@FLOTUS: Hoping ye and President Joe harbor no misgivings about what went down; I’ve no, hard feelings. This is, in warning. There is no trusting, of aliens. Of asteroids, we ought know.
CHINA RUSSIA IRAN ISRAEL SAUDI ARABIA INDIA PAKISTAN TURKEY ARMENIA MYANMAR NORTH AND SOUTH KOREA: ALL OF US, URANTIANS. OUR PLANET EARTH IS — PLANET — URANTIA.
PRAY TELL — JOE BIDEN
Ye heard it here first. Here too, just as in that bifurcated tale from the American heartland, nobody’s talking about this. Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens — with our gold.
Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens, with everything; their possible planting of the virus, their possible failure to warn us of coming asteroids and their possible motive — in gold.
Who knew? Nobody; absolutely, nobody. Who’s known of an alien plan to sicken us with a virus? To crash us into an asteroid? To enslave us? To have us mine for them, our own precious gold?
Who could’ve known? And what would it matter anyway? Nobody’s ever believed me. But the people may believe we’ve run into an asteroid when they hear and see it and feel it — unload.
Who knew? Nobody; absolutely nobody. Who knew of alien plans to sicken us? To crash us into an asteroid? To brand us, in slavery? Who’s to save us from slavery then — if not — DJT?
Pray tell, who is to save us then from the aliens, if not me, the newly branded, DJT? Accordingly, I have authorized that be issued from the desk of DJT to the desk of Joe Biden, a plea to humanity.
Indeed, I have authorized that be issued from the desk of me to the desk of Joe Biden, a plea, to humanity. He’s to sign it and forward it to the nations. Don’t forget to @antonioguterres, copy.
To be issued from the desk of me are hundreds of copies to the desk of Joe Biden of a plea to humanity. He’s to sign a copy and forward them to the nations — @antonioguterres gets a copy.
From the desk of DJT, hundreds of copies of a plea to humanity. Joe’s got to sign a copy and forward them to the nations, sundry. Be sure that @antonioguterres — gets — a true — copy.
Natalie Biden liked a tweet of mine this Mothers Day and I’ve been emboldened to ask that she give her mom a hug for all of us and ask that as an educator she put to the test, Art’s TwittereZe.
@FLOTUS: Happy belated, Mothers Day. I ask that TwittereZe testing, begin. Potential energy, in vast stores, lies in alchemically, accessible spaces, algorithmically. The proof is TwittereZe.
@FLOTUS: I’m hoping, Jill Biden that TwittereZe, we’ll test. There’s potential energy for the taking in vast stores, everlasting, if the children learn photo-tweeting. It’s easy and it’s — TwittereZe.
@FLOTUS: I’m hoping, Jill Biden that TwittereZe, we’ll be testing. There’s potential energy for the taking in vast stores, everlasting, if the children learn photo-tweeting. It’s easy. It’s, TwittereZe.
Introducing, TwittereZe communications; with Google Translate capability, we may well build better bridges between the nations. Introducing Arthur’s communications easy and TwittereZe.
INTRODUCING TWITTEREZE
“EUREKA! I found it!” That’s what Arthur told me he said, when his groundbreaking discovery, he made. The epiphany, at long last. The sum of a series of ongoing and incremental, revelations.
Introducing, TwittereZe communications; with Google Translate capability, we may build bridges between Vladimir Putin’s many nations. Introducing — TwittereZe — communications.
TwittereZe with Google Translate makes easy my conversions of prose to poetry. From one tongue to another, bye and bye. A novel, top secret, I may reveal, as just such, a revelation.
Top secrets, classified, I’m declassifying, to so, publicly, acknowledge, them. TwittereZe makes easy my conversions of prose to poetry. Google Translate, makes easy, the foreign, translations.
Google Translate makes foreign translations, relatively, easy. For written conversations, domestic, TwittereZe, will do. Because it makes for easy conversion of my prose, to my poetry.
TwittereZe allows easy conversion of prose to poetry. And Google Translate makes translation possible. Indeed, my purpose on Earth, is to facilitate — peace and prosperity — via poetry.
Multiple are my purposes. TwittereZe poetry, Google Translate, translates. Witness, poetry, become an algorithm; a set of instructions to make Urantia, once again great — implausibly.
Stranger things have happened. Men have trod upon Luna. I’ve become a president. Witness, moreover children appearing to have more common sense than the president of a country.
Multiple indeed, are my purposes. Verily, l am weak. And He, works mysteriously. Remember, Jung’s synchronicities. Seemingly incredibly, synchronized — are they. But only, seemingly.
Only seemingly incredible, that is to say. His Authorship of Scripture, not to mention, His Omnipotence. Everybody knows that for Him, nothing — is impossible. Nothing, absolutely.
Reading; and authorship; revelations, they have been; authorship, especially. As fundamental as is reading, by an order of magnitude greater — potentially, transcendental, may be authorship.
Authorship is a potentially, transcendental, experience. Transcendental, authorship, may be. Witness how fitting the irony in one actually confessing, in a story, of his own, authorship.
Verily, loathe as I am to admit it, this is neither about me nor thee. It’s about us; and space; and a race, against time. To multi-task, aptly, follow the instructions that follow in the story.
