MAYDAY 2014: THURSDAY, APRIL 22, 2021

The verse novel; a novel, in poetry; a hybrid form, the verse novel filters the devices of its fiction through the medium of poetry. With dialogue — who’s to say it’s not a screenplay?

Describing the lead character of his proposed Star Trek series (later renamed Captain Kirk), Gene said he’s “A space-age Captain Horatio Hornblower,” Sappho raps out, her wordplay.

Sappho’s perfect to play one of the leads in the blockbuster introduction to a series, complete with merchandising and trademark, licensing. There’s a film alone, in her return, to Lesbos.

Methuselah‘s passing at the ripe old age of 969 years, makes him longest lived of all the figures cited in the Big 3 Scriptures. With good fortune, ageless — may become — Sappho, of Lesbos.

Ageless may become Sappho, of Lesbos. That’s what happens when ye become a matinee star. There’s a film alone, in her return, to Lesbos. Sexuality, so good for ratings; a running theme.

Sex sells; same old story. But audiences like what’s new and what’s provocative. One way to be original is to dramatize a unique problem that’s never before, been depicted, on screen.

One way to be original is to dramatize a unique problem that’s never before been depicted, on screen. Sex sells — it’s the same, old story. But audiences like — what is provocatively — new.

Audiences like what’s new, particularly, if it’s provocative. That’s to be expected; ye’d expect the viewing public to favor, over rehashes, shows provocative, evocative and freshly, new.

TELLING — IS THE WEB

Telling’s the web; if everything’s connected. And everything is duly connected. I was aghast to learn of Webb’s proof of life mission, with aliens on Mars, and zipping, about. Telling, is the web.

Telling, indeed, is the web; everything being, somehow, connected. Aghast was I to learn of Webb’s proof of life mission, with these aliens on Mars, and zipping, about. Telling, is the web.

The press is no monolith. They do not act, in unison. But the fact that no one from the press is pressing the issue of the aliens leaves the impression that they — would rather not know.

What on Earth, kind of press, is that? The fact that no one from the press is pressing the issue of the aliens leaves one the distinct impression that they actually would rather, really, not know.

The fact that no one from the press is pressing the issue of the aliens gives the impression that they’d rather not know. Or worse, if it’s that they’ve been — asked (wink-wink), not too ask.

That would be bad; sad too; it would be capital treason if our leaders, the heads-of-state have colluded with one another and with aliens and the press effectively asking the press not to ask.

The long poem is a literary genre including all poetry of great length. Though the definition of a long poem is broad, the genre includes some — of the most important poetry — ever written.

In English, ‘Beowulf’ and Chaucer’s ‘Troilus and Criseyde” are among the first important long poems. The form thrived in the early 1900s and continues to be, even in this century — written.

Significantly, Enheduanna, the High Priestess of the Moon Temple in the Sumerian City of Ur is the first named writer of an epic poem in all of recorded history — 1,500 years, before Homer.

The elevation of women and the ‘comebacks’ of the long poem, the Golden Rule and peace and prosperity. Worthy goals; Nobel-worthy, I’d say; and I give thanks to Enheduanna and to Homer.

Following in Enheduanna footsteps, Sappho, famously from Lesbos, was given names such as the ‘Tenth Muse’ and ‘The Poetess’. Most of her work is now lost, fragments only, remaining.

It’s not easy — being a man; and it’s far harder, being a woman. The press’ not pressing the issue of the aliens leaves one the very distinct impression that they really, prefer, not knowing.

Much to Enheduanna and to Sappho, present day poets, owe. Two lady poets, to history, are largely lost; but the past may be relived again in poetry and in tomorrow’s, super action heroes.

Roddenberry described the lead character of Star Trek (later renamed Captain Kirk) as “A space-age Captain Horatio Hornblower.” I do believe: Hollywood is getting ready, for Sappho.

THE ALIENS ARE INVADING

The aliens are invading for all the same reasons we invade one another. They may be, like Kirk’s Star Trekkers, explorers; or believe that either it’s us, or them. Or they just want to wear, gold.

