Now that the production of vaccines has taken off, I’m taking credit. ‘Trumpcines, vaccines may be renamed in my honor. Rename after me, at least, the Chinese — least effective — vaccine.

Now that I’m out and the vaccination has rolled off and led to a decrease in deaths, I’m taking off to take the credit. We may rename, at least, the least effective Chinese vaccine, ‘Trumpcine’.

I went well off-script in a long keynote speech. It was, vintage me. It was filthy rich. Mercilessly, I ripped into Senate Minority Leader McConnell, calling him a “dumb, son of a bitch.” It was rich.

It was vintage me last night at the fundraiser at my Mar-a-Lago retreat, for the biggest, of the bigwig, GOP donors. Mercilessly, did I rip Mitch. Verily, everyone knows, he’s a son — of a bitch.

I went well off-script fast and furiously for a 50 minute stretch of my speech. Vintage me, it was filthy; and rich. Ripping into Senator Mitch McConnell, I called him a “dumb son of a bitch.”

An environmental disaster is uncovered. When we humans so callously pollute environments, undiscovered, may be the consequences. DDTs asea; aliens on Mars; I’ll be — a son of a bitch.

ALIEN — RENEGADES

The Dems and my GOP; on common ground; that uncommon common ground is where the aliens are, with an American, based. Alien tech gets our helicopters — off the ground, Martian.

If a big rock strikes us and aliens enslave us life as we’ve known it shall end. Although an alien presence is now a fact nobody’s talking about these aliens. And why no welcome delegation?

Nobody’s talking about this and it stinks to high Heaven. Not the public; not the governors nor even, most distressingly, the free-world’s press. A silence of the lambs, this silence of the press.

This silence of the press has been distressingly alarming. No one wants to touch the issue of aliens with a ten-foot pole. Silence — like when lambs go to slaughter, this silence, of the press.

This silence of the press has been causing me much distress, alarming. No one wants to touch the issue of aliens with anything less than a ten-foot pole. But I shan’t — be silenced.

No one wants to address the aliens; not even with with a ten-foot pole. Silence — like when in the spring, the lambs go to slaughter, this silence, of the press. But I shan’t — be silenced.

I shan’t be silent; nor silenced. From the very highest mountaintop, I’ll shout, “These aliens are fakes! These aliens are renegades, not any legitimate representatives of alien civilizations.”

These aliens, it seems to me, may be fakes! The aliens seem to me to be fakes of one sort or another. Renegades, possibly, perhaps; not any legitimate representatives of alien civilizations.

Renegades, possibly, are the aliens; or escaped prisoners, perhaps. In any event the last thing I’d expect these guys to be are the legitimate representatives of our faraway, alien, brothers.

The last thing I’d expect these guys to be are the legitimate representatives of any faraway, alien, civilizations. Like the silence of the spring lambs, deathly silent are the silent — reporters.

Deathly silent, are the reporters. Their silence may prove to be, prophetic. The Lord knows that I’m no prophet but I’ve had revelations and epiphanies. Everything’s depending — on me.

Everything depends on me. Literally everything, depends on me. I have had with Arthur and Vlad’s guys, in lunar soirées, revelations and epiphanies. Everything is depending — on me.

Everyone on Earth is depending on me, the one and only, chosen one. Chosen have I been to be the hero, anti heroically, of the tall tale, I am authoring. I’m the hero — as well as the author.

Chosen have I been to be the hero, quite anti heroically of the tall tale, I am authoring. I’m the hero, as well as the author. Art’s my co-author. Our destiny is to MORONS AND ALIENS, author.

WAR — OF THE WORLDS — OR NOT

Aliens have designs upon the Earth. They have planted a virus in China and plotted the path of the asteroid that’s coming our way, even as we bicker. A war of the worlds — cometh to Earth.

But not necessarily. It depends. It depends on decisions and, in particular, the circumstances at the time. Often, circumstances dictate what happens. That is what is happening, on Earth.

I am the GOAT. On the other hand, I’ve been cast as the goat; as if all this death is on me. I bear no responsibility. Everyone knows that by acting so promptly — actually — I saved, lives.

Everyone knows that my prompt action, saved lives. My only regret is that I didn’t get to meet each cultist individually, so that you might have thanked me personally — for saving your lives.

Content seem the aliens; happy even, do they seem, especially when we bicker. Indeed, it doth seem to me that the sneaky aliens, have designs on us. Truly, they remind me — of me.

Happy seem the aliens, especially when we bicker. Indeed, it seems to me that the most inscrutable aliens have designs on us. They share with me hubris’ and hubris’, high toxicity.

It is precisely their high levels of toxic hubris that make me suspect that the aliens are up to no good. Believe me even tho, sometimes, I lie. This is about survival — not egg — on my face.

The blind spot issue we face around the Sun can be overcome by a dedicated space based system or by discovering objects, years earlier. Why won’t someone ask aliens, to their faces?

It is precisely their high levels of toxic hubris that make me suspect the aliens are up to no good. Even tho I often lie, this is all about man’s survival, not about egg on my face — over easy.

Joe Biden: Your Deep State cheated me fair and square. No more blame-gaming, going forward. Got to reach an understanding with Vlad and his guys and the rest of the nations — uneasy.

In Buenos Aires, hubris like mine exists only in Jair Bolsonaro. He knows not what to do but insists, only he knows. Unfortunately for us the aliens seem chock full — of toxic hubris — too.

Hubris like mine, exists only, in Jair Bolsonaro. He knows not what to do but nonetheless, ever insists, only he knows. Unfortunately the aliens are full of of hubris too, through and through.

This stinks to high Heaven. If a big rock strikes us and aliens enslave us, life as we’ve known it shall end. And although an alien presence is now documented, nobody’s talking about this.

Nobody’s talking about this and it stinks to high Heaven. Not the public; not the governors nor even, most distressingly, the free-world’s press. A silence of the lambs, this silence of the press.

DARK MATTER, DARK ENERGY AND MUONS

The force shapes our universe. It explains the existence of dark matter and moreover maybe even dark energy with its role in accelerating, in this plane, rapid expansion of the universe(s).

Unknown forces shape — our universe. They remain, unknown. Still, the wobble of the fat muons, may someday explain the existence of, dark matter and dark energy, in the universe(s).

The force may explain the existence of dark matter and maybe even dark energy with its theoretically proposed role in accelerating, in this plane — the expansion, of the universe(s).

Gun maker protections against liability, Joe’s threatening, threatening in turn, the entire gun manufacturing industry. It’s got the gun makers apoplectic. The issue’s an emergency, adverse.

The issue of mass killings and guns used in the killing fields is become, a national emergency mirroring already deep divisions in the fabric of our so-called, society. This — is an emergency.

This is an emergency, temporarily, at least. In our so-called societies, these things pass; the NRA is counting on it, the Second Amendment and the torn fabric of our — so-called, society.

TwittereZe; chicken soup for your metaphysical soul. Came first the Watcher; then Arthur. Art’s been a handful, for Vlad’s assassins. They can usually find him with GPS units — in the usual.

Usually, Vlad’s hunters don’t have to wait too long until they locate their quarry, They wait til they get a fix on his location, with their GPS units. That’s what usually happens, in the usual.