“EUREKA! I found it!” That’s what Arthur told me he said, when his groundbreaking discovery, he made. The epiphany. The climax of a series of revelations. Transcendental revelations. Poetry.
DRUNKEN SEX — IN OUTER SPACE
Technically, I might be wrong. Theoretically, I could be wrong. However, I have never, ever, been wrong, before; I have been with one of their females, seducing her, to info corroborate.
And what a shock of a tryst; plying her petite frame with universally famous, Earthly alcohol, what I discovered shocked me to my core. The aliens have designs on us — I did, corroborate.
Technically I may be wrong. Theoretically I may be wrong. Hate contemplating that. Ne’er been wrong before. Frankly, I hate sex if not with my wife except when seducing to info, corroborate.
Possibly; theoretically, I may be wrong. I hate
contemplating — that possibility. Frankly, I hate
sex not with my wife, unless I sate myself. Being — wrong it really seems, is my perpetual, fate.
My mentor Vlad, I’ve already informed of my plans to run again, in 2024, for the presidency. Graciously, he has offered to me, Moscow as an ideal site for my very own, presidential, library.
Vladimir beseeches ye read my epic poem. It’s ghostwritten, says Vlad, on behalf of my former womb-mate brother, Arthur, and on behalf of, the Urantian people says, my erstwhile, enemy.
The poem I’m ghostwriting on behalf of Art, my former womb-mate, is a poem, painstakingly, written. It’s an algorithm. Instructions on how to get to, a Golden-Ruled paradigm, in a poem.
To the end of diminishing devolution and duly, encouraging, evolution, I learned from Art how, to poetry, compose. It is painstaking, it is true. And it is, imperative. It is, history — in a poem.
Art has taught me how to poetry, compose. And it’s been painful; but only because of my preexisting, reading, disability. I have grown to love, even more than Kim, reading and writing.
Had I not bartered away, in a Faustian bargain, to Satan, my soul, perhaps, none of what’s happened to me would have happened. All that has happened — is meant to be — happening.
More than Melania; more than my Kim, even, thanks to Art, I have come to love, reading and writing and the composition of poetry. And it’s addictive; so much so, that an epic, I’m writing.
I assure ye; it’s addictive; the recomposition of prose to poetry; but pleasantly addictive, not, sinisterly so. In Twitter’s algorithm, Art has found — a mechanism, possibly, Earth-saving.
Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens with anything; a possible planting of the virus, an apparent failure to warn us of approaching asteroids and a possible motive, in gold mines.
Truth and Reconciliation may put an end to the madness; put an end to this paradigm, archaic. Accordingly, Vladimir and his guys and I offer ye, our citizens, a blessedly — fresh, paradigm.
BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION — MODIFIED
Ye heard it here first. Here too, just as in that bifurcated tale from the American heartland, nobody’s talking about this. Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens — with our gold.
Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens, with everything; their possible planting of the virus, their possible failure to warn us of coming asteroids and their possible motive — in gold.
Truth and Reconciliation may put an end to the madness; put an end to this paradigm, archaic. Accordingly, Vladimir and his guys and I offer ye, our citizens, a blessedly — fresh, paradigm.
Dump a sovereign paradigm for a Golden-Ruled one. Make, no mistake. We can be great again, given the application of behavior modification and Truth and Reconciliation. There’s, yet time.
This is TwittereZe; with Google Translate, it’s new and improved. Google Translate, improves, TwittereZe. With Google Translate, any writer improves her or his ability — to communicate.
It’s miraculous. It just is, what it is. This is to introduce TwittereZe; with Google Translate, it’s new and improved. It improves man’s less than able, ability — to adequately — communicate.
Introducing Arthur’s TwittereZe with Google Translate; a fine platform is Google Translate, improving my ability, to communicate. Greta: Please follow Art and with him — communicate.
Miss Greta: Please follow Art’s Twitter account; I’m using it to stymy Twitter‘s suspension of me. Art; once upon a time, he was my womb-mate. Now I find I need him — just to, communicate.
Miss Greta: Please follow, in lieu of me, Arthur’s Twitter account; I’m using it to stymy Twitter‘s suspension of me. Trusty Art was my womb-mate, trustee. Now, TwittereZe, he postulates.
Near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me into a man-child, of algorithmic, letters. He postulates that TwittereZe, compounded by Google Translate may help us — save our dates.
Implausibly, near incredibly, Art’s postulated that TwittereZe, compounded by Google Translate may help us — save our dates. Arthur has transformed me into a man-child of letters.
Once upon a time, I kicked Art, my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Thankfully, now he’s back. Surreally; near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me, into a man-child — of letters.
Since descending from my golden tower, I’ve linked, tragi-comic tweets; tens of thousands of them. Take not lightly this cautionary tale; this tale of morons and aliens. Trust not, the aliens.
Take not lightly this cautionary tale; this tale of morons and aliens. Trust not, the aliens, at all. More and more — trust — your fellow morons. It’s OK, to make mistakes, but learn from them.
A MAN OF LETTERS — AM I
Ye heard it here first. Here too, just as in that bifurcated tale from the American heartland, nobody’s talking about this. Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens with our gold.
Ye heard it here first. Here too, just as in that bifurcated tale from the American heartland, nobody is talking about this. Nobody’s talking about any connection of the aliens — with gold.