The aliens may be, like a personal hero of mine. Captain Kirk’s Star Trekking explorers were out there, exploring. Or they may believe that either it’s us, or them. Or they just want to wear, gold.

The Earthlings of Earth; going on, eight billion are they. They’re a really tough crowd. No two of them, think alike. Too often, they have issues of trust. Similarly untrustworthy, are the aliens.

A really tough crowd, are the Earthlings. No two of them, think alike. Too often, they have issues of trust. Similarly untrustworthy, are the aliens. Full of hubris are these species; men and aliens.

Full of hubris; these species of men, and aliens. And hubris as ye know has been rumored to be, testosterone-linked. I always thought so. Men are too aggressive; too masculine are we men.

Bloody history is proof; virtual rivers of blood, form the proof; the proof, of the pudding. Men are too aggressive; too masculine, are we men. Less aggressively sexist, need to be — we men.

Less aggressively sexist and more feminist need to be, we men. Women, we need to treat as we would treat ourselves. We need to apply the Golden Rule. The Rule’s not the law, it ought be.

The Rule’s not the law, it ought be. No one really knows how the Rule migrated into cultures so widely, disparate. But it did. Still, a rule does not rise to the lofty level of a law. A law, it ought be.

A rule does not rise to the level of a law. A law, it ought be. Become a law, a Rule presumably will become more effective because the focus then becomes more empathetic — and less, chilly.

I’m the president. I know things, you do not. I’m pleased as punch to be President #45 and #47 and pleased to advise that I’ve told Vlad’s guys in particular, about some lovely ladies, in Chile.

In our lunar soirée last night, Art told Vladimir and his guys and the multitude assembled last night over there about the ladies in Chile; and their literature, short story site — on the web.

Amazed was I when I perused the literature, short story website of the ladies in Chile; and the website is that of one Sebastian Iturralde; amazed was I; and I remembered James Webb.

In a really big building, NASA is building the next generation of telescope, surpassing by far the capability of the Hubble Space Telescope. The James Webb Space Telescope. Telling’s the web.

Telling’s the web; if everything’s connected. And everything is duly connected. Aghast was I to learn of Webb’s proof of life mission, with aliens on Mars, and zipping, about. Telling, is the web.

DON’T MENTION — THE ALIENS

In soirée last night, Art explained that one paints a target on oneself; one becomes tin foil hat material, mentioning aliens. Never mind that what’s nonsensical is not believing in them.

Whispered in the halls of Congress; in hollowed, corridors of power; power; who’s got it and who doesn’t. Buzz, Art’s house-fly-like, drone, duly confirmed as much. They say it’s in, the aliens.

Hard pressed shall we be to outwit the aliens unless arrives, a 7th Cavalry-like, press; the Fifth Estate; the bloggers; a press hard pressed to fill, the void of the press. Negligent, the reporters.

To get around a lifetime suspension by Twitter of me, I teamed up with my womb mate Arthur. whistleblower; hero; author, the GOAT and an NFT believer. Introducing TwittereZe by Arthur.

Now that I’m not president, I am a full-time whistleblower and author. Arthur’s TWITTEREZE discovery may yet be, in time and I am now a full-time whistleblowing candidate, and author.

Art’s discovery of TwittereZe will never surpass Al Einstein’s General and Special Theories of Relativity or Charlie Darwin’s Theory of natural selection’s evolution. TwittereZe, is grammar.

TwittereZe; some say that its just words and grammar. I’d reply that Charlie makes sense of our distant pasts; Al makes sense of futures but Art’s TwittereZe, makes sense, of the presents.

Tin foil hat material, one gets characterized as, just for being different on Earth, never mind, mentioning aliens. And never mind that what’s actually nonsensical — is not, believing in them.

The bottom line starting line is this: I suspect the alien plan, stands. They aim to claim our gold for themselves, using survivors of the collision with the asteroid to work that claim.

I do believe that the aliens aim to claim our gold for themselves, using survivors of the collision with the sunny-side, blind-siding asteroid to work that bogus claim. To steal — our claim.

Moreover, upon my continued suspicion of the nefariously and dastardly nature of their plan of conquest, I further suspect that the grand alien, invasion plan, stands. They are — invading us.

