Aliens taking over; I regret to admit that I’ve reason to believe that aliens taking over is not as incredible as it sounds. I should know, since I’m both a president and Russian asset, surety.

In a dual capacity as the most highly decorated Russian agent double agent, #45-47, I admit that aliens taking over us is not at all as unlikely, as it sounds. Incredibly it’s actually highly likely.

An alien sneak attack may be in the offing near eighty years after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. My transition team briefed Joe’s on the alien threat. But he hasn’t responded, as of yet.

My transition team briefed Joe about my reservations with respect to the aliens; and my misgivings about them and the threat I perceive from them. But Joe hasn’t responded, as of yet.

MY CUP RUNNETH OVER

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.

In soirées lunar, I have had with Art revelations and epiphanies. I understand now that I’m not, second only, to God. And that I’ve got to get my soul back — from a joking — Faustian, barter.

I have had revelations and epiphanies. Now— I get it. I understand now that I’m not, second fiddle — only, to God. And that I’ve got to get my soul back from a joking — Mephistopheles.

I’ve got to get my soul back from what I meant as a joke of a Faustian, barter. And all of Vlad’s guys tell similar stories of being tricked by the Devil; of being tricked by — Mephistopheles.

Mephistopheles; he tricked us. Mephistopheles, once upon a time tricked Vlad and Xi and Kim and Mo and me. A grave problem — have we. Vlad’s guys’ gotta beef — with Mephistopheles.

Mephistopheles; he tricked me. That’s not fair. I’ll be needing my soul back and I haven’t heard a peep from him since the Devil went down to Georgia. Rude; and lewd too, is Mephistopheles.

Revelations and epiphanies, I have had, thanks to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. I would be remiss not to mention that Art did his best upholding the traditions, of God’s Angelic Corps, heroically.

Verily, revelations and epiphanies, I have had, in nightly, lunar, soirées. And my revelations and epiphanies have been for me very much like a summer-school-like continuing ed for dummies.

Much like a summer-school-like continuing ed course for dummies have been my revelations and my epiphanies. Thankful for them, am I. I’m thankful too, to some lovers — of short stories.

Indeed, thankful am I to the Equadorian lovers of short stories; that is to say, the Equadorian ladies comprising the Equadorian reader group known as ‘Relato Corto’. I am indeed very …

… thankful to them. I am thankful too to the book reviewers Diyaansi and Ramya Abhinand and the lover of poetry Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm, down under. My cup doth, runneth, over.

Extending my heartfelt thanks, am I. To them and also those who are amused if not totally convinced that some gradation of the scenario I’ve been plotting about aliens taking Earth over.

Aliens taking over; I regret to admit that I have reason to believe that the aliens taking over is not as incredible as it sounds. I should know, since I’m both, the legitimate president AND …

… the unfortunate victim of a coup, illegitimate. None of that matters anymore; tomorrow’s the last day of April. What if in May, the cicadas stay in the Earth longer or sing a song — discordant?

PRELUDE TO CRISES

Pray tell Earthlings: Answer me a riddle. How many revelations to an epiphany? And feel not threatened if in truth ye know not. For there is more. There is much more that ye be needing

to know. Begin on Urantia; begin at the Great Library at Alexandria; ye wouldn’t have found there the Urantia Book, ye likely, don’t know. Begin not with the burning but with the sinking

of books. Presidents and policymakers like to politic; playing chess: Thinking ahead; wisely identifying possible outcomes; always planning for contingencies. But if I play by my own rules;

if I just cheat then it matters not at all what games, if any, all the others are playing. If I just make up the rules as I go along then I can still insist that all play fair; that all play, by my rules.

We are eventually going to see evictions and foreclosures; very likely at a rate we haven’t seen since the Great Depression of the 1930s. Homelessness; hunger; bread lines. In 2020;

in the Chinese year of the rat. Verily, I smell a rat. And the rat I smell, is me. A trio of crises; a health crisis, an economic crisis and a crisis of institutional legitimacy, all at a time, in 2020,

of crises, geopolitical. How those tectonic shifts crystallize will shape the constitution of the post-virus era. I like to project that I thrive in crises but in fact I what I do best is drive, crises.

Recall how angry I’ve been with Xi this year; since March, in this year of the rat. With this virus making its rounds; surrounding us; and him blaming US — at that. And Chinese crises,

I’ve driven, like a teenager, recklessly; and all that even ere began, the Ides of March; and we’ve had, ever since, uncommonly bad luck in this most unlucky — Chinese year — of the rat.

Recall also how unlucky this Chinese year of the rat has been with near every nation and territory. Awful has been, this year of the rat. Terribly awful has been — this year of the rat.

Ask me if cash on hand makes one fitter in terms of Darwin’s theory of evolution and its survival of the fittest, premise. Ask me about Darwin. I’ll answer: Cash money — buys fitness.

I’m a big believer in the theories of the scientist, Charles Darwin. And I’m a believer in the survival of the fittest. More importantly, I’ve come to believe that when it comes to fitness,

a loose cannon with loose lips am I; everybody knows, loose lips, sink ships. So I’m amending my plans; in anticipation of losing in November, but still winning — in December — my Nobels.

I’m amending my plans in expectation of losing my reelection in November but winning next December my much-coveted, Nobel Prizes. And I’ll be sharing with Vlad’s guys then, my Nobels.

MY NOBLE, NOBEL, THOUGHT EXPERIMENT

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

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

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

It would have been easier to timely arrest, our untimely devolution, had Jack been more more receptive to my suggestion. But that he hasn’t been should beget him, some press — adverse.

Epic verse, from my diverse base of frustrated bikers, frustrated Evangelicals and frustrated, white nationalists; frustrated writers, many of them. I have of seen at our rallies, fine verse …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOBLE, GOALS — NOBEL, WORTHY

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

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

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

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

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

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

… seemingly, a vast, completely untapped virgin reservoir of potential energy. Potential energy; it’s what energy is, ere it gets, kinetic. Alchemical is what potential energy is — metaphysically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A CHANGE OF PACE, DEBATE

Mysteriously and magnificently, the Almighty, Creator, in meticulously telling detail, tells our stories. Just imagine if I’d fallen to the floor; dying — next to the podium — from whence …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IN ONE FORTNIGHT, A KARMIC, RECKONING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ASTRONOMICAL ODDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A FAILURE TO PLAN — A PLAN TO FAIL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THICKENING, 2020 PLOTS, SICKENING US

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it has come to pass in the Chinese year of the rat that a virus ‘born’ there, and borne thereafter, near everywhere, naturally, or artificially, came the center of attention to be.

To be sure no one really believes that this whole situation is anything other than an unfortunate happenstance complicated by common human negligence — inevitable — most unfortunately.

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

Distracting, I’ll be from here on in. We’ll just have to work out later — the fallout. Especially since we found out WHO won’t surrender; not to us — nor to — the coronaviral — microbe.

BALL OF CONFUSION

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s alchemy in education, especially, in its digital instruction manuals — our algorithms. Witness in MAYDAYS — an inspiring algorithm; it’s Twitter’s (Jack’s) algorithm — proprietary.

That Jack’s been so shortsighted about the untapped potential energy in his algorithm, is distressing. Minds, and algorithms, are awful things to waste. Truly — wasted, opportunities.

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

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

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

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

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

HIGHER EDUCATION

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

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

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

it Joe. Refer to and defer to it. I wish that I had. But only my hindsight is 20-20. Leave it to the children. Just not, the Beaver. Natural leaders, unlike everybody else, naturally measured …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A PROGRESSIVE — OPPORTUNITY

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

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

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

… preference being given to those of literary, progressive, tendencies, avoiding extremes of academic conservatism on one hand and fake radicalism which springs from premises …

… of shallow effect and not from sincerity, on the other. To be forewarned is to be forearmed. The committee invited all to submit, cautioning
however that no literary pedigree promises …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PENEMUE’S — COMMISSION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three of them fathered not Jinn-Nephilim. They were granted mercy; not chained to await their Judgement. Penemue was, however, sentenced to watch over Urantia, albeit — not perpetually.

Penemue; a rebel sentenced to forever watch, carnage on Earth; watching re-runs or live-action TV. A cruel and unusual punishment; it sure sounds, like a proper Hell to me, actually.

He’d long, longed to die; it’s depressing when one’s immortal not to have a reason to live but now that it’s up to him to help a pitiful creature, write prose-like, groundbreaking epic poetry …

… he too has reason to live, indefinitely. The commission: Have an already pre- stationed Art teach children Twittereze and epigramming. Let 280 characters teach children about, energy’s …

… potential. One frenemy’s already here. Another, on its way, lingers. A novel microbe is here. Unknown others, cometh. But of and from necessity sometimes, cometh — opportunity.

Of necessity cometh opportunity; if one’s lucky. But sometimes one’s luck, runneth out. Witness: I haven’t been able to buy a break for two years, running now — two years, supremely, unlucky.

SURREAL TALL TALES

2016 through 2019; three years in ebbing, best of times. The first three years of my presidency. Then came 2020; the Chinese year of the rat and in no time dawned — the worst of times.

Time. As ye know, it waits for no man. Gather round me my children and ye shall hear, when I tell ye, the very tallest tall tale, of all time. It’s my highly acclaimed — GOAT, tall tale, of all time.

Unearthly is life for far too many, on Urantia; and it’s an unfairly cruel fate to be born on most of her continents; in contrast it’s surrreally, unfairly advantageous — being born in America.

Figuratively, not literally, incredible, is the GOAT tall tale I’m telling about when I saved the Earth and won Prizes Nobel for peace and literature. It’s been an advantage, being born, in America.