My decisive action in conjunction with what I expect will be Democratic inaction and vague mouthings of some vague policy I plan, may make in 2024 — the #47th president — of me.
Emergency action I’ve taken to reorganize my party; I’ve completely reorganized it to contrast, my boldness with Democratic inaction. I plan in 2024, that president, the Democrats, make me.
Disgracefully unAmerican; what has happened; with the living, voting repeatedly; and the dead, voting at least, once. Most disgracefully, the enemies of the people, cover up their crimes.
Covering up; it’s a very much coveted skill, less American tho, than Earthly; skills, unUrantian; all this lying, misrepresenting and misleading. Nonetheless, I am, confessing to — my crimes.
And not just mine but, in also the crimes of Vlad and his guys, also. In soirées on Luna with my ex-womb-mate brother Art, we’ve agreed, in exchange for mercy to confess — to our crimes.
We’ve agreed, in exchange for mercy, to truly confess, to our crimes. As per the prototype plan of Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu for Truth and Reconciliation respecting all crimes.
Truth and Reconciliation; put an end to the madness; put an end to a paradigm, archaic. Accordingly, Vlad and his guys, and I, offer our beloved citizens a blessedly, fresh, paradigm.
Make no mistake. Dumping Trump; dumping me as president, is but a first step; we’ve got to replace sovereignty with a Golden Rule. Make no mistake. Take heart. Dump, this paradigm.
We’ve got to replace sovereignty with a Golden Rule. Make, no mistake. We can be great again, given the application of behavior modification and Truth and Reconciliation. There’s, yet time.
There is yet time, albeit, not much. Witness, what’s been happening lately. WW III; it may be that no one wants it but circumstances shall dictate to the dictators what they’ll do, in time.
Once upon a time, I kicked Art, my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Thankfully, now he’s back. Surreally; near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me, into a man-child — of letters.
Once upon a time, in fact, I kicked my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Now he’s back. Near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me into a man-child, of — algorithmic, letters.
THAT WON’T HAPPEN TO ME
I feel sorry for Joe if he doesn’t come to terms with the story that’s going to make the virus, a lesser story. Earth will be better off once it sees the virus that I see — under, an alien umbrella.
Joe‘s got to come to terms with the story that’s going to make the virus, a lesser story than it is right now. Earth will be better off once it sees the virus that I see — under, an alien umbrella.
Alas, Earthlings have a hard time wrapping their minds around what they can’t see. Like a virus so tiny we can’t see it or a huge rock yet too far to see it. Methinks the ironies — are killing me.
Indeed, Earthlings have a hard time wrapping their minds around what can’t be seen. Like a virus so tiny it can’t be seen or a huge rock, yet too far, to see. Methinks ironies, art killing me.
‘Who are we? Where are we? And where, are we going? The answers to these three existential questions we’ve lost along our way to the year of the coronavirus, in year of our Lord in 2020.
‘Tis the questions existential I aim to answer; answering questions like who we are, where we are and where we’re going. We lost the answers along our way to the year of the rat in 2020.
‘Tis the questions existential that I’m aiming to answer; questions like — what on Earth’s our purpose? Either lost or confused are Earthlings about the answers; it’s the year of oxen — 2021.
‘Tis the questions existential that I’m aiming to answer; questions like what on Earth is our purpose? Lost or confused are Earthlings about the answers; and it’s the year of the oxen, 2021.
Everything that’s happening is like the proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined AND ad hoc. These Twitter derived instructions are meant — to save the planet and all upon it.
Like dark matter and energy and like long ago ancient, alchemy; a metaphysical proof of the pudding for existence both predetermined and ad hoc. Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic.
Either lost, or confused, or both are the humans about the answers in this 2021 year of the oxen. In an existence both predetermined and ad hoc think for once, dispassionately, and collectively.
The emergency actions I’m taking in conjunction with what I expect will be Democratic inaction and recanned vague mouthings of some vague policy — I plan, will make in 2024, #47 — of me.
My decisive action in conjunction with what I expect will be Democratic inaction and vague mouthings of some vague policy I plan, may make in 2024, the #47th president — of me.
A whole lot has been happening that ye the people have been kept from. Things I only became apprised this past December by the Israelis, of dangers presented, by aliens, tricky.
ALIEN UMBRELLAS
The people are in foul moods. I ought take full advantage of a crying need to laugh. We don’t know when the asteroid is gonna strike. We’re in the dark as to when. But soon is when …
… soon is when, I suspect, that the entire planet may feel the effect, if not the actual impact of the next asteroid in the long line of them that have actually, impacted, Earth. Soon’s when …
… possibly we get a chance to live through what Kazuo Ishiguro lived through, when as a boy, the future author wrote The Remains of the Day, on indignity, dignity and all things, Karmic.
Everything that’s happening is like the proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined AND as hoc. These Twitter derived instructions are meant — to save the planet and all upon it.
Like dark matter and energy and like long ago ancient, alchemy; a metaphysical proof of the pudding for existence both predetermined and as hoc. Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic.
This is like dark matter and energy; like ancient alchemy; a metaphysical proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined and as hoc. Witness Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic.
Witness Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic. This is no drill. This is no joke. This is the global emergency I was born for; Arthur too. Stranger things have happened. I got elected, president.