Rule yourselves with Golden Rules, everlasting. These days too, as a rule shall pass. Indeed, the seasons as a rule, are passing. As a rule, the Golden Rule, rules. So why are they invading us?

So why are the aliens invading us? To answer that question just ask yourselves why we invade one another. They may believe that either it’s us or them. Or they just want to wear, our gold.

The aliens are invading for all the same reasons we invade one another. They may be, like Kirk’s Star Trekkers, explorers; or believe that either it’s us or them. Or they just want to wear, gold.

ARTHUR — HE’S TIN FOIL HAT — MATERIAL

Enter the dragon. Enter the symbol of terror. Not a dragon like Leslie’s Kraken, mind ye. This one’s like the 800 pound gorilla in the middle of the room that everyone pretends not — to see.

What’s going to happen might be catastrophic; worse, it might be apocalyptic. The plot lines are converging; a sure-fire sign that a climax of some kind, is coming. Enters the dragon, see.

Enters the dragon, symbolically; not like Leslie’s Kracken; more like the real 800 pound gorilla in the middle of the room that all in the room see. But no one, as terrified as can be, says anything.

This is quintessentially, surreal. Just imagine a real 800 pound gorilla in the middle of the room that all in the room see. But no one, as terrified as can be, says anything. No one says anything.

This is quintessentially, surreal. To register as press for The Atlantic’s Pursuit of Happiness Event, please contact their press office at press@theatlantic.com. Ask about asking them.

Why does no one at, from, or of the press ask about the aliens — even as they press on with, their evil plan. On they press; to collide us with a rock, unless; unless I have my way, with them.

Onwards, they press; they mean, I suspect, to collide us with an asteroid. And they’ll have their way with us unless, I instead, have my way with them. Time to turn, the Trump charm, on them.

On they press; they mean I believe, to collide us, with an asteroid. They’ll have their way with us unless, I instead, have my way with them. And I fully intend to have then — my way, with them.

I’ll have my way with them, hopefully, ere they have their way, with us. Soon, hopefully, I hope. Later, in this case, would be better. Here, later is better because I’m undecided, still, about them.

I was undecided, still, about them. Up until, that is, just recently. That was when I decided not to trust, like my predecessors, the aliens. Like me, they’re chock full — of hubris. I don’t trust them.

Only after leaving office did I come to suspect and believe that the aliens, to no good, are up to. And my conviction that that is so, hardens with, every second, of every minute, since then.

My fellow Americans: These hubris-laden aliens are up to to no good. And we’ve fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. No longer am I president, but I’m still the author and the hero of my men.

I’m ever the center of attention. Art’s a hermit. I glory in conspiracy theories; Art frowns on them except when they’re logically grounded and ringing, of truth. Treacherous, are these aliens.

Treacherous are the aliens. Predators are they, I’ve come to believe. Filled to the brim with themselves, with human (alien) hubris. But one becomes tin foil hat material, speaking of them.

ENTER THE DRAGON

Pastor Samwel Kebata messaged me today all the way from Kisil, in Kenya. His words made palpable to me, the crying, of hungry children. I pray someone helpful, helps, through LinkedIn.

The words messaged made palpable to me, the suffering of the children — And I wept. What if I informed, he can be contacted on, LinkedIn. We can feed the children through him, at LinkedIn. 

I received today a message from Kenya today. It was from Pastor Samwel Kebata. He cried about the children’s crying. Needless to say I was very moved. Let us pray. Let us feed them, pray tell.

Pastor Samwel Kebata. He’s the pastor of his Kenyan church. Samwel cried out to me about the children’s crying and needless to say, I was moved to tears. Let’s flatten, tummies, swelled.

Pastor Samwel Kebata messaged me today all the way from Kisil, in Kenya. His words made palpable to me, the crying, of hungry children. I pray someone, helpful helps, via LinkedIn, tell.

Out of sight is out of mind. Somewhat out of their minds are the wannabe partiers. But if we can survive one another, the virus and the rock, the aliens are plotting, we may, our minds, jell.