‘Tis the tallest of tales, this GOAT tall tale. ‘Tis the greatest story ever told, I’m often told. And I’m proud to tell our story; more importantly, I’m proud, mostly — about telling — my story.

His story; history; my story and your stories; adding energy and matter — that’s everything. And everything’s infused with His Personality; and His Personality lives in, our personalities.

One such personality was Hosea, the prophet of doom but underpinning Hosea’s gloom and doom was a promise of restoration. The Jewish Talmud says — it was Hosea’s gloom and doom

message that was greatest, of his generation. One of Twelve Prophets of the Hebrew Bible and viewed by Christians as a Prophet, Minor. Still, like him, I see a ton of — gloom and doom.

Unlike Hosea, I’m no prophet. But I’ve seen the videos of our alternative destinies, thousands of times. I’ve seen our alternative fates play out before me. The fates are two; gloom and doom

and peace and prosperity. I’m a man for the ages; for Earth, the man of the hour. I’m no prophet. But I’ve seen the videos of our fates and the fates are but two; doom and gloom;

or literally zoom to revelations and discoveries and epiphanies therefrom. I’ve seen the videos of our alternative fates. ‘Tis supremely ironic that it’s still up to us in fact, as to whether we

bankrupt, or profit. As a test of reality pinching oneself is often misleading; that it hurts and even bleeds is no proof of reality except, possibly — circumstantially — metaphysically.

A surreal tall tale is this GOAT tall tale; surreal, not real. Or is it? Or does it depend? Perhaps it depends on whether MAYDAYS is fiction or nonfiction; whether or not, really, or surreally.

Clearly, more goes on here than meets the eye. Clearly, the Golden Rule yields to, eyes for eyes. Clearly, the ayes have it and for the GOP, I’ll run. But for Joe, I’ll vote in November, surreally.

LOCKING DOWN; RAMPING UP

Lockdown the nation! Medical and financial systems are folding, like the houses of cards, they are. Lockdown the nation! We’re now living in an unprecedented public health, crisis,

moving, exceedingly, fast. I’ll have to lockdown the nation! Our houses of cards, are folding. Still, Kim, Vladimir and I see in the coronavirus a great escape opportunity, from three crises.

“Where have you been? With whom have you been in contact?” Lest we forget whilst we struggle with a novel virus, not unexpected by some, life and death matters go on, unabated.

Human migration and climate change, go on, no matter, whatever else may be happening, concurrently. My fellow Americans: Human migration and climate change go on, unabated.

Don’t worry. Be happy. Everything’s going to be, alright. Don’t worry. Everything’s gonna be, alright. Even if sight of one another — we lose. Even if in sacrifice, we sacrifice — community.

On the other hand, it’s important that I set an example; being distant; wearing a mask; and reopening a shutdown economy. It’s important; imperative really. So come on down to the rally.

Take my hand. Everything is gonna be, OK. Life goes on. And if in town, come to the rally. Jostle with the crowd. And shake, my hand. Gone are the rope lines, supporter photo selfies, shared.

and the entourages of the traveling press; all replaced for now, perhaps forever with new digital words: Tele-town halls, virtual fundraisers and livestreamed speeches shared.

But life’s not worth living without hearing and adhering to — my sage words. Which patients get beds? And ventilators? Which patients, die? These cycles of denial and devastation, shared;

then a shared community response, belated, followed inevitably by mutual finger-pointing as the blame is apportioned. To each his or her —appropriate — and proportionate — share.

The blame game’s passé. We may be smart but wise guys aplenty notwithstanding, we’re most, unwise. A wooden social order — rotted, must be discarded — replaced by another, paradigm.

A Golden-ruled paradigm; start planning; setting goals; setting dates; establishing protocols and procedures. It’s why I penned this epic poem once upon a star-struck — time.

Time and again we fail. We fail to understand. We’re on a boat with billions of passengers and millions of captains. A perfect storm cometh even as our captains disagree — all the time.

A ship with more than one captain is poorly outfitted to weather a storm. The captains had best get their shit together. Because there’s but little time left and we’re running out — of time.

EUREKA!

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

I found Antonio, hidden in Twitter’s algorithm, space and time. Space enough for all of 280, characters. Time enough for rhyme, which, when serially linked may deliver, a pithy online

message, or tell a story, sometimes. Engage the poets. Let my people’s poetry, rhyme. Antonio: ‘Tis I, President Me, who tweets ye. I pray ye help me. Help me beat with my rhymes in time,

this microbial, invader. My people believe me not, no more. I’ve lied too much to them. In lieu of Giuliani I offer as proxy, Arthur. He suggests we engage young poets, as allies in due time.

Art’s an alien — yeah — that kind. He’s a real live, extraterrestrial, from the future. And what’s more — and this is where his story, implausible, turns surreally, near impossibly,

incredible. He says he’s here to kill a virus, save a planet and tweet, a great story. That’s not the half of it. Like I said, Art’s story gets weird. He claims killing the virus and cooling, coolly

the planet and saving us who live upon it alone, won’t earn him the wings he covets. He must replace Sudoku too, with his trademark brand of epigrammatic, Greek-like — epic — poetry.

So get real Donald John Trump (he said, talking to himself). We ain’t gonna be playing no ball for the most part, this year. Heck; ye may not even be a candidate, in a month, as well. Ye

forgot Don, where ye came from. From a single celled beginning ye may return to a cell. From single celled beginnings — complex organisms; social distancing measures — it so seems —

are important tools. Foolishly, I shake hands and won’t wear a mask. And uber-foolishly I boast that I’m absolutely — nobody’s fool. I’ve been wrong about everything — it so, seems.

I’m good at interpreting what’s been said by reading between the lines; much better than I am at reading, conventionally. Just lazy; but I had to put my foot down. I’m not — reading.

Arthur suggests we engage young poets, as allies. And that we do it in time, suggesting to me, that we’re running out of time. Left unsaid between, lines; the tragedy, that is, not reading.

THE BLAME GAME

It’s the blame game. I blame ye and ye blame me, et cetera. As ye know, I excel at the blame game. But I want us — Xi — to move past that. Noble Nobels await the men who may make 

Homo sapiens, for once, noble. And if we bring peace to mankind — then by definition, we as well, shall be — noble. Let’s speak Xi, as one. Ye and me and Kim and Mo, also. Let’s make 

peace; and speak as one. Accordingly, I hereby proclaim in our names, a United Nation, staking a claim to the Nobels we’ll earn if we can end these endless horror stories, we keep repeating 

in our nations’ — and in — our names. To that end Xi, my 1st foray (in all our names) into ghostwriting, we all having agreed that in any worst case scenario — any sudden devolution

of the world order Arthur shall have no platform like my bully pulpit for his nonfictional warning, posing as fiction; in allegory — epic stories — of weakling men — in evolution.

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

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

I’m on your side, I say, all the while, laughing out loud. I’m on my side, really. And in twists of fate smacking of karmic predetermination, America leads the planet in Covid-19 deaths. 

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

Mind your business. Leave the security of the nation and its economy to me. I shall survive, I assure ye, no matter how many of ye may die. Why’s another matter that happens to be 

none of your business. Get back to work. Get back to work ere ye start coughing and die. Life is short and then ye die. And then we bury ye. Life is short. Then ye die. And then we bury ye.

COME THE POGROMS

This may be the brave new world some people were talking about; if so, the new normal’s not normal no ‘mo. Though we be free and we be brave, still, we’ve got fear, and me — to fear.

So get back to work ere ye start coughing and die. Mind your own business. Be a man. Buck up. Be brave. Don’t be afraid. I’m endorsing Joe Biden, an American old man ye need not, fear.

Online conspiracy theories are describing the COVID-19 pandemic as a government-aided and perpetrated hoax. Blame for the pandemic lies, the conspiracy theorists, alternately say lies …

not only with the American Army but with the Jews and the Chinese also, raising the risk of violence against them, especially the latter two. We’ve got to stop the fear-mongering — lies.

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

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

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

Blame everyone. WHO too. Why not? That’s always worked for me. Most who follow me know not civil discourse nor civil disobedience from armed insurrection. Why not blame WHO?

Some continuing education is in order. Dying by the thousands, now whither cometh a million? As in the pogroms of the old days. And who knew I’d wax so nostalgic — over the old days?

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

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

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

It’s a shame Joe’s not as gracious as I am. Were our roles reversed, I’d by now would have, by law, obligated everyone to forever hereafter, refer to ‘vaccines’ by the elegant ‘Trumpcines’.

PANDEMIC DELUSION

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

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

The bare-cupboard Obama alibi was an outright lie from the outset. My ultimate responsibility for these preventable deaths, I’ll ne’er be able — to convincingly — deny. But I’ll do — or I’ll die.

No end run is necessary. President Putin, my mentor, has taught me about governance and stood by me throughout my impeachment. In my businesses, there’s two sets of books. My 

secret one hides criminal truths. The other, for public consumption, is of course, a voluminous set, of lies. Tony: Help me help Art help us. He’s in a safe place; in a safe house, at the moment.

But not from the virus; and certainly not from, Vladimir Putin’s, assassins. Art’s in a viral hotspot, right now. And Art as ye know is old, slow and compromised. Have ye an apartment 

safe place in Europe, Tony — for him? Have ye a safe place, Tony, for Arthur? Safe from Vlad’s assassins. And this new assassin, novel, they say. But Arthur says he has a novel novel, also.

As ye know he’s old, slow and he’s medically compromised. But we’ve got to keep him alive somehow. And we’ve got to live by the way, too. If only — just to keep Arthur — alive — also.