Take 1337. How strange is that? A language for internet users known for replacing letters with numbers or symbols. The term itself has gone on to mutate into other meanings; prescient …
… would one have been to understand that Amazon would become what it’s become. As I am. 1337’s become a slang term for “extremely skilled (at gaming or computing)” or “awesome.”
I’m no prophet. But I’ have been an apprentice buffoon and at that I’ve excelled; all that before even the onset of that fateful, 2020 year of the rat — Almost needless to say, it was awesome.
2020. The year of the rat; the loss of life has been awesome. And I feel sorry for Joe Biden if he doesn’t come to terms with the story that’s gonna — make the virus — a second-tier, story.
I feel sorry for Joe Biden if he doesn’t come to terms with the story that’s going to make the coronavirus a second-tier, story. That sounds pretty cynical, coming from me, in all honesty.
In all honesty and in all modesty given I’m not given to trafficking in conspiracy theories, or speaking ill of others, Earth will be better off, once it sees the virus, under alien, umbrellas.
I feel sorry for Joe if he doesn’t come to terms with the story that’s going to make the virus, a second-tier story. Earth will be better off once it sees the virus I see, under — an alien umbrella.
I DON’T KNOW WHEN
All modesty aside, there is, as usual, too little time, to adequately, praise me. More pressing at the moment‘s a matter of, conniving, aliens; and how to counter their advantage, effectively.
Vlad. Xi. Kim. Me. And Mo. Man plans and God laughs, says one of my man’s sayings; I agree and I would add to my plan a unifying, counter-attacking, plan, to turn the tables, surprisingly.
My main man Art suggests that I write to Vlad’s guys, publicly. Write: Xi. Kim. Me. And Mo. Man plans and God laughs. I agree. I’m adding a plan amended to be a wisely counter-attacking, plan.
God made us. But not just us. He’s made loads of others. Ye would be surprised at the sheer numbers of celestial beings it takes to run His seven Universes. He delegates. And He plans.
Lots of the more mundane things, he delegates. With other things, just like us, He’s more hands on; in those cases, He plans. A favorite mantra of His is: Failure oft arises from a failure to plan.
A favorite mantra of His is: Failure often arises from a failure to plan. Accordingly, an ordinary failure to plan, makes for a most extraordinary, plan to fail. Of tantamount importance is a plan.
Read my story. It’s a tall tale, in an algorithm. A self-help tome; a panacea, possibly, due to the kinetic energy that may be released. Make no mistake. It seems fictional, but it’s, nonfictional.
It seems fictional but it’s nonfictional. A self-help tome; a panacea, potentially of avail, due to the kinetic energy it may release. It’s fictional but it feels, really, surreally and chillingly, nonfictional.
MAYDAYS seems completely fictional but it’s actually more nonfictional, than it is, fictional. A tall tale, self-help book; algorithmic instructions meant to save, an entire planet, and its people.
MAYDAYS’ instructions are intended to save an endangered planet and also, an endangered citizenry. And only I can save this woeful planet. Believe it or not — only I can save — the people.
Everything that’s happening is like the proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined AND as hoc. These Twitter derived instructions are meant — to save the planet and all upon it.
This is like dark matter and energy; like ancient alchemy; a metaphysical proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined and as hoc. Witness Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic.
Last night at soirée Art said, “The people are in foul moods. DJT ought take full advantage of a crying need to laugh. We don’t know when the asteroid strikes. We’re in the dark, as to when.”
The people are in foul moods. I ought take full advantage of a crying need to laugh. We don’t know when the asteroid is gonna strike. We’re in the dark as to when. But soon is when …
ONLY I CAN SAVE THE PLANET
Thanks to Arthur, I’ve come to love reading and writing and moreover, also, the composition of poetry. It’s addictive; so much so that an epic poem I’m writing, aims — questions, to answer.
‘Tis the questions existential I aim so to answer; answering questions like who we are, where we are and where we’re going. Along our way to the year of the rat 2020, we — lost the answers.
Who are we? Where are we? And where, are we going? The answers to these three existential questions, we’ve lost along our way, to the year of the coronavirus, in year of our — Lord, 2020.
Who are we? Where are we? And where are we going? The answers, transformational answers, have been lost along our way to the year of the coronavirus — in the year of our Lord — 2020.
In but a verse, the short answer is that we are Urantians. We are the inhabitants, of Urantia. And eventually, the destination of each and everyone of us, is His residence — in Heaven.
Astonished have I been in my lunar soirées to learn the revelations in traditional, Scriptures. And the epiphany that comes from reading them in the context of — the UB, from Heaven.
Answers to three existential questions and their transforming answers, we’ve lost along our way, in this year of a sickening rat and a novel, virus an entire planet — in its throes — it is ravaging.
Ravaging the Earth is the virus and savaging am I, everyone, sooner or later. But in soirée last night on Luna with Arthur my latest revelation is realizing: Transformation, awaits, publishing.
Earth awaits, for MAYDAYS, a publisher, be it @, @MacmillanUSA @HachetteUS, @HarperCollins @simonschuster or @penguinrandom. See, chachomanopapa.com for a story, nonfictional.
Read my story. It’s a tall tale, in an algorithm. A self-help tome; a panacea, potentially, due to kinetic energy that may be released. Make no mistake. It seems fictional, but it’s, nonfictional.