Out of sight is out of mind. Somewhat out of their minds are the wannabe partiers. But if we can survive one another, the virus and the rock, the aliens are plotting, I’ll finally get — a Nobel.

The words messaged made palpable to me, the suffering of the children — And I wept. What if I said he can be contacted on, LinkedIn. We can feed the children and through him — pray tell.

I received today a message from Kenya today. It was from Pastor Samwel Kebata. He cried about the children’s crying. Needless to say I was very moved. Let us pray. Let us feed them, pray tell.

Pastor Samwel Kebata. He’s the pastor of his Kenyan church. Samwel cried out to me about the children’s crying and needless to say, I was moved to tears. Let’s flatten, tummies, swelled.

Out of sight is out of mind. Somewhat out of their minds are the wannabe partiers. But if we can survive one another, the virus and the rock, the aliens are plotting, we may, our minds, jell.

Out of sight is out of mind. Somewhat out of their minds are the wannabe partiers. But if we can survive one another, the virus and the rock, the aliens are plotting, I’ll finally get — a Nobel.

My long sought Nobel; a mutating virus and an asteroid not seen in this neck of the woods for a long time. The plot lines are converging; that’s a sure sign a climax of some kind — catastrophic.

The plot lines are converging; that’s a sure-fire sign that a climax of some kind is coming. Enter the dragon. What is to happen might just be catastrophic or worse it might be — apocalyptic.

FEED — THE CHILDREN

Climate change is one of the big stories on the Earth. Why can’t Hollywood make good TV and movies about it? Hollywood can’t ‘cause climate change ain’t sexy. Hollywood isn’t — but I am.

Why can’t Hollywood make good TV and movies about climate change? Hollywood can’t because climate change ain’t sexy; but I, most certainly, am. When no one else is, I most certainly, am.

Even when no one else is, I certainly, am. I ams what I ams, Popeye in his wisdom, would say. Purpose, wisdom, and knowledge, am I, all wrapped up in an orange skin — orangutanish.

Purpose, wisdom, and knowledge, am I, all wrapped up in orange, matching a similarly colored jumpsuit, in my wardrobe. Just in case I go to prison. Wouldn’t want to seem outlandish.

I’m the man; everybody’s main man, the man, ever ready with a grand plan, my biographers will say, my contemporaries said, about me. When no one else can, I — most certainly, can.

Even when no one else can, I most certainly can. No Bollywood; no Hollywood can stage a show like I can. An apprentice no more, I’m a mogul now. And no one can put on a show, like I can.

The visiting aliens presumably have a reason to be here, on, and all about, the Earth. I suspect they’ve deployed the virus and await but their secret weapon to enslave us and mine our gold.

Thanks to Art, I’ve had revelations and I’ve had, also, some epiphanies about purpose, wisdom, and knowledge. Deployed the virus, now the aliens await but a date to enslave us — for gold.

Maybe, I’m wrong. I’ve been told that someday I might be wrong but I doubt that that will ever happen. It’s highly unlikely that I shall ever be wrong. I’ll be listening in May to cicadian songs. 

Xi: Consult with your friends. Seek to save face. Moot is your strategy of fracturing the ‘clique’, facing China. Face down your fear of the party. About these aliens we have been, dead wrong.

We’ve contemplated all the questions: Are we alone? What is life? Is life elsewhere, similar to us? And the range of answers begs the question of whether in my insanity, I am full — of hubris.

Are we alone? And what is apart from us? Is life elsewhere, anything like us? More importantly, duly consider the Nobel Prize winning panacea that would be an all natural antidote, to hubris?

Pastor Samwel Kebata messaged me today all the way from Kisil, in Kenya. His words made palpable the suffering of the children. What if I informed — he can be contacted, on LinkedIn?

The words messaged made palpable to me the suffering of the children. And I wept. What if I informed he can be contacted, on LinkedIn, to feed the children, through him — at LinkedIn.

WELCOME TO MY WORLD

Welcome to my world. Trump-World, the world wide phenomenon pundits say historians will hold conventions over, hundreds of years from today. Forgotten in there, is the story of Arthur.