To all publishers: TwittereZe verse by me duly composed in lunar soirées, nightly; the way to purposefully, promote. Keep in mind; topical tweets may be by themselves, invaluable, NFTs.

@TomBrady’s Autograph augurs success. And @Jack’s buyer valued Jacks first tweet in the millions. Jack’s Twitter‘s @beeple’s trove’s, $69 million. Twitter’s mixing novelty — and artistry.

Novelty and artistry. Two constants in the art world have ever been, novelty and artistry. And celebrity, has never hurt, anyone’s prospects. But these days, the wild cards are — the NFTs.

NFTs; the Johnny-come-lately, non fungible tokens, have taken the world of art, by storm, leveling, the field of play; making it altogether possible for unknowns to rake in — royalties.

It’s utterly insane; what’s happened and what’s happening. But nothing compares with what’s going to be happening. That’s because the aliens on Mars have designs — upon the Earth.

The aliens have designs upon the Earth. They planted the virus in Wuhan and plot the path of the asteroid that’s headed our way even as we bicker. The War of the worlds, comes to Earth.

A RED HERRING — IS INDEPENDENCE

In the news today, is an insight; an anecdote cited by John Boehner in anticipation of a book. He writes I was mean to another when I shared with him recollections on how to recall one day.

“Want to know how to remember somebody’s name,” Boehner said I said, quoting me saying, “You fucking, LISTEN!” Bar none, I’m clearly the meanest man in Washington. Bar none, I’d say.

I’m the meanest man in Washington. Bar none. Even my sycophant, Floridian Representative, Matt Gaetz, pales next to me. When he pales he only seems whiter than me. I’m a real meanie.

Meaner than me? There’s absolutely nobody meaner than me. Matt Gaetz pales before me. When Matt pales he’s whiter but no way Matt is meaner. No one on Earth, is meaner than me.

No one on Earth is meaner than me. Just ask Guinness. They know that, I’m the meanest man on the face of the Earth. The proof’s in the pudding. No one on Earth is meaner than me.

Too harsh am I, with myself. Everybody knows I’m my own worst critic; and I’m my own worst enemy. Everybody knows that. 2020 was the year of the rat. It is what it is. It’s TwittereZe.

On Earth freedom has become freedom from dominion of others; in other words, the total independence of men from the dominion of others. Nothing will do but total independence.

And it came to pass that the stewards of the Earth, having fallen under Lucifer’s spell, fell with him. It’s why, to this day, populists like me,
can have a cult. A red herring, is independence.

A red herring, is independence. It’s an option that seems grounded in logic. It’s logical; and practical; and beautiful. But it’s a false option. Independence, is one thing; freedom, another.

Independence, is one thing; freedom, another. I’ve got a cult of personality. Seemingly, my sycophants seem to love me. But usually, loyal followers oft can’t tell, one thing, from another.

The problem in a nutshell is that Lucifer (Satan, some call him), speaking in terms akin, to Art’s TwittereZe, brainwashed, moronic, ancestors. That’s why we’re brainwashed, even to this day.

Brainwashed have we been, even unto this day. And there is no way we can get ourselves — to think straight. Hubris and a penchant for lying keep us brainwashed, even to — this very day.

Chest-beating in gorillas isn’t just visual. It’s an audio display too. A sign of virility and abilities, like alligator rumbles, bison bellows or — my lying; behaviors saying, “Fuck not — with me!”

TwittereZe; chicken soup for your metaphysical soul. Inspired first by the Watcher, then Arthur. Art’s been a handful, for Vlad’s assassins. They can find him — with their GPS units — usually.

THE PROBLEM — IN A NUTSHELL

The problem nutshelled is that we have no clue who we are and what to do. Furthermore, as everybody and their brothers know, if ye aren’t part of the solution, ye are part of the problem.

Ordinarily, no problem; problem is, in our lives, dictating are the circumstances extant when it’s time, to make decisions. And if the deciders are brainwashed, everybody is part of the problem.

Everybody is part of the problem. Surreal are consequences cultural, religious and racial. And unbeknownst to us, national, international and indeed, intergalactic, has become, the problem.

Truly, we deciders are brainwashed. Everybody, therefore, is part of the problem. Surreal are consequences cultural, religious and racial. Unbeknownst to us, intergalactic’s the problem.

Know the real name of your planet. Surreally, it is Urantia and the Urantia Book is — for the planet, yet another Scripture. Men and women screw the planet, even as, their kids play on it.

Men and women screw the planet as children play on it. Be the first on your block to know, the real name of your planet. It is Urantia and Urantia is for Urantians, just, one more planet.

The Urantians believe themselves to be proud Earthlings but they identify themselves even more fiercely in terms cultural, religious, racial, or national. It is what it is. It’s, a savage planet.

It’s a savage planet; with wild animals: with wild men. One of the wild men is said to be, the meanest man, in Congress; Florida’s Honorable Matt Gaetz, may be the meanest, on the planet.

The Honorable Matt Gaetz is set to headline my pro-Trump women’s event at Doral. That even as a sex trafficking investigation event, looms. He like me has big brass balls — in every event.

“We are honored to have @RepMattGaetz speak at the #SaveAmericaSummit, gushed one Women for America First, representative. And they’ll brazenly play up — and out — the event!

Urantia is for the hapless Urantians, just one more, planet. Not one of its denizens got the memo. No one got the memo advising us that we are stewards of the planet, not, its owners.

We are stewards of the planet, not, its owners. But stewards, piss-poor, have we been. Earth is a savage planet; with wild animals and with wild men. In any event, stewards, not owners.

On Earth; a savage planet with wild animals and wild men, the steward owners fell under Lucifer’s spell. Freedom has become, freedom from the dominion of others — independence.

On Earth freedom has become freedom from dominion of others; in other words, the total independence of men from the dominion of others. Nothing will do but total independence.

TRUST NOT — THE ALIENS

Still, even after all these years, controversial, is Darwin’s theory; his theory of evolution. Trust me. Ye had better believe it. Arthur and I are here to save Earth — and ye oblivious, humans.

Ye had better believe it. Arthur and I are here to save the Earth; and to save ye. I would be remiss not to note, saved, not from yourselves only, but also from these — mysterious, aliens.

Like the hypersonic missile that failed to launch yesterday from a B-52, invaluable information gleaned from the test will in theory retest us, to redesign, as necessary. Why we test — is why.

Invaluable information gleaned from tests will challenge us to learn to redesign as necessary. It is why, we test. So why on Earth would men who trust not one another, trust aliens? Why?

There’s no good reason for that; and no good reason for not questioning our leaders about how unreasonable it is to trust extraterrestrial aliens more than our homie — Homo sapiens.

There’s no good reason for not questioning our leaders about how unreasonable it is to trust extraterrestrial aliens more than our homie, homo sapiens. Clueless are we, say the aliens.

Clueless are we, must be thinking, the aliens. It’s patently unreasonable not to trust our homie Homo sapiens, trusting rather, a rather motley crew — of Galactic Federation — aliens.

There’s no good reason for not questioning our leaders about not trusting our homies but trusting rather, a motley crew of hotshot aliens. This is not rocket science. Trust not, the aliens.

