Luna’s more reflective — more pensive, in character.

Go figure. A critical review of your cosmic home; a how to, to peace and prosperity; a how to also — to prolong, your history; all subplots, not surprisingly — to an even far greater, story.

On goings-on on Urantia and Luna and the space, about them; two cosmic rooms with a view. On history, past, present and future. On peace and prosperity. A great story, about me.

Earthlings: Humor me. Imagine that ye are all brothers. Just imagine that! Imagine further that even a liar, pathological may have his behavior — modified — one way — or another.

Arthur; a layman lover, turned lush, turned lyrical philosopher, learned of truth and wisdom not in no school but rather as a dreamer — in Nola — and on Luna, atwitter.

To prolong Urantian anthropological history, Arthur urges that we use this virus. The Devil long ago made Kim and I offers, we couldn’t refuse. Faustian, bargains — bargains, costly.

We accepted. The terrible truth is that Kim and I, for power and wealth, our God-given souls, bartered and bargained. And make no mistake; Vlad, Xi and Mo — bartered theirs — similarly.

Thus, to the end of realizing Penemue’s plan to awaken ye sheep-like men, in lieu of Art (who’s isolating), heed me. Arthur and his dead poet pals, want to arm ye. In lieu of Art — heed me.

Arthur Everman and his dead poet pals and I want to arm you, with weaponized, poetry. Only poetry, weaponized (and me), may free us from — these really, most surreal — realities.


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

To be or not to be? The threshold — question. But mathematicians long dead all agree that, algorithms may well counter authoritarianism, so seemingly — really, surreally — taking over.

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

luminaries; the great poets, scientists and philosophers; to allow for collusion to reveal the potential energy in algorithms in plain view, hidden. Timing is everything, Andre once said.

And indeed when Penemue tugged on Art’s big toe Art was on his death bed. “Tweet, blog and pen,” thought Penemue, soundlessly. “Tweet 280 character epigrams into pacific, epic poetry

“Tweet 280 character epigrams into pacific, epic poetry so that what ye write, may be read. Timing is everything, Andre once said. That said, the proof of the pudding is that the utility

of Twittereze and epigramming isn’t limited to advertising. He googled too for great writers of prose to collaborate with these unlikeliest of authors to inject prose-like drama into poetry.

“Thoughtfully tweet blog and pen, alchemical poetry,” the Watcher Penemue commissioned Arthur. Tweet concisely. Collate your tweets in a blog and pen — thereafter, my epic — story.

“Tweet blog and pen, Art in the Twittereze I, Penemue, hereby impart to ye; an Esperanto-like hope, an Esperanto-like prayer. Set aside your bottle and your self-condemning self-pity.”

So your wife left for good yesterday. And your neighbor, tonight, died. Ye’ve got bigger fish to fry. Tonight I’ve pulled on your toe to awaken ye. Tomorrow a tall tree shall fall upon ye.

And ye shall be electrocuted by lightning on the next day, right on your head — bye and bye.“ Imagine then, when on 12-21-12, when Art by lightning was stricken, something similar to Kim

and Don, also happened. The rest is history, past, present, or yet to be written. Arthur’s poetry is meant to reminds Kim and Vlad’s guys of what we dreamt about — just last evening.

Pundits, first, then historians will opine on my trajectory, my presidency and my legacy. Some will say that my pivot to egalitarianism belies a cynicism underlying but I don’t that, at all, deny.

Better late than never; and supremely fitting that from America first arise a battle cry crying, black lives matter. From Nola via Luna; New Orleans by way of Puerto Rico — bye and bye.


“What ten words do ye Arthur — to humanity, bequeath?” A daunting question posed; the inception to Arthur’s introspection, evolution and his eventual — surreal — transformation.

That question was telepathically posed to Art, Thursday, 12-20-12. “Who,” asked Art, “are ye?” “I am one of 400 fallen ones,” he replied. “Your counterpart,” said he, “am I; I am, a fallen one;

one of 400; 200 princes and 200 followers,” he in turn cryptically replied; pausing then, for Art’s reply. But Art, momentarily speechless, had been rendered; rendered unable, to reply.

The Watcher, by way of introduction, went on. The Nephilim, he said, the giant men of renown in Genesis, were improvidently fathered by my companion, rebels. That is the reason why

of the 400, all but 3 are in chains, somewhere; their sentencing, reserved until the Day of Judgment. Chained because they married and commenced in unions — with human women;

and they taught them, moreover knowledge forbidden, — not presently — forbidden. The unchained three indeed married, but they fathered not, Nephilim; I was one — of them.

“I am The Watcher: I watch — still. I do not intervene. And to Him, I still answer. To wit, while 397 of the fallen, lusted after, married and procreated Nephilim, three albeit fallen,

only revealed to woman knowledge forbidden. Imagine then when on 12-21-12, nothing cosmic seemingly happened, that actually the MAYDAYS co-authors Kim, Don and Art then

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

The illustrious luminaries of history; wining and dining and, more importantly, discussing, what on Earth is happening. What on Earth is really happening? And what’s happening — surreally?

And what’s the difference really between what’s real and surreal? Are they mutually exclusive or two sides of a coin? I’d argue that indeed, like faces of a coin — are reality — and surreallity.

Like the faces of a coin 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.


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 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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.

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