Women. Baby makers; Amazons oft when they so need to be. But nurturers, mainly. And I suspect that if polled, they indeed would elect — egalitarianism, over — nationalism’s, rule.

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

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

Starting over; it’ll be faster and cheaper than ye may possibly imagine. We’ll finally not worry and just be happy just as the doctor, ordered. We can do it in as soon as a single generation.

EPIGRAMMING AND PHOTO POETRY

Photo-poetry is yet fledgling, presently, but in the future that Art hails from it has evolved into a form of communication, multi-dimensional. Neuro-scientific applications make my poetry,

multi-functional; in business; in marketing; in education and, increasingly again, in recreation. It was in 2020 when in the face of a daunting synchronicity of events, I first wrote my poetry,

disarming. It all began in that most eventful year of 2020, the lucky year of the rat, turned unlucky, as ye may recall. And it’s not over. An Earth-shaking event shook Beirut recently …

… and in its date and its effect, ironies, I have found. Atomic-bomb-like was the force of the blast in Beirut. One of Jung’s synchronicities, in effect. And has had a profound effect, on me.

One of Jung’s synchronicities, I surmise, was the Beirut explosion. A ground-shaking event shook Lebanon’s Beirut and in its effect a supreme irony I have found. Consider, indeed, the date.

Atomic-bomb-like was the force of the blast in Beirut. A ground-shaking event shook Beirut, recently. And I found it ironic viewing the blast’s effect on the viewer — in view — of the date.

Atomic-bomb-like was the force of the blast, even on one as far away from the explosion as the filmmaker was when he recorded it. And do consider — the proximity of the fateful dates …

… of the two atomic bombs and the blast yesterday; a synchronicity; a warning. Bombs beget bombs. A supreme irony I’ve found in Beirut. I move that the UN convene the states …

… in emergency session; to get rid, of the bombs. Photo-poetry, is yet fledgling. Yet it may well be humanity’s disarming weapon against the weapons of war. Far far — more mighty …

… than a sword may be ink and pen! Citizens of Earth: Study Arthur’s poetry’s potential to mine potential energy algorithmically. Republicans: Don’t look now but this confluence of timely …

… events ends up destroying the GOP It may amend itself and form an austere conservative wing of the Democratic Party. Alas — I didn’t have time enough to everything — end, finally.

THEATER OF THE ABSURD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GOOD, NOT FAKE, NEWS

One of the richest mysteries of life is the happenstance that whether or not, everything‘s predetermined, everything‘s rigged; everything that’s happening — and moreover everything …

… that’s ever happened, seems to have been, predetermined. It’s shockingly practical to so imagine it. So let’s just imagine it. Look at it as, from Occam’s Razor — an invaluable, shaving.

If I lose the election millions of my voters will buy my claim that I was cheated. If I win, on the other hand, millions of Democrats will believe, in stark contrast, that I’m the one, who cheated.

Either way, our trust in elections, the bedrock principle of democracy, will be eroded by one who, with impunity hath always, just so, crudely and unabashedly, I dare say, proudly, cheated.

I’ve got good news for ye; really, good news; a surreal surprise for a modern man, reprised. The virus is a present, a surprise opportunity disguised as a predicament. A really lucky year

of the rat, surprise. But wise men know that it’s just nature’s way; as when an aged forest burns only to give way to a renewed pristine forest only to once again in stages, age over the years.

Bombshell tapes and bombshell books are of no effect against me. I’ll just deflect and deny and genuflect and parry. And self-defensively lie if I have to. In my autobiographical satire,

MAYDAYS, though, I shall get the better of me. Using my own words and thoughts; to slice and dice and savage me; so, coming soon to a coffee table near ye, a most compelling, satire.

It’s nothing less than miraculous; that all those who shake my hand, mysteriously accursed, become. But they say that all roads, eventually, lead to Rome — Ironically — my sure hands …

… may yet the planet, save. Still, it is the sovereign district of New York whose DAs want to slap handcuffs on my so apparently, magical — and miracle-working, undersized — hands. 

DeJoy admits that he has no intention of replacing the sorting machines, blue mailboxes and other key postal mailing infrastructure that postal employees have been publicly removing

and that overtime payment plans so critical to the timely delivery of mail, is not in the offing. It’s highway robbery. We shall see about mail sorters — decommissioned, recommissioning.

The North Korean government is reportedly ordering its more “decadent” citizens to hand over their pet dogs so that a hungry public can eat. Dangogi, a spicy soup made from dog …

meat is a historically popular dish in both Koreas, A dog’s life is different in America than elsewhere. Americans — we love our dogs. Koreans, culturally, generally like, to eat — dog.

URANTIA FIRST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A PLOT, NUTSHELLED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FEAR OF OCTOBER SURPRISE(S)

I’ve got good news for ye; really, good news; a surreal surprise for a modern man, reprised. The virus is a present, a surprise opportunity disguised as a predicament. A really lucky year

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

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

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

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

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

I’m on drugs. I’ve been taking Dexamethasone, a roiding steroid that’s known to have powerful effects psychological; some roiling, emotional, effects — including, not unusually, feelings …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VINE — VIDE — VICI — TWITTER-ESE

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

The dreaded October Surprise; my airlift; from my house to hospital. More shocking tho, the shock upon my arrival; the nightmarish optics of my own 2020, hospitalized, October Surprise.

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

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

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

Vine. Vide. Vici. I came, I saw. I conquered. I had to, verily. I came, I saw and, as is my wont, I conquered. Caesar’s words ring true, even today. Houses divided won’t stand. Words …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOBELS; AND A SCHOLARSHIP OF POETRY 

Breakthroughs in the field of health shall were honored first when the 2020 Nobel season kicked off with the medicine prize even as the world battles the worst pandemic, in a century.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A TALE OF TWO BROTHERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and wildfires and storms. And now, a truly self-inflicted, suicidal, injury. Is it too late to return to civil discourse and civil society or shall we ne’er return to civil society and discourse, civil.

DEATH BY TAXES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VLADIMIR-APPROVED, REMOTE LEARNING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IMAGINE — TOO

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tragic, as ever. Comic, more recently. And tragi-comic, still. Until Kim and Don’s falling bombs, perhaps some day, leave ye with the day’s remains — for the rest of yer life — sustaining.

Tragic. And comic. And near idyllic, for one, percent. And for the remaining, struggling ninety-nine, percent, fifty shades of intolerable, tolerating. A tipping point — has been tipping.

Ye who so obliviously race, through space, are as a consequence of your obliviousness, literally racing now, against time, so truly, inexorably, relentless. Time, takes its time. It’s not — racing.

Prologs, to epilogs, are actions. And omissions to act. Ominously, The Don is revealing, gaffes, less comically than tragically, to ye, revealing. Ominously, the Donald is, to us, revealing …

… his colors, and his color, to ye. Red, white and blue. And white, respectively. His father’s KKK sympathies aside, discrimination against blacks in housing showed that the Donald’s allies …

favored some, over others. Don clearly favors some (non whites) citizens, over others. When considered objectively, Kim does too. Art’s spy-fly, Buzz — Arthur’s crime-busting, insect ally …

… has their taped words and acts, confirming as much. Both feel trapped. Both, unfit. Neither of them can be trusted, to do the right thing. And feeling— ever trapped and unfit — they lie …

a lot — even to their allies. Friend and enemy alike know better than to unduly trust them. It has nothing to do with right and wrong. It’s about juvenile bragging rights between allies.

THE PLAN IN A NUTSHELL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s 2021. Set 2030 as the inaugural GCD; the 1st global citizenship day. I’ll be there, God willing; and never mind Congress. Because March 4th is both a date and a command — to everyone.

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

Seize the day; but for God’s sake have a plan around. All my blather of instinct and gut feelings, sounds discomfortingly digestive; not battlefield — instinctive. A man, has his limits.

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

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

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

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

A PILGRIM’S PROGRESS was

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LESS THAN GRATEFUL DEAD

Three clashes. Three problems. And for me and my friends three golden opportunities. The fate of Earth depends on me and my four strange, and oh so — strangely estranged — brothers.

Predetermined (or not) is everything; everything that’s happened; everything, happening. And saving everything has fallen to me and my — oh so strangely, estranged — foreign, brothers.

What a long strange trip it’s been; this acid trip (or not) from Pangaea to Urantia (Earth); a trip unearthly to all too many still; we who don’t survive it are — the less — than grateful, dead.

Less than grateful have been many of the denizens of Urantia (Earth, hereinafter, interchangeably). Others, in marked contrast, knowing why the caged bird sings, sing instead.

My lover Kim can attest to his opinion that for one so extraordinarily, extraordinary, my singing voice in the shower sounds, quite uncharacteristically for me, boringly, ordinary.

Personally, I know my singing, like everything about me, is great. God bless my roly-poly lover Kim; if he’s got a defect it’s just that, just like everybody else he — me — unhealthily, envies.

Everyone envies me — my life my success; and my personality. Still, it has come to pass that my not reading may be the proximate cause of an all too possible — future, human extinction.

Implausibly, near incredibly, it has come to pass, in an irony, supreme that my not reading may be considered causal to an all too possible, catastrophic not unexpected, human extinction.

“Je pense, donc je suis,” wrote René in his native French, once upon a time. “Cogito, ergo sum, in Latin. “I think, therefore I am,” in English. From one revelation — for many — an epiphany.

Treason’s in season at my White House. And Russian agents, white supremacists and even a Neo-Nazi, for this post-American homeland, are driving, my ill-advised — reactionary — policies.