This is not rocket science. Trust not, the aliens. There’s no good reason for not questioning our leaders about not trusting our homies, trusting in a motley crew of possibly renegade — aliens.

Ludicrous; surreally, preposterous; words fail me routinely when I try to use one to describe the amoral state of affairs, on Earth. There may be in fact, no moral — MORONS AND ALIENS.

Words fail me often; as whenever I use one, too inadequate to describe the amoral, broken states of affairs on Earth. Oft, beings are often novelties; relatively — immoral ones — often.

Controversial is Darwin’s theory; on the origin of species; his theory of evolution. Trust me guys; I’ve got this. I can tell the aliens are lying.
Invariably, I can tell if aliens — to me, are lying.

I’ve got super powers. I can tell if folks are lying to me. Ye’d be surprised at all the things I can do; surprised, at all I’ve done. But nothing can compare, actually, to what I’m yet, about to do.

I’ve got super powers. And I’ve had revelations; and epiphanies. I’m no prophet but everybody knows, I think I know, everything. In any event, I’ve got Arthur’s phone — to know, what to do.

ART AND I — WOMB-MATES — NO MORE

My ex womb-mate knows instinctively, what’s happening. And I know I can take Arthur’s case global if Palette Poetry surprises Art with a nod, to a dream weaving Watcher’s, poetic, reprise.

In December I was given 180 days to report on what we know. The alien report’s due in June; in case June weddings with aliens don’t seem all that alien to ye citizens, recipients, of a reprise.

Back in December when I was still, actually, the president I was given 180 days to report on what we know. The alien report’s due in June; on Joe Biden’s watch. But cometh — a surprise.

The report is due before June; on Joe Biden’s watch. But likely cometh before then, from out of the sky, from our blind side, on our sun side, a surprising, asteroidal reprise. As if — in reply.

Ironically, very possibly doth come, a galactic surprise, on or about or, ironically, before then. A series of eerie cosmic lessons is what has happened and what’s happening. That’s, no lie.

Ron DeSantis. He’s trying hard to be just like me. Live and let die. It’s not about masks and vaccines. It’s about shopping at Publix and the survival of the fittest. Like me, live and let die.

Refusing a vaccine isn’t about live and let live. It’s live and let die. Forgive Ron. He tries hard to be just like me. Live and let die. It’s all about the survival of the fittest. Just do it! Live and let die.

Forgive Ron. He’s tries hard to be like me. It’s not about separating, masking, washing hands and vaccines. It’s about shopping at Publix and survival of the fittest. Like me — live and let die.

But my womb-mate’s not my womb-mate no more. And it’s not for no reason that Urantia is become a laboratory; a crucible fit for study scientific, of Darwin’s — survival, of the fittest.

It’s not for no reason that Urantia is become a laboratory; a crucible fit for the scientific study of my main man Charles Darwin’s controversial theory of the survival — of only, the very fittest.

My womb-mate’s not my womb-mate no more. We’re unfit. It’s not for no reason Earth is now become a lab; a crucible only fit for the study of my main man’s theory, of the survival, of the fit.

Womb-mates no more, Art and I, are a pair of whistleblowing brothers, come full circle. Earth is become a lab; a crucible fit only for the study of Charles’ theory — of the survival — of the fit.

THE 2021 EMERGING POET PRIZE

Doors, Art may start, breaking down. The 2021 Emerging Poet Prize is to be awarded to some emerging poet. He (me), may be, a published poet. A distinguished debut — for TwittereZe.

That would be fine by itself; one more debut by an aspiring author; a semblance of normality, on Urantia (Earth). It’s just that the poems that follow are unlike any other. They’re, TwittereZe.

Comes another social media platform, entirely; one less inclined to emphasize profit, above all else. And Arthur has named it, a boy, a brother and a father — in one — in Chachomanopapa.

Comes another social media platform; one, less inclined to emphasize profit, above all else. Art has blessed it, naming it in honor of all boys — brothers — and fathers — Chachomanopapa.

Chachomanopapa. An amalgam (in Spanish) of boy, brother and father. Chachomanopapa; a combination of three interjections, common. An introductory lesson — in Art’s — TwittereZe.

An amalgam (in Spanish) of boy, brother and father, chachomanopapa is a combination of the diminutives of three interjections, common. Another lesson — in Arthur’s — TwittereZe.

Then I learned that open is the 2021 Emerging Poet Prize; one poet will be awarded $3000 and publication on Palette Poetry. Arthur might break through. Lord knows — it’s a nice prize.

The 2021 Emerging Poet Prize; $3500 is to be awarded for emerging poets. The winning poet will be awarded $3000 in cash and publication on Palette. A timely opportunity — and a prize.

Doors, Art may start, breaking down. The 2021 Emerging Poet winner will be published on Palette Poetry. And it may well be, for Art and TwittereZe, a distinguished debut, asking why.

It would be, for Arthur and TwittereZe, a truly distinguished debut were he to surprise the world with a reprise of the Watcher’s poetry. And as Art writes, he won’t look up, to the sky.

There’s no need to call 911. I learned a bitter lesson at The Great Insurrection of 2021. I’m not inciting anyone to do anything. I very well remember The Great Insurrection — of 2021.

Actually, bittersweet was the lesson at The Insurrection of 2021. I’m not inciting anyone to anything. I well remember The Insurrection of 2021. To my cult — I remain — the chosen one.

Bittersweet was the lesson of The Insurrection. Freedom is not free. Ye have to fight, for it. To my cult I remain the chosen one. But I can take Art’s case global if Palette Poetry, Art, surprises.

Hope springs eternal. My ex womb-mate knows instinctively, what is happening. And I know I can take Art’s case global if Palette Poetry, Art surprises with the Watcher’s — poetic, reprise.

I AM A MAN’S MAN — MOSTLY

I’m a man’s man, mostly. My men, passionately, have loved me. Out of all of them Kim was my roly-poly, favorite. Melania loved him too; he was my best lover and a great, prison warden.

On his last legs Arthur’s last legs yet get no rest. And given he’s given, his super empowering phone to me he’s down to his martial artistry in the defense of himself against, Vlad’s assassins.

Even on his last legs, Arthur’s gotta keep on his toes. Vladimir’s assassins are on his trail. Even Mohammed has assigned a team of assassins to track Art down and neutralize Art’s powers.

Arthur’s gotta keep on his toes. He’s gotta keep away from the windows. And he’s gotta keep his head down and his eyes open. Assassins work for peanuts — and get paid by the hour.

Womb-mates were Art and I, once upon a time.
He kicked me — into the future. But I’m back; and we’ve come, full circle. Thanks to Art I’ve had, revelations and epiphanies, about aliens.

Revelations and epiphanies, I have had. Toxic levels of hubris, amongst a slew of other fatal conditions, is what we have. Unfortunately, we share the hubris in the universe, with — aliens.

We share the hubris in the universe with these aliens. It may turn out to be the dark energy that the scientists are looking for. Hubris; who knew that hubris might be — that, dark energy?

Who knew that hubris might be, that — dark energy? Who could have known? Come to think of it; a lot of things start making sense only — when one suspends one’s disbelief — totally.

Suspend totally, your disbelief, all ye who here, enter. Consider that, for example, the premise, constitutional, that all men are created, equal. It’s easy to suspend — your disbelief — totally.