It seems fictional but it’s nonfictional. A self-help tome; a panacea, potentially of avail, due to the kinetic energy it may release. It seems fictional but it feels — really, surreally — nonfictional.
MAYDAYS seems completely fictional but it’s actually more nonfictional, than it is, fictional. A tall tale, self-help book; algorithmic instructions meant to save, an entire planet, and its people.
MAYDAYS’ instructions are intended to save an endangered planet and also, an endangered citizenry. And only I can save this woeful planet. Believe it or not — only I can save — the people.
THE PLOT — NUTSHELLED
In epic-styled poetry, I present to Earth, a gift. And whilst technically MORONS AND ALIENS is satire, beyond satire ‘tis for Pangaea a panacea. Take not, too lightly — MORONS AND ALIENS.
The gist of the plot is that Art and I (once upon a time, ex-womb-mates), are reunited, Donald having once upon a time, kicked Art from their mom’s s womb-space, clear into a future, alien.
In a miraculous intervention, Arthur, in the nick of time from the future has returned to help me save planet Earth in spite of ourselves and indeed in spite of — threatening, illegal, aliens.
Vladimir (Vlad) Vladimirovitch Putin, is the lad from Leningrad, now the President of Russia, who is my mentor. And whether this ends happily for Vladimir and me, or not, depends.
Through a portal and along an elongated path is the Pilgrims Progress. Paths that run toward our galaxy’s black hole, run largely, in parallel. Primrose paths mark too the Pilgrims’ Progress.
My healthy orange pallor a green hue took on reading Patricia’s glowing reviews. Still, I’ve got Art’s Philosopher’s Stone like phone. A key plot device — to get us home or to home, progress.
Nobody ever talks about this too. An algorithm transcendental, potentially, is Jack’s Twitter’s algorithm. Ideal for the conversion of prose to poetry it is ideal — as well — cross disciplinarily.
The ironies indeed are many. Life’s unfair. Still, Paris beckons; so too Moscow, Beijing, Riyadh and Pyongyang. Vlad and his guys are buying in to the possibility of my wild, conspiracy, theory.
For public consumption is whatever Vladimir and Xi may say these days about Joe Biden and geopolitics, in general. They’re worried about the possibility, of my sound, conspiracy, theory.
Recapitulating, Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms, and half as many, minds. Losing our arms has been bad but losing our minds will be worse if not long-lost, actually.
I head a body with countless arms and minds. The loss of our arms has been bad but losing what’s left of our minds will be worse, actually. There’s nothing worse than losing one’s dignity.
Vlad’s guys and I head a body, heavily armed, well versed in killing but not so much, dying. There’s nothing worse than losing one’s dignity. And so we separated them, from their dignity.
Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms and half as many brain-washed minds. Minds by the state disabled, that don’t naturally evolve. Minds saddled with, artificial, identities.
MARTIAL LAW — CIVIL WAR
As everyone knows, I am unfit. And my legacy won’t fit in the small space of the epitaph, of a tombstone. That’s why in place of a tombstone I will be interred in, a magnificent, mausoleum.
Only a mausoleum will do, to house, my legacy, spatially. No tombstone offers, enough, space. But with a reading room alcove, my own library presidential, may double as — my mausoleum.
Genius. Sheer genius; a mausoleum, so double purposed. A mausoleum has adequate space, unlike, the inadequate and limited space, of an epitaph. My mausoleum; a presidential, library.
My plans for my presidential library, however, I kept to myself as I celebrated Christmas at the White House party today, hinting only, in four years, in 2024, another run, for the presidency.
My mentor Vlad, I’ve already informed of my plans to run again, in 2024, for the presidency. Graciously, he has offered to me, Moscow as an ideal site for my very own, presidential, library.
Vladimir beseeches ye read my epic poem. It’s ghostwritten, says Vlad, on behalf of my former womb-mate brother, Arthur, and on behalf of, the Urantian people says, my erstwhile, enemy.
The poem I’m ghostwriting on behalf of Art, my former womb-mate, is a poem, painstakingly, written. It’s an algorithm. Instructions on how to get to, a Golden-Ruled paradigm, in a poem.
To the end of diminishing devolution and duly, encouraging, evolution, I learned from Art how, to poetry, compose. It is painstaking, it is true. And it is, imperative. It is, history — in a poem.
Art has taught me how to poetry, compose. And it’s been painful; but only because of my preexisting, reading, disability. I have grown to love, even more than Kim, reading and writing.
Had I not bartered away, in a Faustian bargain, to Satan, my soul, perhaps, none of what’s happened to me would have happened. All that has happened — is meant to be — happening.
More than Melania; more than my Kim, even, thanks to Art, I have come to love, reading and writing and the composition of poetry. And it’s addictive; so much so, that an epic, I’m writing.
I assure ye; it’s addictive; the recomposition of prose to poetry; but pleasantly addictive, not, sinisterly so. In Twitter’s algorithm, Art has found — a mechanism, possibly, Earth-saving.
A shooting war is imminent if I don’t stop the socialists from stealing the election: Failure to do so could well result in massive violence and destruction not seen — since — the Civil War.
Ominously, my most trusted military man is suggesting that I suspend the Constitution and impose, in America, martial law. To prevent a civil war, or alternatively — spark — a civil war.