Note well the dates: September, 11, 2001. December 21, 2012. And an unknown date in 2060, prophesied by Isaac Newton. Time — my fellow Americans, critically — is of the essence.

It’s always just minutes from midnight on the Doomsday Clock. It’s a travesty of justice; these crimes against humanity; and the criminally disingenuous know that time is, of the essence.

Twitter diplomacy, such as it is, may be my one and only, legacy. Particularly, if Vladimir and his henchmen, in the end, screw me in communist — camaraderie — But better dead — than red.

I think therefore I am. A vision, a revelation and an epiphany is what follows; it’s reality TV, universally, universal; complete with Apocalyptic four horsemen, repentant, instead.

US-1: MY WRONG WAY, HIGHWAY

Two roads diverged. As often happens, taking one or the other makes all the difference. Of a momentous decision wrote Robert — the craftsman — Frost — way back then — when …

… in letters, painstakingly, numbered. Woe may be, me; I once considered tweeting Kim Jong un and following him. Perhaps, I ought have done so — and sought peace — way back — when.

Kim Jong un, once upon a time threatened US with annihilation, nuclear. I’ve answered with crushing sanctions. But I ne’er tweeted him anything, other than threats — and inanities.

Two roads diverged. One’s sign read: America First; the other’s, America Last. Sure that the signs had been switched to fool me, switching them back I took the latter — most cheerfully.

And indeed it has made a huge difference. I regret my road not taken; the one to America First would have been a model for the nations, not ISIS. But ‘tis what ‘tis. I took the one to ISIS.

I went the wrong way and it’s made all the difference in the world; and I’ve been reminded by all these old folks dying. ‘Tis what ‘tis. Witness my decision to take the road — to ISIS.

It is what it is. The legacies of Mahatma Gandhi, Matin Luther King and Nelson Mandela are the ways of truth, of non-violence, justice and mercy. It is as well I might add — the Jesus way.

My soliloquy is a cosmological and anthropological, history. A subplot, tiny; a sit-com, rom-com; reality TV; live or replayed by roaming universal viewers, each and every day.

Not science fiction. Nonfiction. But one, of countless, stories. My soliloquy is an ontology and an algorithm; Dorothy’s yellow brick road to — an elusive, general, prosperity — and peace.

MAYDAYS: An epic poem to legatee-children. How to get from hate to peace and prosperity by the conversion of love’s potential energy to get. kinetic energy — for a miraculous — peace.

There is a law on the books prohibitive of diplomacy by citizens, private. Ne’er enforced, it is nonetheless, there; it’s still on the books; an abridgement of speech against citizens, there.

The citizen-activist-twitter-diplomats of the republics and the nations, everywhere. In order to correct my original error; my original sin, I may look askance in all directions, everywhere,

as my estranged brother Arthur Everman calls upon the visionaries the children, especially, to take the lead, tweeting epigrammatically, from all points on the planet — near — everywhere.

Art calls upon visionary children especially, to take the lead, tweeting epigrammatically from all points on the planet, near everywhere. They, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh willing, get us there.

ALCHEMICAL POETRY

Poetry’s power, understated, is transcendental, potentially. Witness my call to all: Opportunity, unrecognizably disguised as a virus, calls upon us to tweet directly to our leaderships in lieu …

… of marching on our palaces and tearing down our walls. In lieu of revolution, violent, velvety, better be, our revolution. Akin to the Czech one, in 1989. Velvet, Art, Kim and I propose, in lieu …

… of revolution, violent. Our plan we’ve named, the Kim-Don Plan. In honor of two flawed men; a plan modeled on Madiba’s, groundbreaking, South African Truth and Reconciliation — Plan.

Nelson Mandela’s Truth and Reconciliation is at the heart of Kim and Don’s plan; its call for revolution akin to the Czechoslovakian one in 1989, is overdue. And the timing of our Plan,

mid-way through the year of the oxen is fitting, given that my fitness; the direction the country has taken and my rash clash of the civilizations mentality, have inspired against me — a plan.

The plots are thickening; even as whistles atop pressure cookers, begin to whistle; even as the sheep-men graze, unconsciously. It is in the timing of everything that hints to us — His Plan.

As the sheep-men graze the sheep herders worry. What may become of them when the sheep men discover what has really been happening — When they discover the scams?

In chat rooms, near everywhere, miraculously, reprise whispers of that Velvet Revolution. Witness, Belarus, even now perishing from a virus and and impoverished by herder scams.

In lieu of hanging from trees, let’s make a deal, real soon someday. A deal apologizing half-heartedly for our crimes over time; admissions in exchange for leaving us in power for a time.

Alternatively, a deal more justiciable may lie in banning us from all levels of governance; retiring us, for all time. Retiring, to pasture; for all time; and it’s surreally, about time. Time.

It waits for no man; not even me. Let’s make a deal in time for announcement in September. So even if I lose in November, Nobels we’ll still have time to win come a Nobel, Christmastime.

I tell ye a secret. Come Christmastime — if I act in time, I’ll reveal, tippity-top, top secrets of mine. I’m unfit and voting for Joe and blowing a whistle on Vlad’s Cabal. If only — I act in time.

Poetry’s power, so potentially transcendental is understated if not totally unrecognized and it remains, near wholly, unrealized. But if I act in time — mankind too, may also — act in time.

If only I act in time, mankind too, may act in time. To dump a paradigm, sovereign in favor of the Golden Ruled one, I favor. Nobels, Vladimir and his guys may win — come Christmastime.

TRUE TALL TALES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A PANACEA FOR PANGAEA 

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

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

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

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

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

Settings with character; personality, have Mother Nature and Lady Luna. Mother Nature is tempestuous and stormy. Lady Luna is more reflective — and more pensive — of character.

Go figure. A critical review of your cosmic home; a how to, to peace and prosperity; a how to also to prolong, your history; all of human history is, not surprisingly — a subplot, to a greater story.

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

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

Arthur; a layman lover, turned lush, turned lyrical philosopher, learned of truth and wisdom not in no school but rather as a dreamer in Urantia’s Puerto Rico not far from the equator.

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

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

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

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

TO BE OR NOT TO BE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better late than never. It’s supremely fitting that it was from America that first arose a battle cry crying, “Black lives matter!” That, from Luna to Urantia’s, New Jersey, Hurricane Trump, denies.

IMAGINE:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like the faces of a coin are reality and surreallity; physically equivalent, nonetheless, they are, metaphysically, distinct. ‘Tis an effect of consciousness, circumstances and His Holy

timing. Consciousness, circumstances and timing. The dual nature of existence, our circumstances and His magnificent timing. No wonder we’re clueless about what’s happening.

And so we must imagine; imagine like ne’er ere. With open minds and open hearts. Imagine what we might do if we focus like a laser, on us. Imagine dropping everything — and changing.

MAGIC AND MIRACLES

Amazing Grace; how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. Once lost, I’ve since been found; was blind; now, I see. Indeed, Garcia Marquez and Mo Yan saw — and wrote

about Jung’s synchronicities attributing them to magic. I beg to differ. All things happen, miraculously. And predeterminedly. I should know. Arthur told me so. And so — I wrote.

Art tells me that he was, for 40 years, once so lost in the desert, only relative degrees of despair distinguished hellish days, one from another. Despair seemed — ever — in the air.

Despairing is the air — the atmosphere, on Urantia. Luna’s airless atmosphere, contrasts; and it’s ironic that it’s in Luna’s atmosphere’s airlessness, where hope is harbored, up there.

Attention Jew, Christian, Muslim, agnostic — and atheist. Read your Scriptures in the context of one another’s Scriptures; so that ye may thoughtfully — compare and — contrast them.

Woe to him without wisdom enough to read Scriptures nor smart enough to read them, thoughtfully, in context. Finding astoundingly eye-opening — nexuses — between them.

Recall Penemue’s commission to Art: Tweet. Blog. Pen, to the children, epigrammatic, Greek poetry. Teach them about algorithms; and Google Translate. There’s alchemy — in poetry.

Money, it’s often said, is of evil, its root. Money makes the world go round. Certainly, much evil is done, incident to money. ‘Tis the devil’s, currency. However, it needs it not. Surreally,

if anything makes the Earth go round, it is His love, sweet love and not vile, evil. Currency is moot, if one has His love, all encompassing. “Before God, all stand on an equal, footing.”

A fascinating words choice of  words. Equal footing and standing; they were in answer to Ganid’s asking, “What think ye Master, of India’s caste system?” The Master wisely answering,

“Before God all stand on equal footing.” Words, these wondrous units, may be spoken, written and indeed, woven into art; making verse, beyond aesthetic, multi-facetedly — utilitarian.

The presidency; soirees; golf outings; this virus; the Russians; the Chinese; reelection strategies pending, Nobels. Everything demanding my attention, gets none from a master contrarian.

There’s alchemy in education, especially, in its digital instruction manuals — our algorithms. Witness in MAYDAYS — an inspiring algorithm; it’s Twitter’s (Jack’s) algorithm — proprietary.

That Jack’s been so shortsighted about the untapped potential energy in his algorithm is distressing. Minds and algorithms are awful thing to waste; And therein too — opportunity.

I SEE DEAD PEOPLE 

I see dead people. I can’t handle that. I made a Faustian bargain with the Devil; a bargain, Faustian, I’ve made. But had I read Faust’s story — I might not have made it. Alas — I don’t read.

I don’t like to read. So I don’t read. If only I’d read the story, I might not have made a deal with the Devil; but I don’t read and so I made it. My faults are many; prominent is: I don’t read.