The fact is that all men are not created, equal. A fallacy, is the principal premise of our much valued, and venerated, Constitution. In politics, don’t expect cream, to rise to the top, usually.

Witness, what’s happening; on course through a normal planetary evolution, Urantia (Earth), got hijacked by Caligastia and Lucifer. Many know Lucifer but not too many know Caligastia.

Creating, developing and growing any business, let alone one that ye are hoping will someday be, standing out from the crowd. Patience my people. Chachomanopapa is coming to Urantia.

Chachomanopapa is coming to Urantia. Comes another style of social media platform; one less inclined to emphasize profit, above all else. And Arthur has duly named it — Chachomanopapa.

Comes another social media platform, entirely; one less inclined to emphasize profit, above all else. And Arthur has named it, a boy, a brother and a father — in one — at Chachomanopapa.

LIKE ME — ARTHUR — IS GREAT

Like me, Art is magnanimous; like Nikola Tesla, philanthropically, Arthur has tried, over and over, to gift TwittereZe. Ironically, he can’t give it away, and — no one is learning — TwittereZe.

No one is learning my TwittereZe. And no one is stampeding to Arthur’s School of Free Poetry. No one is enrolling at Arthur Everman’s School of Free Poetry — surreally — tragi-comically.

From a blind side sun side comes, at Godspeed, a rock. A collision, I’m fearing, is imminent. I’m no prophet; I’m just saying; a big rock, comes and too few have purposeful causes — actually.

A top secret is my version of the truth. And the reality, implausibly surreal of my superpowers; equally implausible one of them is the total superimposability, globally, of my surrealities.

“Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.” James’ fears tell us that love is not a Subaru, but a state of grace — with no room, for fear.

No — love is not a Subaru. But a state of grace, rings true. Love has no use for fear. It won’t mix with it. And love makes the world go round. A state of grace — has no room at all — for fear.

The Watcher has been Arthur‘s inspiration. He who first gifted poetry to humanity, Art alleges is the real brains underwriting my fictional and nonfictional, tall tale — MORONS AND ALIENS.

@NASA: I’m no prophet. I’ve got connections, in the know, though. Supremely ironically, the Watcher Art says, is the brains underwriting my fictional, nonfictional — MORONS AND ALIENS.

We have no plan on what to do if ever we have the misfortune of being stricken by an asteroid once again. I know that for a fact. I once was the president. I still am, the president — of us.

Ask the aliens Joe, about the blind side asteroid coming at us. And ask them how it is that they need help with their investigation of the fabric of the universe, from beings, primitive, like us?

Perhaps fear is not, altogether, uncalled for; after all, on top of everything else, now that we’ve got these aliens flitting about, how is it no one wants to talk about the aliens — really?

Perhaps fear is precisely, what’s called for; after
all historically, ye respond well to fear and less well, to love. Love is not a Subaru, but a state of grace with absolutely no room for fear, really.

It bears repeating. “Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. Perhaps fear is precisely, what’s is called for — on mankind’s — Earth.

Love, mankind must understand is not at all a Subaru but a state of grace with no room, for fear. I fear we can’t, or won’t, understand this. Fear is coming, at Godspeed — to the Earth.

LYING TOO — IS NASA

Oblivious are we of danger, imminent. From a blind side, sun side cometh, at Godspeed, a rock. A collision, I fear, is imminent. I’m no prophet. I’m just saying they fly, by all the time.

From a blind side sun side, an asteroid, comes. The alien plan to enslave us and mine our gold awaits only our planet’s collision with a giant rock. Nobody’s talking about that, at this time.

Cometh at Godspeed, an asteroid. A collision with it, I fear, is imminent. A really big asteroid has Earth’s number. And I would task Joe Biden, “Ask the aliens about — the blind side — of us.”

Ask the aliens Joe, about the blind side asteroid coming at us. And ask them how it is that they need help with their investigation of the fabric of the universe, from beings, primitive, like us?

Witness Pope Francis presiding at an empty St. Peter’s Good Friday service; he listened tho, to some children, taking centre stage. Scaled back rituals; What on Earth — is wrong — with us?

Pray tell and teach the people Donald John, Art recently in soirée, instructed me. Teach them the utility of TwittereZe. It’s the Sudoku of the future — being in the present, gifted — to us.

The essence of Art’s TwittereZe is as a valuable link in communication; its use in conjunction with Google Translate, may greatly facilitate the linkage, of like-minded people. It’s a great link.

Methinks it’s a great link for connecting people. As such, it’s a great source of potential energy. Methinks the children would take to it, as a fish, — takes to water. TwittereZe is — a great, link.

@NASA: Imminent is a catastrophe with no modern, precedent. From a blind side, sun side, cometh, big rocks. A collision seems imminent to me. And I have surreal reasons — to know.

@NASA: I know ye are not free to disclose what ye know. From a blind side cometh a rocking sensation, I have surreal reason to know. I’m no prophet but I’ve got connections, in the know.

@NASA: I’m no prophet. I’ve got connections, in the know, though. Supremely ironically, the Watcher Art says, is the brains underwriting my fictional, nonfictional — MORONS AND ALIENS.

The Watcher has been Arthur‘s inspiration. He who first gifted poetry to humanity, Art alleges is the real brains underwriting my fictional and nonfictional, tall tale — MORONS AND ALIENS.

Oblivious are we to danger, imminent. From a blind side, sun side cometh, at Godspeed, a big rock. A collision, I fear, is imminent. I am no prophet. I’m just saying; they fly, by all the time.

They’re flying by all the darn time. And, as far as I know, we have no contingency plans. We have no plan on what to do if ever we have the bad luck of being struck again, one more time.

THEY FLY BY — ALL THE TIME

Some say the must-read of the day is Politico’s excerpt of John Boehner’s ON THE HOUSE. Nay; Donald John Trump am I; my must-read of a lifetime, hands down, is MORONS AND ALIENS.

John Boehner’s new book, ON THE HOUSE, some say is a must read. That, I dare, naysay. Donald John Trump am I; the must-read of a lifetime is Donald John’s MORONS AND ALIENS.

MORONS AND ALIENS. It’s my magnum opus; the proof of the pudding. Arthur really has found an as if, ‘magical’ pixie dust in Twitter’s proprietary, algorithm. FREAKING — EUREKA!

Arthur has surreally found a super-heroically empowering, and only seemingly magical, pixie- like, dust. It’s in Jack’s Twitter’s (free for us), algorithm. HOLY — FREAKING — EUREKA!

A sure fire, rapid-fire, fusillade; all the events happening of late, are a heavenly sign, for sure. And it is spookier (or all the more, far far more glorious), I’ve been chosen, to Urantia, change.

I’ve been chosen to help Arthur save Urantia’s Urantians from themselves; saving them first from the aliens and then in turn from, endemic corruption, then migratory and climatic change.

I’m chosen to help Art save ye Urantians from yourselves; saving ye first from aliens and then from endemic corruption and migratory and climatic change. To save ye, Art’s come, in time.

I was born to be the greatest hero of all time. I’ve noted it in on my resume. I was born to be, amongst other things, the greatest apprentice and the greatest president, also — of all time.

To save our sorry asses, Arthur’s come in time, not, timely in time, necessarily. That is to say that it might already be, for humanity, too late. It’s too late for mankind if Art and I — are late.