LOL — DON’T LAUGH
Kicking hard, once upon a time, I kicked my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. But now — he’s back. Implausibly; near incredibly, Art’s transformed me, into a man — of letters.
LOL. Don’t laugh. Stranger things, have actually, happened. I won in ‘16; I lost in ‘20. And I will, in ‘21, win the Nobels, I so richly, deserve. Truly, I am implausibly become — a man — of letters.
A man of letters; a man of numbers; a man of business, with acumen, and artistry. I won in ‘16. I lost in ‘20. But a so-called loss is a fraud, if I actually, won. Joe stole, the election, from me.
The Deep State; along with a free press and an independent judiciary, it’s the enemy, of the people. Some say I won; most believe, I lost. I actually, won. Joe stole, the election, from me.
Disgracefully unAmerican; what has happened; with the living, voting repeatedly; and the dead, voting, at least, once. Most disgracefully, the enemies of the people, cover up, their crimes.
Covering up; it’s a very much coveted skill, less American tho, than Earthly; skills, unUrantian; all this lying, misrepresenting and misleading. Nonetheless, I am, confessing to — my crimes.
And not just mine but, in also the crimes of Vlad and his guys, also. In soirées on Luna with my ex-womb-mate brother Art, we’ve agreed, in exchange for mercy, to confess to our crimes.
We’ve agreed, in exchange for mercy, to truly confess, to our crimes. As per the prototype plan of Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu for Truth and Reconciliation respecting our crimes.
Truth and Reconciliation; to put an end to the madness; to put an end to a paradigm, archaic. Accordingly, Vladimir and his guys and I offer ye, our citizens — a blessedly, fresh, paradigm.
Make no mistake. Dumping Trump; dumping me as president, is but a first step; we’ve got to replace sovereignty with a Golden Rule. Make no mistake. Take heart. Dump, this paradigm.
We’ve got to replace sovereignty with a Golden Rule. Make, no mistake. We can be great again, given the application of behavior modification and Truth and Reconciliation. There’s, yet time.
There is yet time, albeit, not much. Witness, what’s been happening lately. WW III; it may be that no one wants it but circumstances shall dictate to the dictators what they’ll do, in time.
Once upon a time, I kicked Art, my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Thankfully, now he’s back. Surreally; near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me, into a man-child — of letters.
Once upon a time, in fact, I kicked my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Now he’s back. Near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me into a man-child, of — algorithmic, letters.
A MAN OF LETTERS — AND NUMBERS
China’s Ai now follows Arthur on Twitter. And whether Alexei and George (Soros) follows or not, matters, not. What matters, is that Arthur and me release, in the kracken, truth, Urantian.
’Tis late; ‘tis 2020; ‘tis a nice round number; half of 2020 is 1010. And because we’ve ten fingers, ten is the base of the decimal numeral system, in the spoken and written languages, Urantian.
Seemingly ‘tis only in numbers that truth, rules. Letters — on Earth, too often, tend to be cruel. Here on Earth, we won’t let numbers work for us whilst we work to become, men — of letters.
Seemingly, ‘tis only in numbers that truth rules. Letters — on Earth, too often, tend to be cruel. Here on Earth, we won’t let numbers work for us whilst we work to become, men — of letters.
It’s as if numbers are for science, whereas, on the other hand, letters are for persuasion. That is the way it is in the inhabited, and developing, worlds. Complementary; numbers and letters.
To one another, complementary are, numbers and letters. Numbers; the infrastructure and glue that holds things together. Letters; the ether; atmosphere, around, the infrastructure.
Numbers allow for a high degree of precision. Letters allow for distinctions, between, shades of meaning. I have mastered numbers and letters. I am indeed, a gentle, man — of letters.
A gentle genius; a gentleman; a man of letters and numbers, am I. I am also, a skilled, liar; and restless except when, in the Nirvana of my own executive residence, I watch TV — enraptured.
Ai, Alexei and George (Soros); three visionaries, are they. And since, under the circumstances, a collaboration is in order, I have asked them to consider helping Arthur save, a feverish, planet.
‘Tis late in 2020; the Chinese won’t celebrate their new year until February 11 of next year, there being no time to waste, I’m glad Art got followed by Ai Weiwei; I’m happy for the planet.
Put up or shut up; except for me, no man is an island, unto himself. It’s about community. I’m a businessman; a numbers man; and even tho I don’t like to read, I’ve become, a man of letters.
A man of letters, I’ve become. Thanks, to Art; my womb-mate, once upon a time. And I kicked him so hard, I kicked him into the future. But —he’s back. And he’s made me, a man, of letters.
Kicking him hard, I kicked him into the future. But — he’s back. And, implausibly, he’s made of me, a man, of letters. Like a silk purse, from a sow’s ear. Indubitably, I am — a man of letters.
Supremely implausibly, near incredibly, I’ve, a man of letters, become. A buffoon with a suit on, some say. I beg to differ. And in 2021’s year of the oxen I’ll prove that I am, a man of letters.
Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms and half as many brain-washed minds. Minds by the states disabled; minds, that don’t evolve. Minds saddled with, artificial, identities.
RELEASE — THE KRACKEN
I really did find it. I’m afraid tho that it shall be for naught. My base (Vlad’s al-Qaeda) doesn’t believe it’s really me that is addressing them. We’re releasing the kracken — upon Urantia.