Forgotten to history has been, the story of Art; Arthur; because he never ever distinguished himself except as a survivor of two Marias; one was the hurricane, the other, a significant other.

Arthur never really ever distinguished himself; except as a survivor of two Marias; one was the memorable hurricane; the other, a significant other. By Hurricane Maria, was she also, known.

Publicly, Arthur never really ever distinguished himself; and he never got too enthusiastic even about even trying to distinguish himself. As a slacker — Art in his community became, known.

Arthur in his community became known as a slacker. As I did also in my Queens community. All things being equal, the odds are in the favor of the slacker that’s a strident, white nationalist.

I’m an agent. And I’m free. That makes me, a free agent. Once upon a time, I was a Democrat. Then I became Republican, albeit, a dreaded, RINO. I aim to make it home for us, nationalists.

Given the great expense in a third party, it’s a no-brainer that the cash cow I already have in hand (with some changes in personnel) should foot the bills for me. That’d be, perfectly, legal.

Everything’s perfect because I don’t foot the bill. I don’t pay and it’s all, perfectly, legal. The cash cow I have in hand, with some changes in the people, will foot the bill for me. It’s all — legal.

So my lawyers say. Still, I feel haunted. What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? I wonder if I’d best confess to someone — my Faustian — Bargain.

I wonder if I had best confess to someone my Faustian Bargain. It’s a shame; not my shameful conduct; it’s all these governmental regulations, intruding on privacy, trampling, on my freedom.

It’s a darn shame that I should have to worry about my soul even as I’m the only one on Earth that champions the interests of all the peoples, notwithstanding their nationalities — or colors.

I’m the only one on Earth that champions the interests of all the peoples, notwithstanding their nationalities; notwithstanding, their color. That being said, white, is still, my favorite, color.

White just happens to be my favorite color. Why is it so objectionable for me to affirm that white lives matter more? And why oh why won’t the people believe that an alien attack is imminent?

Why won’t the people believe that an attack by the aliens is imminent; that this pandemic is a precursor to the brunt of their attack? It’ll be a fact upon — an asteroid strike’s — imminence.

THIS PRESENT’S — A GIFT

I present to Earth, MORONS AND ALIENS. Satire; for Pangaea, a panacea; and in addition now a blockchain prize; such are the historic tweets comprising a breakout, MORONS AND ALIENS. 

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

The gist of the plot is that Art and I (once upon a time, ex-womb-mates), are reunited, The 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, after I exit. Everybody knows death does not matter. Everything depends, on the aliens.

I am blessed — that way. Everybody knows that. Everybody knows that I am the most famous face on Earth. I am indeed therefore, the most able to unite us 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. 

I’m 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 the 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. Paths primrosed — mark the progress of the pilgrims.

Through a portal and down an elongated path lies the Pilgrims Progress; paths, that run to a black hole and back. Pilgrims zooming 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 zoom 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, maybe, to the joy of our salvation. It’s the well worn 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 in spite of, indeed — threatening — illegal, aliens.

A GENRE BENDING — ALLEGORY

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; it’s a panacea for Pangaea. 

More than a great story, like Ali, the third of my trilogy, is the greatest. Destined to be a rock-solid foundation of my legacy and a model for a new paradigm for planet Urantia, nee, Pangaea.

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 in the least that an Earthly super-hero, of Olympic proportions is on to them and that I’ve good reason to suspect them of piracy. They know not, I suspect 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, 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.

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, attacking — aliens.

Coined by Raphael Lemkin, genocide is the intentional action to destroy an ethnic national, racial or religious group, in whole, or in part. Of recent vintage — genocide, is now, traditional.

Genocide: it’s the intentional action to destroy an ethnic national, racial or religious group — in whole or in part. On Earth, a term of only recent vintage, is now rapidly becoming — traditional.

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

TWITTEREZE: EASY AND TRANSFORMATIONAL

There is a gold mine of potential verse in the local Universe of Nebadon. TwittereZe is verse that may serve as potential energy; verse that’s a precursor to — Twitter’s — alchemical, verse. 