To save our asses, Art and I have come in time, methinks. Methinks that because, as I have previously written, I am for moment, the sole author of this story. Art’s been lying low, of late.

Art’s been lying low, of late. Isolating in a safe house, Art’s entrusted me with his alchemical Philosophers Stone phone, effectively making me the sole author of MORONS AND ALIENS.

Entrusted with Arthur’s alchemical phone have I been; and Art and I agree that the odds Vegas might set on my success would be greater than Art’s. And so I’m writing, MORONS AND ALIENS.

Oblivious are we of danger, imminent. From a blind side, sun side cometh, at Godspeed, a rock. A collision, I fear, is imminent. I’m no prophet. I’m just saying they fly, by all the time.

STUNTED COMMUNITIES

To play the perfect hero; someone, larger than life; someone, just like me, Arthur taught me to convert, algorithmically and alchemically, staid prose — imperfect, into artful poetry — perfect.

Who knew? Who knew; and who knows that the conversion of staid prose into artful poetry would turn out to be one of the catalysts to a transformational, alchemical reaction, perfect?

The proof is in the pudding; we’re neck deep in a vile pudding, of our own making. A pudding, toxic, infested with suffocating, corona viruses. Fear not! I hear the bugle of the US 7th Cavalry.

Alternatively, perhaps fear is not, altogether, uncalled for; after all, on top of everything else, now that we’ve got these aliens flitting about, how is it no one wants to talk about it — really?

How is it that no one wants to talk about this, really? This is orders of magnitude worse than having an illness and refusing to act upon it. The Earthlings suffer from — severe, delusions.

The Earthlings are delusional; they don’t really know who they are; where they are; where they’re headed for; and for what reason. The Earthlings suffer from, very severe, delusions.

Confused are the Earthlings. So brainwashed and delusional are they, that each of them reasons, that she or he, is rational. It’s the others; it’s others, that are less, than rational.

It’s always others that are the less than rational ones. Notwithstanding this limitation, mankind, in fits and starts evolved from the tribes into the nation states, there to devolve, as is usual.

Through the ever deepening rivers of bloody history all the way up to the present days, for thousands of years now, the nation state has been the be all, and end all, of communities.

For thousands of years the nation state has been the be all and the end all of communities. But communities must be by definition, created beings. Nation states — stunted communities.

In Myanmar, Brazil and Mozambique, coups, are on back in fashion. Niger even had a fake one. And with China and Russia on the Security Council, unfavorable, are the circumstances.

Too many ekeing out an existence; and all but the most super privileged are virtual prisoners of their circumstances. And dictators dictate under these most unfavorable, circumstances.

We haven’t evolved beyond the Godless, nation state. That’s why, these days, dictators, dictate. Under such circumstances, near impossible seems institution, of a Golden Rule, paradigm.

Impossible seems the institution of a Golden Ruled paradigm at this late date; it’s highly unlikely, at least. But nothing’s impossible for The Almighty Creator — the Creator — of time.

ALCHEMICAL INGREDIENTS

How is it that no one really wants to talk about this? How is it possible that no one wants to touch this topic, even with a ten-foot pole? My MORONS AND ALIENS — explains, everything.

My MORONS AND ALIENS explains, everything. From a Big Bang beginning, through rivers of bloody history all the way up to present days. MORONS AND ALIENS — explains, everything.

Well, not everything. MORONS AND ALIENS, is more of an outline of a big picture. It leaves the vast majority of the details of everything out, in order to include — an outline — of everything.

Methinks tiktok may play a role in the tall tale that’s MORONS AND ALIENS. Time will tell. Pray MORONS AND ALIENS gains a following. Time ticks off and I’m really ticked off — at the aliens.

Tiktok, methinks, may play a role in the tall tale that’s MORONS AND ALIENS. Time will tell. Pray MORONS AND ALIENS gains, a following. Time ticks off and I’m really ticked off, at us morons.

Unknowns, with NFTs, can give known knowns, a run for the money. Knowns and unknowns like Arthur, especially. Verily, his TwittereZe linkage of the young must become well known.

Arthur’s linkage of the young must become well known. Indeed Art has been trying like Tesla to gift humanity with something of great value. His language linker must become well known.

Brands are excited about non-fungible tokens. Little knowns, and unknowns, too. Unknowns like Art, especially. I’ve got to get Art a platform, (not me), so that he becomes, a known, known.

I’ve got to get Art a platform that’s not me, now that, according to the Deep State, I’m not the president. We thought I’d be ideal for him as a platform so TwittereZe, might become known.

To the end of introducing TwittereZe, so that it might become well known and serve as well as a complement to the Scriptures, I nominate me to be the one and only, poet laureate, of Earth.

To the end that TwittereZe become well known serving as a complement to the Scriptures and a guide to the new paradigm, I nominate me to be the one and only, poet laureate of the Earth.

Key is the conversion of prose into poetry. Art’s TwittereZe, and Google Translate, are key. Key also, is your imagination. And key as well, are the children. They’re got lots — of imagination.

Arthur has taught me how to convert any prose into poetry. TwittereZe, and Google Translate, are key. Key too is your imagination. And key as well are your children. They’ve got, imagination.

A ROCK — A VIRUS — AND ALIENS

As the moron-in-chief of US, I am the perfect spokesperson for the morons of the Earth. To play the hero, perfect, of my own tall tale. I can convert imperfect prose — into poetry, perfect.

Perfect for the part am I; perfect in every way. I’m smart, handsome; and boast, verily, a regal bearing. Satan’s got my soul and I want it back. I am a narcissist. For this bit part, I am perfect.

God only, of course, knows what’s happening. But mysteriously, He doth work. I’m the moron-in-chief and as such, the perfect spokesperson, for the entire — Earthly, moronic, community.

As the moron-in-chief of US, I am, as such, the perfect spokesperson for all the morons of the Earth. But Art has taught me all about alchemy; and Art’s taught me to convert prose to poetry.

Arthur has taught me all about alchemy and Arthur has taught me how to convert prose into poetry. TwittereZe and Google Translate are key. And key as well, is your — imagination.

Arthur has taught me how to convert prose into poetry. TwittereZe and Google Translate are key. Key is your imagination. And key as well are your children. They’ve got, imagination.

Like me too, the children are key. Not too set in their ways, kids have not had like their parents, their imaginations, stunted. Biting at the bit are the children — to get their hands, on the reins.

Not too set in their ways, children have not had like their parents, their imaginations, stunted. Children are biting at the bit to get their hands on the reins. The kids need to — take the reins.

The kids need to take the reins from us. They need to put us out to pasture; or send us to prison, as the case may be. That’s the way it must be if we are indeed, changing a paradigm.

A really large rock is hurtling towards us at Godspeed and it’s compelling me at Godspeed, to write for man, for his self-help, MORONS AND ALIENS; to help ye, change your paradigm.

A rock, a virus and the aliens. They compel me to write for us an algorithm; instructions on changing from an outdated and anachronistic,
paradigm to His — Golden-Ruled — paradigm.

But first things first; I’ve got to get Art, viral; I’ve got to get him another platform, now that I’ve lost my bully pulpit and the last shreds of my credibility. I just hope that I’m yet, still in time.