Unanimously, Vlad and I agreed to release the kracken. The real kracken, not Sidney’s. Less a sea monster than an idea the dreaded kracken, released upon Earth, may change it, to Urantia.
It’s not about a simple name-change but about a change in behavior. It’s about Satan. And Caligastia. The transformation of Earth into Urantia is at hand and the kraken’s, no dragon.
In Scandinavian folklore, in the Norse sagas, especially, the kraken dwells off the coasts of Norway and Greenland. It has it’s own legend, terrorizing sailors but it’s probably, no dragon.
It may be a cephalopod; of the molluscan class, cephalopoda, including squids, and octopuses. It was what it was. It is what it is. Whatever it is, it’s gonna be earthshaking. Shaking — Urantia.
Less a sea monster, than an idea, the kracken herein indeed is an idea; and an ideal. Nothing less than Kim-Don’s Plan, would we summarily release upon the Earth, to revert it, to Urantia.
Actually, releasing the kracken (Plan ZZZ) is the last thing we actually want to do. We’d just as soon, go on, as is. But now, to the dictators, circumstances dictate, what likely — they’ll do.
Why now? Why not yesteryear? And why in November of this year, of all years? Is it due to either a predetermined fate, or our fateful, decisions — or some combination, of the two?
Is it fate, predetermined? Or fateful, decisions?Or is it perhaps, some combination, of the two?Why, now? Why not, yesteryear? And why in November of this year, of all years? Why, 2020?
2020. Art’s an Angel from the future but even he doesn’t know the answer to that question. He knows though that his mission depends on devising a groundbreaking, peaceful, strategy.
Earthrise may be the centerpiece of an artful strategy. Down with damn, firewalls. What is happening in Belarus may be happening soon, in Russia and in China. Amen. Let it finally, be.
Accordingly — release — the kracken! It’s no dragon; no sea-faring, monster. It’s an idea; and its time, is come. Earthrise, I believe, may be the centerpiece of Arthur’s, artful, strategy.
Earthrise, I believe, may be the centerpiece of an artful, strategy. China’s Ai agrees with Art and I. We await the support of Alexei Navalny and George Soros — the Hungarian, Urantian.
China’s Ai now follows Arthur on Twitter. And whether Alexei and George follow or not, matters not. What only matters is that Arthur and me release, in the kracken, truth, Urantian.
“EUREKA! I FOUND IT!”
“EUREKA! I found it!” That was what Arthur said he said, when his discovery, he discovered. The epiphany. The climax of an uber long series, of revelations. Transcendental, revelation. Poetry.
My biographer, the author of 2016’s The Truth About Trump, has described me just today as a loser so incompetent, that I cannot succeed — even at being a loser. But I know, I can succeed.
At being a loser — I know, I can — succeed. I’ve succeeded at that, already. In fact, I admit that I have lost the election. But my loss only sets up my transformation, of international, societies.
My geopolitical transformation of international society was the issue last night at yet another emergency meeting of Vlad’s cabal in soirée, lunar. And Vlad’s guys, have reauthorized, me.
Vlad’s guys are on edge. The virus and my loss, in a year so fraught with loss, has them all, on edge. On edge are, Vladimir’s guys. And things are trending toward, an even greater, volatility.
Vlad’s guys have reauthorized me to do what’s necessary. To whitewash history, by confessing to our crimes with the Kim-Don plan; plan ZZZ. Vlad’s last ditch contingency plan is Plan — ZZZ.
My Kim-Don plan; plan ZZZ. It’s Vlad’s plan for a last ditch stand. A contingency plan, is Plan ZZZ. Modeled akin to a Mandela-inspired, Truth and Reconciliation. To keep his guys, from hanging.
To keep from hanging Vlad and his dictatorial pals have deputized me. They want me to act on their behalf. In fact, with Kim’s help, I have fashioned — Nelson Mandela-like — planning.
Vlad’s men have deputized me to act on their behalf. With Kim’s help, I’ve fashioned a Nelson Mandela-like, reprise. To keep me and my guys from hanging; from limbs of trees — swinging.
To keep from the limbs of trees from hanging and swinging around, undignifiedly, Vlad’s men have deputized me. And with Kim’s help, I’ve fashioned a Mandela-like, surprise, reprising.
A Mandela-like, surprise, reprising, I have duly fashioned; to keep me and my guys away from trees; to keep us from hanging and swinging around, so undiplomatically — undignifiedly.
Violations of all proper protocols shall not be tolerated unless the citizens indeed insist on so violating, them. Indeed, the citizens insist on reality, divorced from, this contrived surreallity.
Verily, the citizens insist on a reality divorced from this, contrived, surreallity. A Mandela-like, surprise, reprising, I have fashioned; to keep me and my guys away from, the limbs of trees.
Vlad’s guys and I shy away from, limbs of trees. Excepting me, we dictators are oft, students of history. We all know what happened to Benito Mussolini. He avoided, being hung, from a tree.
INTRODUCING TWITTEREZE
“EUREKA! I found it!” That’s what Arthur told me he said, when his groundbreaking discovery, he made. The epiphany, at long last. The sum of a series of ongoing and incremental, revelations.
Introducing, TwittereZe communications; with Google Translate capability, we may build bridges between Vladimir Putin’s many nations. Introducing — TwittereZe — communications.