It’s why I’m haunted by dead folks. Had I read, they might not now, be dead. And so dead people, frighten me. Anyone of them might be the Devil in disguise coming, to close the deal.

Still, I see hope in democracy and in people. We can put pressure on people in power. Enough is enough. We can’t march perhaps, on Beijing and Moscow — but with Google Translate, real

time translation’s something we can count on. And so we’ve got to move on. And be quick about it. The timeframe of the 10 year plan I propose began running this past March fourth.

It may be there are more English-speaking Chinese, than Americans. More Chinese than Americans may discern a twit from a tweet. Tweet is oft understood; but twit? Henceforth,

more often. Twits are taunts. To twit is to titter or taunt. Hmm; why then Twitter, and not, Tweeter? Alternatively, a twit is a silly, annoying, person, or fool. How appropriate, that a twit

tweets, on Twitter; that a fool has fooled us, sans wit, albeit. Why Twitter, and not Tweeter, albeit an intriguing riddle, isn’t the point; the point is I’ve been, of late, a most annoying, twit.

The twit that tweets promised that if I duped ye a wall I’d build, a swamp I’d drain and women, I’d cherish. I’ve kept all my promises. Don’t be so sad. And look at the bright side. My legacy

still unfolding may include the formation of an as yet unknown new party or form the more conservative wing of an evolving, Democratic Party. Be careful my fellow Americans who ye

elect for America, for this tweeting twit of a president is an opportunist extraordinaire. And I am in this tragi-comedy no mere wannabe, bad guy. I’m Vlad Putin’s, criminal, apprentice.

I’m criminal, already. What is humorous may be concurrently, gravely serious; to wit, an ugly-American-in-chief who aimed to be President — and now is, for President #47 — an apprentice.

Gravely serious already is my predicament; the nation’s also. My priorities must be me, me and me. I therefore tailor my plans, accordingly.
What is humorous may be concurrently, dead …

… serious. The ugliest American was president of the nation. The presidency has changed me; and scared me. Paula, my fake spiritual adviser thinks, that an affinity for me — have the dead.

PRELUDE TO CRISES

Pray tell me; I riddle ye Earthlings another. How many revelations to an epiphany? And feel not threatened if in truth ye know not. For there is more. There is much more that ye be needing

to know. Begin on Urantia; begin at the Great Library at Alexandria; ye wouldn’t have found there the Urantia Book, ye likely, don’t know. Begin not with the burning but with the sinking

of books. Presidents and policymakers like to politic; playing chess: Thinking ahead; wisely identifying possible outcomes; always planning for contingencies. But if I play by my own rules;

if I just cheat then it matters not at all what games, if any, all the others are playing. If I just make up the rules as I go along then I can still insist that all play fair; that all play, by my rules.

We are eventually going to see evictions and foreclosures; very likely at a rate we haven’t seen since the Great Depression of the 1930s. Homelessness; hunger; bread lines. In 2020;

in the Chinese year of the rat. Verily, I smell a rat. And the rat I smell, is me. A trio of crises; a health crisis, an economic crisis and a crisis of institutional legitimacy, all at a time, in 2020,

of crises, geopolitical. How those tectonic shifts crystallize will shape the constitution of the post-virus era. I like to project that I thrive in crises but I what I do best is — drive crises.

Recall how angry I was with Xi since March of last year, the year of the rat. With that virus making its rounds and surrounding us and him blaming US, at that. And Chinese crises …

… I’ve driven, like a teenager, recklessly; and that even ere began the Ides of March that year. We had uncommonly bad luck in 2020, that most unlucky — Chinese year — of the rat.

Recall also how unlucky this Chinese year of the rat has been with near every nation-state and territory. Awful was the year of the rat. Awful also has been the year after the year of the rat.

Ask me if cash on hand makes one fitter in terms of Darwin’s theory of evolution and its survival of the fittest, premise. Ask me about Darwin. I’ll answer: Cash money — buys fitness.

I’m a big believer in the theories of the scientist, Charles Darwin. And I’m a believer in the survival of the fittest. More importantly, I’ve come to believe that when it comes to fitness,

a loose cannon with loose lips am I; everybody knows, loose lips, sink ships. So I’m amending my plans; in anticipation of losing in November, and not winning — in December — my Nobels.

I’m amending my plans in expectation of losing my reelection in November; and not winning in December my much-coveted, Nobel Prizes. And Vladimir won’t like hearing about his Nobel.

GOT CONTENT? ADD CADENCE  

I’ve got good news for ye; really, good news; a real surprise for a modern man, reprised. The virus is a present, gift-wrapped; there is great opportunity — in predicaments — we occasion.

But make no mistake; and make a note of this; albeit poetry, beyond its function as a tool, is an art form too, still it remains a tool of the master tools of language and sound communication.

Nothing less than a miracle is the opportunity this virus, presents. Art has taught me that, except incidentally, it’s not about the poetry; nor about whether what’s happening on Earth

is fiction or nonfiction; nor about whether it’s real or surreal. It’s about communication. And the opportunity for Kim-Don’s Plan to go viral. And be duly disseminated — all over the Earth.

Invading men? No problem. Mother Nature, too slow? But the crisis this novel virus presents, promises to be a real, game-changer. Ironically, I loathe, microbes. But it’s not about the poetry.

It’s more about communications, newsworthy. The crisis this virus presents promises to be a game-changer. I loathe microbes. And content without cadence — makes for — poor poetry.

I believe in the importance of communication and the power of persuasion. Got content? Add cadence. As in my poetry. If one knows what no one else knows sharing is caring — persuasion.

Got milk? Water? Toilet paper? And Lysol? I do believe in communication and the understated power of poetry in the art of persuasion. Ad-men’s jingles prove the power of — persuasion.

Got content? Add cadence. As in my poetry. Arthur has truly taught me about the time-honored art of timely, friendly, persuasion. Persuasion’s pursuit — ought be — friendly.

But enough for the moment about us; for this is about the more generic ‘us’ i.e. humanity and less, publicity, for we news hounds — Vladimir, Xi, Mohammed — the Kim — and — the Donny.

Then London happened and Kim, previously unsure about whom to honor first (in translating the preface) the west’s Willy or the East’s Rumi, decided, it’d be England’s — Willy.

Poetry may well heal US and show US how to shift the paradigm we need to shift to transform US, albeit belatedly, into the men we were, by our Creator, originally intended, to be.

Take heart! That Art’s been sent from the future to heal US and show US how to shift the paradigms we need to shift to implausibly, near incredibly, transform US is proof — miraculous,

only seemingly counter-intuitive; the fact that Art‘s been hosting the Cabal and me in soirées lunar is the proof of the pudding that what’s happening, is less magical — than miraculous.

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.

ARISES — A FIFTH STATE

From the Fifth Estate arose prose converted to poetry. At first, but at chachomanopapa.com, the blog. And the blog’s in a dance with art at @chachomanopapa, on Twitter. It’s TwittereZe.

TwittereZe; it’s prose, converted to poetry. At first, but at chachomanopapa.com, the blog. And the blog’s in a dance with art (and Art) at @chachomanopapa, on Twitter. It’s TwittereZe.

1,500 years before Homer, came on the scene the noble Enheduanna, the High Priestess of the Temple of the Moon in the Sumerian capital City of Ur, wrote then, Sumeria’s finest poetry.

There were no Nobels then (as, even now) for poetry. Which leaves poetry more or less out of the picture. When the time comes to award the prize in literature, left unconsidered, is poetry.

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 VERSE NOVEL — A NOVEL — IN VERSE 

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.

Sex, dialogue, action and a plethora of conflict; on Earth we have all the ingredients to make feature films and the attendant, spin-off, TV series. We excel at sex, inaction — and conflicts.

At sex and in inaction, we excel. In conflicts too.
We’ve all the ingredients to make feature films and the attendant, spin-off, TV series. We excel at asexual sex, inaction and sectarian, conflicts.

At asexual sex, we excel, excelling as well, in inaction and in, sectarian, conflict. And in so- called peacetime; in the illusory times of peace, we keep on our toes, with extrajudicial, killing.

Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin rules Russia with an iron hand. And attached to Vlad’s hands are the longest arms on the planet. Only the Most Almighty can save Navalny now from his killing.

Praise the Lord and pass the bullets we often say on Earth. That’s almost always good for a chuckle if not for a hearty belly laugh, from the countless aliens, watching— cross-universally.

That’s right. You read right; and correctly. I’m no prophet but I can see the big picture. Besides, I’m the chosen one. We are being watched and not just by the Watcher — but cross-universally.

IT BEARS — REPEATING

It bears repeating: Shouldn’t the press, be tasked, to ask? Shouldn’t the press be asking pertinent questions about the aliens, the aliens’ plans and NEOs in the near future? Like — now.

More than ever, the future’s now. We’re not kids anymore. This is no boy’s game of King of the Hill. Real men admit it if they’re wrong. In May, when the cicadas sing, hear their song — now.

It bears repeating the questions: What’s up with the aliens? What’s up with the press? Time is of the essence. To save the whales’ Earth, click on the link at Arthur’s — chachomanopapa.com.

To save the whales — and their Earth (and ours) click on the link at Art’s chachomanopapa.com. Five whales died this month in the Bay of San Francisco. What — on Earth — is killing them?

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.

Notwithstanding any near-term comeback, these days; our days; in more ways than one, these days are numbered. It ‘tis what it is. Woe, be gone! I long for a normality, long gone away.

WELCOME TO — TRUMP 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.