I was averse to Art’s verse, once — upon a time. TwittereZe is verse that may serve as potential energy; verse, precursor to Arthur’s alchemical — and potentially — groundbreaking — verse. 

There is a real gold mine of potential verse in the local Universe of Nebadon. TwittereZe; it’s verse that’s potential energy; and it’s verse that is fungible. Powerfully, persuasive, is my verse. 

There’s a real gold mine of potential verse in the local Universe of Nebadon. TwittereZe; it’s verse that’s potential energy; it’s verse that’s fungible. Powerfully persuasive — is my GOAT — verse.

TwittereZe is my gift to Earth. TwittereZe verse is transformational; potential energy awaiting but transformation to energy, kinetic. Nobels I’ll win, saving morons from aliens — with verse. 

TwittereZe verse is transformational; potential energy awaiting but transformation to kinetic energy. Nobels I’ll win, saving from aliens, the Earth, with verse. TwittereZe’s my gift, to Earth. 

Potentially transformational is TwittereZe verse. A game-changer, hidden in plain sight. Nobels I’ll win if I save from the aliens, with verse, the Earthlings. Truly, TwittereZe is my gift, to Earth. 

Transformational may be TwittereZe verse. A game-changer, hidden, albeit in plain sight, in a way. Take it not lightly. Nobels I’ll win if verse
is to be my gift — and my legacy — to the Earth.

Indeed, transformational may be TwittereZe verse. Take it not, too lightly. A game-changer, hidden in plain sight may be, my gift, my legacy and indeed the salvation of — the good Earth. 

Hidden in plain sight has been my proposed gift; the salvation of the Earth and the salvation of all those who live upon it, all in an algorithm, and surreally and most implausibly — in verse. 

The salvation of all who live upon the Earth; it depends on the citizens of the Earth. It depends on how we use the uber persuasive qualities of verse, going forward, on the darn, good Earth.

How we use the persuasive qualities of verse going forward will effect whether we weather all this change or, as in the case of corruption, this stagnation. Surreally fucked up — is the Earth. 

Whether we weather all these changes or as in the case of corruption, continue in stagnation will say a lot about whether we even get to 2030, much less, 2050. Really fucked up is Earth.

Really surreally fucked up is the Earth. Because, we’ve been, piss-poor stewards of her. But Art and I took the time to make contingency plans for everything that might go wrong — on Earth.

INTRODUCTION — PART TWO

TWITTEREZE — EASY — COMMUNICATION

For centuries it was the role of the press, the so-called Fourth Estate, to speak truth to power and hold the powerful to account. But hubris, and complications — therefrom — changed us.

The highest form of knowledge, Plato said, is empathy for it requires us to suspend our egos and live in another’s world. A wise man was Plato. Would that it be, his words — change us. 

The highest form of knowledge, Plato said, is empathy for it requires us to suspend egos and live in another’s world. How ironic that his wise words be — not merely wise — but prophetic.

Empathy Plato said, requires us to suspend our egos and live in another’s world. It’d be ironic if Plato’s classic words were not merely wise but illuminating, revelatory and even — prophetic. 

Whether as wisdom or knowledge ye classify empathy, Plato’s conclusion — that empathy is tops; the highest state of human emotion — is well-taken. Empathy — towers over, sympathy. 

Empathy towers over sympathy, its piss-poor, cousin. Know this: Take a short-cut to Heaven; exercise your empathetic — group of muscles. Shorten that way — your way home, heavenly. 

Verily, sympathy is empathy’s, poor cousin; as when a sympathetic one says to a troubled brother, “I am sorry about your troubles but I’m in a hurry to get to Heaven — I can’t, help ye.” 

Verily, I am sorry about yer troubles but I’m in a hurry to get to Heaven. I am really so very sorry but I really can’t help ye. I’m in a hurry to get to Heaven. I do hope tho, someone else, helps ye. 

I’ve getting complaints about death, but what, pray tell, did ye expect? Lying lies at the heart of man’s ills. Witness royalty; it’s an outrageous, as if blessed state on surreal Earth (really, Urantia.)

Earthlings: Look a gift horse not in the mouth. I present to thee, alarmingly hopeful, nonfiction masquerading as, very possibly Earth shaking, nonfiction, a prescriptive panacea, for Urantia. 