I hope that I’m yet, in time. I hope that I am believed. But that might be too hopeful, given that I’ve lost the last shreds of my credibility and that men don’t fear — what they can’t see.

Men fear not what they can’t see. Like, as here, an asteroid, a coronavirus and aliens. And so Art taught me TwittereZe; for me to teach man in turn, how to convert staid prose, into poetry.

INTRODUCING MORONS AND ALIENS

E = mc². Time is constant. Thankfully, far more constant than us. And, as things are turning out, far more constant than our cousins, from across, God only knows — how many galaxies.

I’m no prophet but I know this. Time is neutral; neither for ye or — agin ye. But know this: Ye’ve got to get your act together before a big rock, rocks us. Admit that aliens are, the real enemy.

A bill of goods the aliens sold us. We should’ve known better. We ought have heeded the keen advice of Sir Stephen Hawking. A bill of goods has been sold to the morons by alien enemies.

The aliens plan on enslaving us and mining our gold. Befriending us and manipulating us, all along, all at once. They’re plotting the path of asteroids. A bill of goods — aliens have sold us.

A bill of goods the aliens have sold us; goods, counterfeit. We should have known better. We ought have heeded the advice of Sir Stephen Hawking. A bill of goods, have been sold to us.

The aliens plan to enslave us and to mine our gold. To do so, the aliens befriended us; and they studied us. They are plotting the path of a great big rock. The aliens are our true enemies.

Aliens planted a virus. And aliens plot the path of a great big rock. The aliens plan to enslave us and mine our gold. I suspect the aliens have made fools of us. They are — the real, enemy.

Get your act together before a big rock, rocks our world. The aliens are the real enemy. I’m no prophet but I know this: I’ve got Art’s phone and I’m the co-author of MORONS AND ALIENS.

Get your act together before a big rock, rocks our world. The aliens are the real enemy. I’m no prophet but I know this: I’ve got Art’s phone and I’m the co-author of MORONS AND ALIENS.

Order is much to be desired. Freedom is much overrated. And such is the confusion that the Temptations from Motown sang of Earth being A Ball of Confusion. Ought we not admit to it?

Ought we not admit that we know not what in the hell is happening? Worse yet ought we not admit that we don’t know what we’re doing? Ought we duly reconsider — the truth — of it?

Brain washed by Caligastia and Satan and by estates, superimposed. Brain washed, are we. By the clergy; by the nobility; and by the states. Surreally brain washed have we been — really.

Brain washed have we been; by Caligastia and Satan and by the estates mandated by man. By three estates; by the clergy, the nobility and by Godless states. Brain washers are states, really.

On and on, goes our story. So too do our own, personal stories of our progress, as pilgrims. They shan’t go on, forever. Heaven is at the end of the road, that we call, the pilgrims progress.

Confront the aliens. And neutralize them. It’s job one. Confront them to stem corruption, migration and our climate change on the Earth. Cut millions of years off, the pilgrim’s progress.

INTRODUCTION

AN ATLAS POETIC, aka THE WINE AND CHEESE MIRACLES, aka MAYDAYS, aka MORONS AND ALIENS; for what ails Pangaea, miracles for Pangaea. And it’s title is MORONS AND ALIENS.

Presumably fictional, my magnum opus, seems also, uncannily and unsettlingly, a nonfictional story; a tall tale, American. All modesty aside, it is the greatest story ever told — in all Nebadon.

Seemingly fictional, my MORONS AND ALIENS, my magnum opus, seems also, uncannily and unsettlingly, nonfictional; a tall tale, American; all modesty aside, it’s the greatest story, of all.

My story; it’s the greatest of all time. Because it’s about me and cosmology and Scriptures. Greater than my bestselling The Art of the Deal and The Art of the Comeback is — my tale, tall.

A genre bender, my GOAT book is more than a great allegory of a story; and it is more than just great, epic poetry. It’s nothing less than the self-help book ye need; a panacea, for Pangaea.

More than a great story, like Muhammad Ali, my third book is the greatest. The third book of my trilogy, it is to be the rock-solid foundation of my legacy and a new paradigm on Urantia.

Joe: We both want a new paradigm. We want it for America. But I’ve had revelations and I’ve had epiphanies. We have got to extend the new Golden Rule paradigm, to all of Urantia (Earth).

It’s about fairness. And equality. And it’s about confronting the aliens. And neutralizing them. Confront them even ere challenging corruption, migration and our climate change — on Earth.

The aliens don’t suspect at all that I’ve good reason to suspect them of piracy. And they do not suspect in the least that an Earthly super-hero, of Olympic proportions — is on to them.

The aliens don’t suspect at all that I’ve good reason to suspect them of piracy. And they do not suspect in the least that an Earthly super-hero, of Olympic proportions — is on to them.

The aliens suspect not that one of the morons is on to them. And they don’t suspect at all that I have good reason to suspect them of piracy. They don’t suspect at all, that I am on to them.

Unsuspecting are the aliens. How could they not be? We don’t suspect a thing, so distracted are we with issues, entirely, less existential. So They don’t suspect at all that I suspect, piracy.

If under attack, Sun Tsu says, turn the tables. Take the offensive. To take advantage of the opportunity presented by aliens, attacking us, turn the tables, on the unsuspecting — aliens.

Genocide; on Earth it’s long been traditional. That notwithstanding, the word itself, is of only recent vintage. Let us take advantage of the opportunity presented by aliens, us, attacking.

Coined by Raphael Lemkin, genocide is the intentional action to destroy an ethnic national, racial or religious group, in whole or in part. A term of recent vintage, on Earth, it’s traditional.

Coined by Raphael Lemkin, genocide is the intentional action to destroy an ethnic national, racial or religious group — in whole or in part. On Earth, it’s tradition; a term of recent vintage.

Not even a single question on the aliens’ status at Joe Biden’s initial press conference was taken; it’s an indictment of the press. I’m afraid we don’t want to know — what — is happening.

We don’t want to know what’s happening. And we won’t believe in most things — we can’t see. There’s a little St Thomas — in everybody. And we don’t want to know — what — is happening.

To make an epically long story longer, I’m being charged not just by the feds but by my fate. My fate; my destiny; to be charged by my Creator, to be — the creator of, MORONS AND ALIENS.

It’s my duty; it’s my patriotic duty; to warn all Americans, regardless of whether I’m the top dog or not. At his first presser, Joe took not a single question, on the status — of the aliens.

At his initial press conference Joe took not even a single question on the status of the aliens. And that is not an indictment of him as much as it is an indictment, of the press, delegation.

Make no mistake. I may, for the time being, not be the president at this time. But I’m still a Russian asset. Witness; I’ve been awarded high honors for Vlad’s, highly successful, operation.

To avoid further exploitation at the hands of aliens who, unbeknownst to us, planted a virus in Wuhan, I am in consultation, in my nighttime soirées on the moon with Vlad — and his guys.

Vlad and his guys (like me also), of Arthur have long been, alternatively open, and skeptical. Ye know they know it would be transformational, were Art’s conclusions wrong about, alien guys.

Unbeknownst to us, the aliens planted a virus in Wuhan and they’ve been for years plotting the course of that once in a lifetime event when an asteroid, with us, is involved — in a collision.