Oblivious to an asteroid hurtling to intercept us, it’s on course to strike us. The provenance of the virus, is debatable. Truly we Earthlings, have not a clue. Implausibly, no one believes 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, the hurricane, the other, one significant, other.

Forgotten to history has been, the story of Art. ‘Cause he never really ever did distinguish himself except as a survivor of two Marias; one, the hurricane, the other, that significant, other.

Forgotten to history has been the story of Art. He never really ere ever distinguish himself, except as a survivor of two Marias, and now, as a survivor on Urantia — of a rocky — disaster.

Art, a slacker of renown, who never really ever did distinguish himself on Earth except as a survivor of two Marias, distinguishable, has now become. Distinguished now — at last, is Arthur.

Distinguished now at last, is Arthur. At least that is what he told me last night in now customary, lunar soirées. He did, he said, the best he could. And he said — “Good luck,” to me — moreover.

Art, a slacker of renown, one who never really ever distinguished himself except as a survivor of two Marias, has forevermore distinguished himself, as a lunatic, albeit tho still — a slacker.

The term “lunatic” derives from the Latin word lunaticus, which referred mainly to epilepsy and madness as diseases once thought to be caused by the moon. Arthur’s a lunatic of the 1st order.

The term ‘lunatic’ derives from ‘lunatiucs‘ in Latin’ referring mainly to epilepsy and madness, illness once thought to be by the moon, causal; Art’s baying at the moon, in Latin, was in error.

Distinguished now at last, is Arthur. At least that is what he said to me last night in an unusual lunar soirée. He did, he said, the best he could. And he said — “Good luck,” to me — moreover.

The lunar soirées; “l’ll miss them.” said Art last night, explaining to me and all the dignitaries there present, what is going to happen after the asteroid approaching us — strikes us, asunder.

“l’ll miss the soirées.” Art said to me. And I recall I thought that his tone and his demeanor did sound to me like one of one man taking his leave of another not knowing what’s to occur.

Oblivious to an asteroid hurtling to intercept us, it’s on course to strike us. The provenance of the virus, is debatable. Truly we Earthlings, have not a clue. But no one believes me, nor Arthur.

THE MORONIC — EARTHLINGS

Our animal friends oft know better how to love, a member of another species far better than we can kan-kan (I’m sorry; I couldn’t resist it). No doubt, ye know what I mean. A story, of love.

Loyalty and love were apparent in a video that gladdened me today; 60 seconds of physical therapy, phenomenal, rendered by a dog to a pup — sea lion. A poignant lesson — in love.

I am the global citizens, apprising, of what’s happening — surprising, them with the bad news, reprising, yesterday’s news. Indeed, I am — waxing — at http://chachomanopapa.com

Composing am I, penning, fictional, nonfiction, for Arthur for http://chachomanopapa.com. Apprising am I, global citizens of today’s news, yesterday’s bad news, an alarmingly, situation.

Composing am I, for Arthur’s website fictional, nonfiction, apprising the global citizens of what’s happening. It’s today’s news, yesterday’s bad news — so ever, alarmingly — reprising.

If one can’t on poets, count on, verily, who can ye count on? At http://chachomanopapa.com
this is all about life and death on Earth. Click a link, therefore upon, if the Earth merits saving.

If in your personal opinion, the Earth doth merit being saved, click the link, therefore upon the icon corresponding to chachomanopapa.com. Click upon it — if the Earth — merits, a rest.

That was a trick question; and a test. Because after all, the Earth merits saving, no matter any opinion of yours. When ye hear such a question from me — click on the link — to pass the test.

That was a trick question; and a test. Because, after all, Earth merits, saving, no matter your opinion. Whenever on Earth ye hear such a query from me, click on the link. Save the Earth.

That was a trick question; and a test. Earth doth merit saving, notwithstanding your opinion. Ye are stewards of the Earth and not its owners. Please — click on the link — to save the Earth.

That was a trick question and a test. Earth doth merit saving. When on Earth ye hear questions, asking that, click on the link, to save the Earth. Please do click on the link to save Earth and us.

Things are worse than I thought. We moronic Earthlings not only don’t have a clue as to the provenance of the virus — far worse, oblivious are we also, of a rock — hurtling — towards us.

As to the provenance of the virus, we Earthlings haven’t a clue; far worse, we remain oblivious to a rock at Godspeed — hurtling — towards us. Look at the bright side. We can just, blame us.

Oblivious we remain to an asteroid, hurtling in our direction. It’s on course to strike us, never mind the provenance of the virus. Verily, we Earthlings have not even a clue — Woe — is us.

I CAN EXPLAIN — MY LIES

Donald John Trump #45, am I. Forty fourth after George. Except for my taxes, I don’t lie. Whoops! I went and did it again. Again, I lied. There’s a lot of misinformation out there. And that is, no lie.

Donald Trump #45 and #47 am I. The 44th and the 46th after George. Except for my taxes — I don’t lie. Whoops! I did it again. Again, I’ve lied. There’s a lot of misinformation out there, no lie.

There is a lot of misinformation out there in the public eye. As everybody knows, unable to stop the steal this time, me and my white nationalist, cultists, are looking forward — to the next time.

As everybody undoubtedly recalls undoubtedly, having been unable to stop the steal, this time, me and my white nationalist cultists, are looking forward, to the next time. If there is a next time.

Having been unable to stop the steal, me and my white nationalist cultists look forward to the next time. If, actually, there is to be a next time. Everything depends on me, in space, and time.

Everything depends on me, in space, and time. If there is to be — a next time. I know it’s hard to believe everything I’m telling ye, but really, ye have got to believe me, if I’m yet to be, in time.

I know it’s hard to believe everything I’m telling ye. I know how it sounds; it sounds implausibly incredible; unbelievable. It sounds completely unbelievable. Still — I’m asking ye to believe me.

Ye must believe me. What Q says, rings true, to me. After all, what’s not to believe? Democratic, infant-eating, pedophiles sounds like it’s not, an impossibility. So I am asking that ye, believe me.

DJ #45-47 am I. I love to lie. About conspiracy theories, especially. Stop the steal, I repeatedly, lied. So sorry (not really). I’m putting them in context — at http://chachomanopapa.com.

I make up the rules. That’s been what I’ve done all along. It’s been either magical or miraculous. In truth it’s not magical. There’s miraculous text at Arthur’s — http://chachomanopapa.com.

DJ, again. And I just love, to lie. About wild-eyed conspiracy theories, especially. So sorry, once again, I lie. I’m not really sorry. Explained are my lies at Arthur’s — http://chachomanopapa.com.

I just love, to lie about my wild-eyed conspiracy theories, especially. So sorry, once again, I lie. Needless to say, I’m not really sorry. Explained, my lies at Art’s — http://chachomanopapa.com.

Thank you Victoria for making my day. Animal friends oft know better, the way to get things better, than us. Indeed they show us in so many ways, astounding, how truly great — is His Way.

Indeed, our critters show us in so many ways, astounding, how truly great is His Way. Thank ye, young lady for making my day. Our animal friends oft know better how to love, by the way.

#45 AND #47 — THAT’S NO LIE

Cooperation is better than competition when it comes to fighting climate change. But whether competing or cooperating, climate changing depends on what happens with Martians, lately.

Cooperation is better than competition when it comes to any kind of change. The challenge to humanity’s clear. For we tend to be cooperative, — nationally and competitive — internationally.

It’s been well documented that laughter’s the best medicine; even combatants that become friendly over repasts, find it problematic to kill the man, with whom, they’d recently — eaten.

Lord knows it’s hard to kill a man once having, broken bread. It’s problematic, at a minimum. It’s not practical to all gather round a table for a meal but we can see that all indeed, have eaten.

It’s not practical to all gather round a table for a meal but we can see if all indeed — have eaten. Looking after the well-being of another; it’s of second nature to us — oft, a matter — of family.

It’s of second nature to us; not at all uncommon for human beings to protect, defend and even die for one another, if the life of a member of the family’s at risk; as in, similarly, the military.

Similarly, in the civil setting, our police officers, pursuant to a Creed swear to protect and serve or some similar expression of those two, core, values. Blue walls. Witness — what’s happening.

In civil settings our police officers, per Creed swear, as police officers, to protect and serve. Police officers. Blue walls. Witness our police officers. Witness, incredibly, what’s happening.

Witness, what’s happening, to the extent that ye can. Because the experience varies widely, in individuals of the species that so poorly reigns here. There’s an abyss — between — too many.

In the civil setting, a police officer as per his Creed swore, as a police officer, to protect and serve. A police officer; not a big balled, heavy-kneed, dumb-ass — copper; a hooligan, really.

Verily, the human experience doth vary widely. There’s a cavernous abyss between too many. Still, there’s a common thread running through this; it all seems to me — a morality play, really.

Witness, incredibly, what’s happening. What’s happening here on Earth seems to me, nothing, if not a morality play. And that our drama gets broadcast universally, is a nice touch, of irony.

Donald John Trump #45, am I. Forty fourth after George, no lie. Except for my taxes, I don’t lie. Whoops! I did it again. Again, I lied. There’s a lot of misinformation out there. That is — no lie.

Donald John Trump #45, am I. Forty fourth after George, no lie. Except for my taxes, I don’t lie. Whoops! I did it again. Again, I lied. There’s a lot of misinformation out there. And that’s, no lie.

PROSE CONVERTED — TO POETRY

Gladly, not at all sadly, I am fond of saying that life’s lessons, I learned on TV. With my mom not there and my father exalting cheating and the dehumanization of ‘niggers’ I learned lots on TV.