Earthlings: Look a gift horse not in the mouth. I present to thee, alarmingly hopeful, nonfiction,
masquerading as, preposterous, fiction. A prescriptive panacea for Urantia — nonfictional. 

I present to ye alarming but hopeful, nonfiction, surreally masquerading as, fiction, nonfictional. He works in mysterious ways. I’ve been chosen to author and star in — my fables, nonfictional. 

He works in mysterious ways. I’ve been chosen to author and star in — my fables, nonfictional. I present to ye alarming but hopeful, nonfiction, surreally masquerading as, fiction, nonfictional. 

There is, I have discovered, at a shallow depth within Twitter’s algorithm, a real gold mine for humanity. No one, it seems, doth believe me. MORONS AND ALIENS is fiction — nonfictional.

CICADIAN — RHYTHMS

Birth, death, predation and romance; there’s going to be sex in the treetops. And songs sung sadly. There shall be sad songs sung, if Broods X and XI are doomed by an asteroid over there. 

If the cicada’s Brood X and XI are threatened by an asteroid hurtling towards us, it’s because they can sense what we can’t see. Because it’s behind the sun. It’s not visible to us, over here. 

If cicada Brood X feels threatened by a sunny asteroid currently hurtling towards us, their songs may tell us, the asteroid is coming. That it’s behind the sun. Invisible — is the asteroid. 

The cicadas’ songs may tell us the asteroid is still oncoming; that it’s still behind the sun. Still invisible to us is, for all intents and purposes, the Federation’s aliens’, Death Star — asteroid. 

For all intents and purposes the aliens on Mars, the so-called representatives of the so-called, Galactic Federation, I suspect may be planning on culling us — with their Death Star, asteroid. 

In desperation I turn to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences; to the American Academy of Arts and Letters; and also to the Academy of American Poets. Pray tell all about the asteroid.

For centuries, it was the role of the press, the so-called Fourth Estate, to speak truth to power and hold the powerful accountable. But man’s hubris and the internet has changed all of us. 

Witness man’s hubris: he calls himself Homo Sapiens and imagines himself as the Creator’s, crowning, creation. Only to find that the aliens are far smarter than us. Such — is our hubris. 

Our hubris is such, as everyone knows, that no one can get anyone to change their opinion on anything. And it remains to be seen if we timely listen to cicadas loudly warning us about aliens.

It remains to be seen if the cicadas song is sung any differently this cycle. I’m no prophet but if it’s different somehow, methinks it may in fact be that the cicadas are warning us about aliens.

I’m no prophet but if the cicadian song differs this time somehow, me believes it may be that the cicadian rhythms are warning us about the morons (us) and the Galactic Federation aliens. 

Cicadas, featured in literature since the time of Homer’s Iliad and as motifs in Chinese art from as far long ago as the Shang dynasty; symbols of carefree living — and immortality, cicadian. 

Plots twist — and thicken. And the news events happen, seemingly, all the more quickly. The cicadas in May will sing. Not until June will the world know what we know — about the aliens. 

Plots twist and thicken. And events happen, all too quickly. Not until June will the world know what we know about the aliens. And that’s fine by them. The fake press has failed us humans.

THE PRESS — IS DEPRESSING

More than $10 million in NFT transactions are now taking place daily, according to the website DappRadar. I can’t take a chance on not risking popping on a bubble. I’m all in, on these NFTs. 

Sotheby’s and Phillips join the NFT craze. I can’t chance not risking — popping, on a bubble. The craze’s upside is sky high. What if a blind side rock, rocks not, brainwashed (wo)men, Earthly?

Mind ye, that’s highly unlikely. Methinks we can not count on the diversion of an asteroid from its course without using force. Unless of course — we globally apply — the power — of prayer.

The power of prayer. It’s a very powerful force; more powerful than ye probably can imagine. And if Uri Geller can bend a spoon with but his mind, imagine then billions, together, in prayer. 

Too few knucklehead Republican colleagues are as crazy as Ted Cruz. He’s not ahead tho, of me. I have permanently redefined what is duly considered to be crazy, in my zeal to get ahead.