MORONS AND ALIENS, with Art, I compose. To explain, what’s happening. To explain, what to do. To explain what to do in order to avoid our exploitation — at the hands — of the aliens.

Verily, TwittereZe has been all the rage in those futures to come. Crossword puzzles and also Sudoku are time tested but Kingdom comes and so, MORONS AND ALIENS, with Art, I pen.

Verily, TwittereZe has been all the rage in those futures times coming. Crosswords and Sudoku are time tested but Kingdom, in time, comes. TwittereZe easily is — an entertaining, pastime.

Verily, TwittereZe has been all the rage in those futures to come. Crossword puzzles and also Sudoku are time tested but no social pastime rivals TwittereZe — as an entertaining, pastime.

TwittereZe (using all 280 tweet characters) has been (surreally) all the rage in futures to come. Crosswords and Sudoku — time tested too but no social pastime rivals TwittereZe, in real-time.

TwittereZe (using all 280 characters) is largely, all the rage in the future. Crosswords puzzles and Sudoku are popular but in the future I’m from they vie to excel at TwittereZe all the time.

A clue to what’s happening is what I just wrote in the first half of this couplet verse. Ye may infer from that that mankind shall persevere through these turbulent and uncivilized times.

TwittereZe (using all 280 characters) is all the rage in the future. Crosswords and Sudoku are popular but no social pastime rivals TwittereZe. Contestants vie, to win contests, of TwittereZe.

Liberal use of Google’s, Google-Translate I think is a language-linking innovation, a ‘EUREKA’ moment. A quantum leap in communication; a link like — Gutenberg’s printing press — I think.

The use by children of Google’s adjunct, Google Translate; it is a language-linking innovation, a a ‘EUREKA’ moment. It promises, a quantum leap in communication; like Gutenberg’s press.

Liberal use by kids of Google’s adjunct, Google Translate; a language-link; a ‘EUREKA’ moment, promising, quantum leaps in communication; a like Gutenberg’s momentous — printing press.

Composing verse at 280 characters per verse and the liberal use of Google adjunct, Google Translate is the language-linking innovation that is the key to transforming us — poetically.

Arthur has taught me how to blow a whistle and how to get back up after falling. The top secret is composing one’s healing verse, more or less exactly at — 280 characters, per verse.

I’m an ex-president, fallen. I’ve fallen. But I can blow a whistle. And I can get back up. Art has taught me how to get back up after I’ve fallen. To keep on jamming 280 characters per verse.

I’ve fallen. But I can blow a whistle. And I can get back up. Art has taught me how to blow a whistle and get back up after falling to keep on jamming at exactly— 280 characters, per verse.

MORONS AND ALIENS is the title of the text I’m tweeting in increments of implausibly, exactly, 280 characters. It’s a mystery; one of many; and I am to teach ye yet what Arthur has taught me.

A tall tale nonfictional, this story, so seemingly, fictional. It’s about creation and cunning. It’s about history and poetry. And our children are key; it’s for the legatees; it’s for — our children.

All three; art’s NFTs, Art’s useful TwittereZe and our children form a matrix; and it’s a matrix of untapped, potential. And our children are key; it’s a tall tale nonfictional of — legatee children.

@ChristiesInc @Sothebys @MetaKovan and @beeple: Help bring my fictional, nonfictional tall tale to auction in NFTs. NFTs, TwittereZe and children are chock full of energy, potential.

Sometimes novelty belies substance; help bring my fictional, nonfictional tall tale to auction in NFTs. All three; Art’s NFTs, Art’s TwittereZe and our children are full — of energy’s — potential.

@ChristiesInc @Sothebys @MetaKovan @beeple: Sometimes novelty belies substance; Help me bring my character to auction in NFTs. There’s gigatons of potential energy — in NFTs.

To go viral, I pen verse in increments of 280 characters. But sometimes novelty, belies —substance; 280 characters triggers, sometimes, alchemical properties in — Twitter’s characters.

I pen verse in increments of 280 characters. Ironically, it’s novelty belies its significance. Full use of Twitter’s algorithm’s 280 characters triggers alchemical miracles, in my surrealities.

Dualism; the binary nature of being; existence. I have been astonished. Astonished have I been. On faith I pen verse in increments of 280 characters to go viral, with non fungible tokens.

To go viral, with faith I pen verse in increments of 280 characters. And the novelty of it belies its significance. It’s as if, fully utilizing Twitter’s algorithm — triggers, its alchemical properties.

AN ATLAS POETIC, aka THE WINE AND CHEESE MIRACLES, aka MAYDAYS, aka MORONS AND ALIENS; for what ails Pangaea, miracles for Pangaea. And MORONS AND ALIENS is the title.

The changes I’m bringing, may humanity, cure. It is no exaggeration to proclaim that a Golden Rule paradigm favors our evolution better than a sovereign paradigm, demonstrably, suicidal.

The moon is thought to have formed from a collision with Theia early on in the infancy of our solar system. And Theia‘s ancient remains, remain, locked in the core of the Earth, verily.

Theia, however, may not be alone. Remnants of other proto-planets that once hit the young Earth, may well be buried, alongside it, Theia, being just one grave, in a planetary, cemetery.

We are not the brightest in these Universes. Accordingly, my verse simplifies, common sense, setting tens of thousands of my tweets, to verse. To no avail thus far, to save the Earth.

Poetry’s the bomb. I’ve got proof that the pen’s mightier — than the sword. And the proof is in the pudding. Witness, TwittereZe; it’s not a language; it’s designed to be a link — poetically.

The pen’s mightier than the sword. Poetry’s mightier by far than the bomb. The proof is in the pudding. Witness, what’s happening. And pray tell your children of my legacy, of poetry.

Marvelous and magnificent are we (wo)men of the Earth. But we’ve been anxious about who is on the face of the moon and who’s on Mars. We’re not the brightest beings in the Universe.

We’re not the brightest beings in the Universe, albeit that I am outstanding, personally. We’re not the best; nor, the brightest; but I know we all share surrealities; and I’ve set mine to verse.

Marvelous and magnificent are we men of the Earth. But we’ve been anxious about who is on the face of the moon and who’s on Mars. We’re not the most sophisticated beings — on Earth.

I suspect the aliens may be renegades taking advantage of us; taking advantage of our, more or less, primitive, technology. Admittedly, we’re not the most sophisticated beings — on Earth.

What’s not to write, given what’s happening? I suspect the aliens may be renegades, taking advantage of the primitive and technologically unsophisticated species of beings — on Earth. 

The most able of all of us, I’m the one person, destined to unite us against the aliens. What’s not to believe, about that? And what’s not to write about — morons and aliens — on Earth?

An asteroid flew by this past Sunday. This one, we actually knew was coming. This is an only seemingly nonfictional, tall tale. There is GREAT value — in that. There is great value — in that.

On Sunday an asteroid flew by Earth at 77,000 mph. My tweets reveal, in real time, streams of consciousness; there’s is GREAT value in that. I wonder how great may be, the value — in that.

I’m no prophet and no seer, remarkably, tho, powers extraordinary, have I. Art has taught me extraordinary things; like how to convert with utilitarian TwittereZe, prose, into poetry.