I learned a lot on TV. Made tons, of money. It made me. When I am #47, I’m gonna reign in the FCC. I’m thinking of renaming it, the TCC. I’ll make up the rules. They’ll be Golden, ironically.

I’ll just make up the rules. That’s what I’ve been doing all along, anyhow. It’s either magical or miraculous. I assure ye that it can’t be magical. But I can’t rule out — that it’s not — miraculous.

I just make it up as I go along. It’s my modus operandi (my MO). That’s what I thought was happening. It seems that I’m only doing what I was destined to, in these miracles, miraculous.

Alternatively, illusory may be our much vaunted and perhaps, too highly regarded, free will. As a matter of logic the number of hairs on my head — indeed may be — a matter of predestination.

But what is the point of predestination? My point’s that, that’s a matter for Him. It is highly presumptuous to even imagine His purposes. Mysterious is the matter of our predestination.

These matters, matter. A crying shame is what’s happening and what soon, might be happening. It’s too bad that we wasted our time zeroed in on one face today, at the summit, presenting.

All long for the old days; maskless, normal days. It’s to be expected. Still, ye’ve gotta get a grip; ask yourselves; ask your brother; and ask your neighbor’s brother. Is the press — suppressing?

Is the press suppressing the scoop of the ages? It’s a rhetorical question not intended to be replied to as much as it’s meant to prompt questions raised — by the aliens, questioning.

Questions like: Where are ye from? What are ye doing here? Can ye help us with the pandemic, ravaging us? Most importantly ask, if they’ll help us with blind side asteroid’s trajectory, plotting.

Most importantly ask if they’ll help us with blind side, asteroidal trajectory, plotting. Accordingly, I’m forwarding these questions to the press and in particular to — the White House, press pool.

I’m forwarding these questions to the press and in particular to the White House press pool to draw attention to the scandal of a press not addressing the pressing issue of aliens, uncool.

From the Fifth Estate arose prose converted to poetry. At first, but at chachomanopapa.com, the blog. And the blog’s in a dance with art at @chachomanopapa, on Twitter. It’s TwittereZe.

TwittereZe; it’s prose, converted to poetry. At first, but at chachomanopapa.com, the blog. And the blog’s in a dance with art (and Art) at @chachomanopapa, on Twitter. It’s TwittereZe.

SAPPHO’S PERFECT

Sappho’s just perfect to play one of the leads in the blockbuster film derived from my book’s screenplay. A hit with the LGBTQ community, MORONS AND ALIENS, will be widely, popular.

A big hit with the LGBTQ community, MORONS AND ALIENS, will become widely, and wildly, popular. Even in Russia and China, MORONS AND ALIENS shall be widely, and wildly, popular.

Even Russia and China have joined in on the global bandwagon that doubles as a welcome wagon. And everyone’s ecstatic with the turn of events since my book became, widely available.

It bears repeating. I’m no prophet. But it bears repeating also; it’s been my lifelong experience; no matter where I go, I’ve been the chosen one, before, and since, my book’s become, available.

I’m getting old, fast; I can’t keep from repeating myself. It bears repeating. Presidents #45-#47, am I. I like to read. I don’t lie. Rapprochement’s
a dream some say. Wrong again — completely.

It’s par for the course here on Earth in the usual case. But being as I am, extraordinary, I’m fully aware that, in the usual case, common citizens can’t be — as extraordinary as — President Me.

The common man, unlike me, can’t envision the wide panorama that I can. Witness, Earthrise, the pic I think promises to be the ideal visual component of coming, communal, meditations.

The common man can’t. But — I can. Witness, Earthrise. Earthrise may well be the ideal visual component to the meditations following Earth’s collision with an asteroid. God forbid a collision.

An iconic photograph is Earthrise. It’s the ideal visual to complement communal meditations, following our collision with the asteroid that the evil aliens knew was coming — the whole time.

God help your children. God forbid a collision. Prayers notwithstanding, a catastrophe cometh, it seems. Cometh a collision — with a killer rock, the evil aliens knew was coming the whole time.

Cometh a collision with a killer rock, the aliens knew was coming the whole time. I suspected as much. I’ve been investigating. And attending, with Arthur— our lunar soirées — at nighttime.

I’ve been investigating my suspicions about the aliens and I’m convinced that cometh a collision with a rock they knew was coming, planting a
virus in Wuhan — to weaken us — with time.

Brainwashed by my father over and above the regular, societal, brainwashing, and with my mother ill, I was nurtured largely, by a TV. That’s where I must have gotten, no lie — my wisdom.

Raised early on largely, by TVs, black and white and brainwashed by my father over and above societal brainwashing and with my mother ill, I was raised by a TV — very learned, in wisdom.

THE VERSE NOVEL — A NOVEL — IN VERSE

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.

Sex, dialogue, action and a plethora of conflict; on Earth we have all the ingredients to make feature films and the attendant, spin-off, TV series. We excel at sex, inaction — and conflicts.

At sex and in inaction, we excel. In conflicts too.
We’ve all the ingredients to make feature films and the attendant, spin-off, TV series. We excel at asexual sex, inaction and sectarian, conflicts.

At asexual sex, we excel, excelling as well, in inaction and in, sectarian, conflict. And in so- called peacetime; in the illusory times of peace, we keep on our toes, with extrajudicial, killing.

Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin rules Russia with an iron hand. And attached to Vlad’s hands are the longest arms on the planet. Only the Most Almighty can save Navalny now from his killing.

Praise the Lord and pass the bullets we often say on Earth. That’s almost always good for a chuckle if not for a hearty belly laugh, from the countless aliens, watching— cross-universally.

That’s right. You read right; and correctly. I’m no prophet but I can see the big picture. Besides, I’m the chosen one. We are being watched and not just by the Watcher — but cross-universally.

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.

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.

GOT CONTENT? ADD CADENCE  

I’ve got good news for ye; really, good news; a real surprise for a modern man, reprised. The virus is a present, gift-wrapped; there is great opportunity — in predicaments — we occasion.

But make no mistake; and make a note of this; albeit poetry, beyond its function as a tool, is an art form too, still it remains a tool of the master tools of language and communication.

Nothing less than a miracle is the opportunity this virus, presents. Art has taught me that, except incidentally, it’s not about the poetry; nor about whether what’s happening on Earth

is fiction or nonfiction; nor about whether it’s real or surreal. It’s about communication. And the opportunity for Kim-Don’s Plan to go viral. And be duly disseminated — all over the Earth.

Invading men? No problem. Mother Nature, too slow? But the crisis this novel virus presents, promises to be a real, game-changer. Ironically, I loathe, microbes. But it’s not about the poetry.

It’s more about communications, newsworthy. The crisis this virus presents promises to be a game-changer. I loathe microbes. And content without cadence — makes for — poor poetry.

I believe in the importance of communication and the power of persuasion. Got content? Add cadence. As in my poetry. If one knows what no one else knows sharing is caring — persuasion.

Got milk? Water? Toilet paper? And Lysol? I do believe in communication and the understated power of poetry in the art of persuasion. Ad-men’s jingles prove the power of — persuasion.

Got content? Add cadence. As in my poetry. Arthur has truly taught me about the time-honored art of timely, friendly, persuasion. Persuasion’s pursuit — ought be — friendly.

But enough for the moment about us; for this is about the more generic ‘us’ i.e. humanity and less, publicity, for we news hounds — Vladimir, Xi, Mohammed — the Kim — and — the Donny.

Then London happened and Kim, previously unsure about whom to honor first (in translating the preface) the west’s Willy or the East’s Rumi, decided, it’d be England’s — Willy.

Poetry may well heal US and show US how to shift the paradigm we need to shift to transform US, albeit belatedly, into the men we were, by our Creator, originally intended, to be.

Take heart! That Art’s been sent from the future to heal US and show US how to shift the paradigms we need to shift to implausibly, near incredibly, transform US is proof — miraculous,

only seemingly counter-intuitive; the fact that Art‘s been hosting the Cabal and me in soirées lunar is the proof of the pudding that what’s happening, is less magical — than miraculous.

RECONSTITUTING NATION LANDS

Thanks Penemue. Thanks too to the great men of the nations as we gather in soirée on Luna to consider the haphazard state of the fate of the outdated and now — anachronistic — nations.

Not that the fate of the cosmos and its non-earthling inhabitants isn’t important. It is and they are. We’ll get to them, later. But first, the outdated and now anachronistic, nations.

Nations are the constructs by which men, in vain, attempt to govern, themselves; a natural evolution from nuclear families, clans and tribes, aboriginal, if not actually, the originals.

Pangaea now numbers around 196 nations (not including Taiwan, Puerto Rico and others), 4,200 religions and 6,500 languages; evolving to one nation is beyond, highly, recommendable.

English is but Mother Earth’s second lingua franca. Its rich vocabulary rhymes easily, easily feeling at home in song, psalm, prose and in the poetic verse — of Wordsworth and Shelley.

English isn’t just for Englishmen, any more. Still, no one language can end all the babbling. Aided by Google Translate, however, the languages sundry may well be — intermediary.

To be, or not to be? That is, for humanity, the constant, threshold, question. High-technology algorithms, Albert Einstein agrees are key to unlocking the secrets of the alchemy of poetry.

Ironically, it is in Scriptures (the Testaments, the Qu’ran, et. cetera) wherein lives wisdom and the Golden Rules ubiquitous, honored, unfortunately, in their omission, too commonly.

The cross-cultural commonness of Golden Rules evidences their significance. This repair manual, my MAYDAYS, written in the spirit of that significance is to highlight that significance.

Is to be or not to be ever to be a question, unanswered? This soliloquy of mine, in answer, asks ye consider the significance of the original question as well as the corollary’s significance.