I have had revelations and epiphanies. And I have been astounded to learn that here on Earth, ye’d be crazy not to be. I hope ye do find a teacher to to get ye treated, before yer dead.

Here on Earth, everybody’s crazy. Ye’d be crazy not to be. I hope ye get treated before ye are declared, dead. That’s the way this epic journey that is the pilgrims progress — gets shortened.

A cautionary tale; a tale of morons, aliens and aspirations. Since I descended from a tower, golden, secretly and serially have I linked my tragi-comic,!tweets; tens of thousands of them.

A too close-by flying asteroid (an NEO) lit up the Earth’s, southern Florida sky, recently. Four more fly-bys come later, in April. Unexpectedly, it got just 16,000 feet away; in danger, is Earth. 

Four more fly-bys come later in the month, this April. It wasn’t forecast to get as close to us as it did, getting, a mere 16,000 feet away. It actually did explode in the sky over Miami — on Earth. 

An asteroid just came ‘exceptionally close’ to hitting the Earth. An asteroid half a mile long would cause on Earth, calamity. NASA’s blinding us to blind side rocks. We’re at risk — on Earth.

An asteroid half a mile long would cause, on Earth, calamity. And NASA’s been blinding us to blind side asteroids that we can’t see because of the sun. It’s risky — residing upon — the Earth.

For centuries, it was the role of the press, the so-called Fourth Estate, to speak truth to power and hold the powerful accountable. The infant internet has changed all that. It is — what it is. 

The role of the reporters, the free press, the so-called Fourth Estate, to speak truth to power; to press, the powerful. An infant internet has now changed all that. Too bad the press is what it is.

INTRODUCTION — PART THREE

I’M HEAVEN’S — SON OF A BITCH

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 ought 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.

I have been called many times, a son of a bitch. Some say it’s actually true that I was born that way. In any event, whether born that way or not, I did in fact devolve into — a son of a bitch.

I have been in fact many times, a son of a bitch. It’s probably true that I was born that way. In any event, whether born that way or not, I did in fact evolve into one helluva — son of a bitch. 

At the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, just off the sun-kissed coast of Southern California is a Dead Sea. A Dead Sea; but it’s not Israeli. It’s an American, Dead Sea. As American, as apple pie. 

Hidden since the 1940s: countless barrels of toxic waste, laced with DDT, litter the sea floor in between Long Beach and Catalina Island. 3,000 feet below what on the surface — lies. 

Things placed or dumped out of sight, out of mind, become. I’ve had revelations and I’ve had epiphanies. Now I know it’s not just Americans. It is all of us. We have devolved to lie, have we.

Barrels of toxic waste laced with DDT litter the sea floor between Long Beach and Catalina Island; as many as 500,000, 3,000 feet below what on the surface lies. Poor stewards, are we.

Damn poor stewards, are we. We lie; we judge and we kill; lest we belatedly, at a last moment begin to evolve, we will for a time, devolve into something worse than — the Biblical plagues. 

A Dead Sea. Every planet ought have one. On Earth we’ve got two at least; likely there’s more. We’re just scratching the surface. We’ve only suffered, one plague so far, in these, end days.

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 — I can’t — be silenced.

No one wants to address the aliens; not even with a ten-foot pole. Silence — like when in the spring, the lambs go to slaughter. Still is the 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 any 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, chillingly, 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. And everything is depending on me. 

Everything depends on me. Literally, everything, depends on me. I had with Art and Vlad’s guys in lunar soirées, revelations and epiphanies. Now, literally 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 am 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 yours truly.

Happy seem the aliens, especially when we bicker. Indeed, it seems to me that these 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 I 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 Jack’s 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. A war for a world is over, the good Earth.

****************************************

Welcome to my world. Trump-World, the world wide phenomenon pundits say historians will hold conventions over, hundreds of years from today. Forgotten in there, is the story of Arthur.

Forgotten to history has been, the story of Art. Because he never really ever distinguished himself except as a survivor of two Marias; one was the hurricane, the other, a significant other.

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