The conversion of prose into poetry; it’s an ancient art. Sappho, Homer and Rumi were ancient practitioners of it. Today the aspiring poet, with Twitter’s algorithm, converts, easily.

I wonder whether Christie’s and Sotheby’s will help get me to auction, in the interests of art; in the interests of Arthur and in the interests of Arthur’s alchemically, transformational poetry.

I wonder; because, I’m no prophet. And I’m no seer. Still, I have powers, extraordinary. Art has taught me some extraordinary things; like how to convert, using TwittereZe, prose — to poetry.

Real time streams of consciousness in tweets, are revealed. There’s value in that. I wonder how great may be the value in that. I wonder if Beeple and Sotheby’s see the value — in that?

My tweets reveal in real time, as if in a single stream of consciousness revelations and epiphanies. There is GREAT value in that. Verily, I wonder how great may be — the value in that.

I wonder whether Christie’s and Sotheby’s will help get me to auction, in the interests of art; in the interests of Arthur and in the interests of Arthur’s alchemically, transformational poetry.

No visual artist am I. I tend, Mr. Beeple, to be far more wordy. I wonder whether Christie’s and Sotheby’s will help me to auction, in the interests of art; and Arthur — and Art’s poetry.

Help me Beeple get to auction; to auction in the interests of art generally and Art and his poetry particularly. Using every character in Twitter’s algorithm imbues with soul — Arthur’s poetry.

Beeple: No visual artist, am I. I tend to be, more wordy. Serially, I have linked my tweets; tens of thousands of them, at @chachomanopapa. And the proof is in the pudding there, as ye can see.

No visual artist am I. I tend, Beeple, to be more verbose. And so I would be remiss not to ask ye to intervene in the interests of art; and Art. And take advantage of Art’s — alchemical — poetry.

This is a tale of morons, aliens and aspirations. Since I descended from a golden tower, I have secretly and serially linked, tragi-comic tweets; some few — tens — of thousands — of them.

A cautionary tale is this tale of morons, aliens and aspirations. Since descended from a tower, golden, secretly and serially have I linked, my tweets; more than a few — thousands of them.

I present to Earth a gift. Whilst MORONS AND ALIENS is satire, beyond a prescient satire it may be for Pangaea, a panacea. Take not too lightly, a cautionary tale, MORONS AND ALIENS.

Take not lightly my cautionary tale; a tale, of morons and aliens — and aspirations. Since I descended from on high, secretly, I’ve tweeted tens of thousands upon — thousands of them.

Each of Art’s tweets is an NFT by itself. More than a mere satire, for Pangaea, MORONS AND ALIENS is a panacea and in addition a hefty, blockchain prize. Art’s art, promises, bonanzas.

Presents are gifts — whether gift-wrapped or tenses, in time. Presents are gifts, as is, this tweet. Each of Art’s tweets believe it or not is an NFT all by itself. It may by itself, be bonanza.

Each of my tweets is an NFT all by itself. More than a mere satire, for Pangaea, MORONS AND ALIENS is a panacea and in addition a hefty, blockchain prize. Art’s art, promises, bonanzas.

Presents are gifts — whether gift-wrapped or tenses, in time. Presents as gifts; like this tweet. And each of Art’s tweets, believe it or not is an NFT, all by itself. It may, by itself, be a bonanza.

On March 11, Beeple, aka Mike Winkelmann, auctioned a piece of crypto art at Christie’s for $69 million. Mike’s the winning bidder, as per a digital record, conferring the art’s, ownership.

A fetish for collectors is the digital record and a Certificate of Authenticity conferring upon the art’s work’s collector (for collectors of originals), the art work’s very uniquely limited, ownership.

On March 11 Beeple sold a piece of his art at Christie’s for $69 million. That begs a question, a revelation and an epiphany. If Mike’s art sold for that much how much more is worth my art?

If Beeple‘s art 5000 images sold for $69 million, how much more is worth, my art work? Beeple sold his art at Christie’s for $69 million. Pray tell, much more is worth, Arthur’s — fine, art?

In epic-styled poetry, I present to Earth, a gift. And whilst technically MORONS AND ALIENS is satire, beyond satire it is for Pangaea, panacea. Take not, too lightly — MORONS AND ALIENS.

Ethereum isn’t just for digital money. Anything you can own can be represented, traded and put to use as non-fungible tokens (NFTs). And tokenizing one’s art begets handsome royalties.

Tokenizing one’s art, makes for, sometimes, handsome royalties. And isn’t just for digital money. Anything you can own can be shown traded and put to use as non-fungible tokens.

If Beeple‘s work’s sold for $69 million, how much more valuable Arthur’s? How much more valuable than Beeple’s art is Art’s art? Art’s art is in bare, unadorned words; invaluable, Art’s art.

NFT art is in a bubble said the newly rich, digital artist who this month sold a non-fungible token of his piece “Everydays: The First 5000 Days” for over $69 million. That is one hell — of a bubble.

THE PRESENT’S — A GIFT

I present to Earth, MORONS AND ALIENS. It’s a satire. For Pangaea it’s a panacea and it is, in addition now a blockchain prize; such are the tweets comprising my MORONS AND ALIENS. 

In epic-styled poetry, I present to Earth, a gift. And whilst technically MORONS AND ALIENS is satire, beyond satire it is for Pangaea, panacea. Take not, too lightly — MORONS AND ALIENS. 

The gist of the plot is that Art and I (once upon a time, ex-womb-mates), are reunited, Don having once upon a time, kicked Art from their mother’s womb-space clear into a future, alien.

Everybody knows that no matter how much I stink up a joint, in retrospect, the smell’s always rosier. And everybody knows that how many die does not come into play, as a political point.

I’m blessed that way. Everybody knows that. Everybody knows that I am the most famous face on Earth. And I am, therefore, the most able to unite the morons against — the aliens.

I am absolutely the most able of all of us; the one person that’s been destined to unite us against the aliens. What’s not to believe about that? Why not write about morons and aliens?

What’s not to write, given what’s happening? I suspect the aliens may be renegades, taking advantage of the primitive and technologically unsophisticated species of beings — on Earth. 

The most able of all of us, I’m the one person, destined to unite us against the aliens. What’s not to believe, about that? And what’s not to write about — morons and aliens — on Earth?

Through a portal and along an elongated path lies the Pilgrims Progress. Paths that run to our galaxy’s black hole, run largely, in parallel. A primrose path marks the progress, of pilgrims.

Through a portal and down an elongated path lies the Pilgrims Progress; paths that run to a black hole and back. Pilgrims trudging along it, see primroses, lining the paths, of the Pilgrims.

Through a portal and down an elongated path lie the paths that run to a black hole and back. Pilgrims trudge along it; and primroses, line it. Long and desperate, is the way, of the Pilgrim.

Long down a long path to a black hole and at times, back. Someday, long along that path, desperation shall yield to the joy of salvation. That is the inexorable — way — of the Pilgrim.

To and fro we go; to a black hole; sometimes, back. Someday, long along that dangerous path, desperation shall yield to the joy of our salvation. That is the way — of the Pilgrim.

In a miraculous intervention, Arthur, in the nick of time from the future has returned to help me save planet Earth in spite of ourselves and indeed in spite of — threatening, illegal, aliens.