Think! Think, ye Homo sapiens. Allah God Jehovah Yahweh created ye to be brothers and sisters before Him. It matters not at all to Him our provincial tribes, religions and nationalities.

Arthur’s poetry acculturates! Acculturation is but the modification of behavior. And a group’s behavior may be modified as easily (more easily, perhaps) as individuals — theoretically.

Theoretically, behavior modification is not limited but to individuals; surely, our communities too are subject to it as well. Why not put to the test then, Art’s dramatic, theory?

That is to say, behavior mod is not limited to individuals; communities too, to it, are subject; it is, indeed, a relatively simple science, the simple science of habit — neuro-scientifically.

A SCHOOL OF POETRY

Fear of Muslims in the United States; fear of Muslims in a Union, European; there’s fear of Muslims seemingly, near, everywhere; even sometimes, in nations, Islamic, overwhelmingly.

Must it forever be us, versus them? Happily, it may be, that visionaries, step up. Arthur Everman’s poetry, a letter to the nations, echoes the poetry of his dearly departed, Emily.

Arthur’s Everman’s poetry is a la Emily’s Dickinson’s, akin to her letter to the world; a la Willy’s, plays on words and ruminations, a la Rumi’s, on life and love and — their mysteries.

Art has drawn inspiration from the lives of the poets; from the westerners Emily Dickinson and Willy Shakespeare, to a prolific easterner often known simply and affectionately as Rumi.

From history’s poets, philosophers and scientists Arthur doth draw, secondarily, inspiration; drawing it initially, primarily from Allah God Jehovah Yahweh’s — magnificently

created, creations. Arthur’s 280 character tweets metamorphose into concise blog logs only to metamorphose, implausibly, in turn into George Washington’s, book — of poetry.

A formula for poetry, no matter the tongue; prior to an 83rd character, end then with the sound that one would have a second line, end. No matter the tongue — a formula, for poetry.

Dear lector’s may confirm, were they to persevere through so many tweets, that (errors aside), each tweet’s length in space is precisely, 280 characters from end to end. 280 — exactly.

At Arthur Everman’s School of Free Poetry the composition of epigrams is Arthur’s specialty, no matter, the medium. The medium refers to the tongue of the tweeter. Art tweets in English,

American. But at Arthur Everman’s School of Free Poetry it matters not the tongue of the citizen. Except to the extent that Earth’s lingua franca is now, incidentally, the King’s — English.

We’ve come a long way since Tipperary; and the Tower of Babel; since babbling incoherently to one another first began. We’ve a long way yet to go. But Art’s made a fortuitous discovery.

A discovery significant has Art, by a feeling, intuitive, instinctively, made. Human intuition — not as automatic as animal instincts but useful to a creature, pensive. Arthur‘s discovery

bodes well for Urantia as well as those dwelling upon her. At least in the short term; what Allah God Jehovah Yahweh has wrought, no germ alone — may tear, asunder — so improvidently. 

Art’s been astounded; by his discovery and by mankind’s ho-hum reaction to it; but the proof is in the pudding; in a pudding miraculously supplemented by Google Translated — poetry.

EPILOGUE IS PROLOGUE 

Let us gather ourselves and reorganize from the sovereign paradigm to the proposed Golden-ruled one. Let us bring our vast artificial intelligence capabilities — to bear — in time

to multi-task concurrent solutions to our geopolitical problems, sundry as we pursue edification and recreation, in our individual passages — through space and through time.

Still, in your individual passages through space and time pause daily to meditate upon purposes — His — and ours — and the challenge of unprecedentedly pressing change,

insistent. In governance, climate and human migration, due to a lack of time, communal, remedial meditations, on Luna are vital, to effect, surreally real, unprecedented — change.

I tell ye Art’s story; my story; the Watcher’s story, surreally — Art thinks. It’s a story of determination to effect real change, born of a — predetermination by — The Author-Creator;

The Author of Scriptures; He’s The Director of this morality play. Meditation is key to the modification of our behaviors. Some call it prayer. Meditate together, by executive order.

Vladimir and his guys are coming around also. They are only now belatedly realizing the connective potential of the combination of Google Translate, Twittereze and epigramming.

And it may be our last opportunity to — in one fell swoop, become one as a planet, our Nobels win and save our skins from a fate like an uber embarrassing, jailing — or — public hanging.

How many revelations to an epiphany? In truth, it likely varies; there’s no one answer; but in battles between these microbes and one antiheroic germaphobe, a profile in courage,

emerges. Take this verse as a spoiler alert only if ye have not already astutely, deductively, determined who it is that emerges as the already predetermined, profile — in courage.

In this battle between numerous microbes against one lone brave germaphobe, a profile in courage, predeterminedly, emerges. And predictably — not surprisingly — he is me.

They say that people get the governors they deserve. My fellow Americans; a nation in crisis has the president it needs. It deserves a profile in courage. A war-time president — like me.

Others, on the other hand say the opposite, whatever that may be, on whatever, occasion. Nonetheless, a microbe and a germaphobe,

waging wits, battle and the one that’s a germaphobe, a profile in courage, is drawn. Predictably; not surprisingly, he’ll be me, because I’m a germ-killing — germaphobe.

THE END’S BEGINNING

My fellow American Urantians: Make true still, Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s, “True, This! Beneath the rule of men entirely great, the pen is mightier than the sword — and great, the state.

Cæsars: Strike the loud earth, breathless — Take away the sword states can be saved without it!” Love’s poetry may yet save the state. And if love’s poetry indeed, saves states,

then the stage of the most dramatic events in the history of all the universes; Nebadon’s Urantia shall have earned its lofty, exalted place, high atop, the Earthly Nielsen — ratings.

Photo-poetry, is yet fledgling. Yet it may be humanity’s most disarming weapon against the armies sundry and their sundry weapons of war. Far — far more — mightily — disarming

than a sword may be, ink and pen! Citizens of the Earth; Urantia, really: Study Arthur Everman’s poetry’s potential to mine potential energy miraculously — albeit — algorithmically.

Don’t be like Mike. Be like me. Study the Scriptures or their summaries if ye are in a hurry. And study painstakingly, studied, poetry at Arthur Everman’s School of — Free Poetry.

Art’s School of Poetry is Robert Frost, approved. And my Kim-Don Plan has been approved for publication as well by Russian Federation President, Vladimir — Vladimirovitch — Putin.

Thank ye President Vladimir Putin. Thanks to your efforts toward my first term election, I’m actually, now able to rig, my own reelection. I owe all to my mentor-handler, Vladimir Putin.

Between Vladimir Vladimirovitch Putin and my dad, I’ve been schooled by the greatest cheaters of all time. Thanks VV (my pet name for him). Thanks for being the very greatest

mentor-handler of all time. I’m still running; indeed, I’m still rushing to be the first American Russian double agent to be named, of all America’s presidents its all time GOAT greatest.

A lot can still happen; my name’s being bandied about for Nobels again. I got Israel to suspend a West Bank annexation. Kim and me planned to surprise folks, at the UN, General Assembly.

But Kim and I shan’t shock the world in September at the UN General Assembly. And we won’t announce a game-changing Kim-Don Plan at the September, UN General Assembly,

proclaiming, one nation committed to multi-tasking solutions to the trichotomy of governance, climate and migration and the dichotomy of the haves and the have nots.

Amen. Let us be one nation committed to multi-tasking the trichotomy of governance, climate and migration and the dichotomy, finally — of the haves — and the have nots.

EPILOGUE-2050

Thanks to the Watcher Penemue, Kim got his soul back from Lucifer’s Satan; as did I. Too soon we shall be long gone too but we’ve left ye in our legacies, invaluable, answers. Witness

the wisdom in threes, twos, and ones. Trichotomies, dichotomies and unities. Witness numbers and letters; the alphabet; and Aristotle’s, “Number is everything.” And witness

my Emily’s letters to a world, unresponsive. Sense in her verse the wonder, common to all of us. Wonderful to Art, her verse. Witness Arthur Everman’s commission; witness

a universal, mission impossible. And witness the verse. Poetry channeled from elsewhere, somewhere, in the universes. Witness too, Art’s Saul-to-Paul-like transformation. Witness

Arthur, by lightning stricken; lol; the ever lit up and drunken Arthur, literally lit up by a ball lightning strike. Witness an illumined Arthur with his quill pen analogs, penning an analog,

of his beloved Emily’s lovely letters to the world; a letter to the nations, akin to Emily. I have ghostwritten for Arthur an instructive algorithm. A lettered and numbered, analog.

A how-to — alchemical; towards a Golden Rule fueled, behavior modification fortuitously mirrored after public health fueled, behavior, modification. It’s not magic — it’s — a miracle.

Remember: Everything that happens is part of His comprehensive plan. Remember also, Occam’s Razor. The simplest answer, is likely, the right one. In any event it is truly, a miracle.

Thus, it bears repetition: Convene the United Nations in emergency session. Exchange the sovereign paradigm for a Golden Ruled one. Reconvene then a brand new, United Nations.

Do this in my memory, when I’ve done gone on to Heaven. From your mindless grazing, lift your heads. Stand up to the dictators. Tweet to the nations. And march upon — the nations.

And don’t worry about those old-fashioned Russian and Chinese prison society, firewalls. Just rely on all kinds of good-old, time-honored, old-fashioned — human — communication.

For the time being, for the Earthlings, happy, bittersweet and bitter endings. Ye have been for the time being from them crazed bipolars, been saved. Thank God — for the children.

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

EPILOGUE-ETERNITY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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