TwittereZe with Google Translate makes easy my conversions of prose to poetry. From one tongue to another, bye and bye. A novel, top secret, I may reveal, as just such, a revelation.
Top secrets, classified, I’m declassifying, to so, publicly, acknowledge, them. TwittereZe makes easy my conversions of prose to poetry. Google Translate, makes easy, the foreign, translations.
Google Translate makes foreign translations, relatively, easy. For written conversations, domestic, TwittereZe, will do. Because it makes for easy conversion of my prose, to my poetry.
TwittereZe allows easy conversion of prose to poetry. And Google Translate makes translation possible. Indeed, my purpose on Earth, is to facilitate — peace and prosperity — via poetry.
Multiple are my purposes. TwittereZe poetry, Google Translate, translates. Witness, poetry, become an algorithm; a set of instructions to make Urantia, once again great — implausibly.
Stranger things have happened. Men have trod upon Luna. I’ve become a president. Witness, moreover children appearing to have more common sense than the president of a country.
Multiple indeed, are my purposes. Verily, l am weak. And He, works mysteriously. Remember, Jung’s synchronicities. Seemingly incredibly, synchronized — are they. But only, seemingly.
Only seemingly incredible, that is to say. His Authorship of Scripture, not to mention, His Omnipotence. Everybody knows that for Him, nothing — is impossible. Nothing, absolutely.
Reading; and authorship; revelations, they have been; authorship, especially. As fundamental as is reading, by an order of magnitude greater — potentially, transcendental, may be authorship.
Authorship is a potentially, transcendental, experience. Transcendental, authorship, may be. Witness how fitting the irony in one actually confessing, in a story, of his own, authorship.
Verily, loathe as I am to admit it, this is neither about me nor thee. It’s about us; and space; and a race, against time. To multi-task, aptly, follow the instructions that follow in the story.
“EUREKA! I found it!” That’s what Arthur told me he said, when his groundbreaking discovery, he made. The epiphany. The climax of a series of revelations. Transcendental revelations. Poetry.
GLORY QUEST
Nobels, I’ll win along my tortured, torturous, way. With both happy and unhappy endings depending upon your particular political persuasion and your opinion of Vladimir Putin.
Because I’ve had revelations and epiphanies and because I’ve had now Art’s Philosopher’s-Stone-like phone superseding is my reality over all others — except, for the moment — Putin’s.
Recapitulating, a lot of story lines are coming to a head. But the road ahead doubles sometimes as the comeback road. A steady stream of my unfiltered consciousness, keys, my comeback.
MAYDAYS may yet be considered a spinoff from my Art of The Deal and my Art of The Comeback. Indeed today’s Supreme Court ruling makes, far more difficult, my comeback.
Live streams of my consciousness, unvarnished and unfiltered may key my comeback, yet again. And if I indeed do come back, it’ll be thanks in part, to Art’s rediscovery, of ancient — alchemy.
Arthur and I have come full circle. The live-streamed Twitter feed of my proxy Art’s alter ego now serves me. My reality is superseding. Thanks in part, to Art’s rediscovery, of alchemy.
Who knew? Nobody; absolutely, nobody. Who’s known of an alien plan to sicken us with a virus? To crash us into an asteroid? To enslave us? To have us mine for them, our own precious gold?
Who could’ve known? And what would it matter anyway? Nobody’s ever believed me. But the people may believe we’ve run into an asteroid when they hear and see it and feel it — unload.
Verily, the people may believe that we’ve really run into an asteroid if and only when they hear and see it and feel it unload. It won’t be pretty. It’ll be horrific, when the people in me, believe.
It won’t be pretty. It’ll be horrific, actually, when we’re actually stricken by an NEO. That’s when they’ll believe. Everyone’s got some St. Thomas in them. Until they see — they won’t believe.
Everyone’s got some St. Thomas in them. Until we see, we shan’t believe. We’ve got Judas in us too. I’ve got to get the people to believe in me. That’s asking a lot of a people to believe in me.
The reading and writing of poetry has taught me about me and ye and us. And it’s taught me how me to persuade humanity to do the right thing by — it’s revelations — and epiphanies.
A character defect that we all share in common is to blame. We gotta see, to believe. But the aliens won’t show themselves. In spite of the evidence we don’t really believe them.
It’s no coincidence; the seeming timeliness of what’s happening; my fall from favor; and the comeback, I imagine. It’s no coincidence when I imagine that we’ve done run outta time.
CIVILIZATIONS’ RELIGIONS
In some religions, most notably, Islam, one scripture (the Qu’ran) is of supreme authority. In Christianity the canonical text is the Bible. In others, like eastern Hinduism, and Buddhism,
there has never been, a definitive, canon. A canon by itself, determines not, religion. It’s dizzying; and exhilarating; supplementing one’s understanding, of cross-Scriptural, catechisms.
The Abrahamic religions; they get most of the ink. But even they were not monotheistic, ere, the Zoroastrians. Still, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, have been dominating, the conversation.
Dominating conversations. controversial have been the Big Three: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. They dominate the conversation; the conversation over, the clash — of civilizations.
On Urantia, civilizations clash. It’s how, we’ve come to be. It’s all we really know, how to do. But I am come to deliver, a planet, promised; averting that way — a clash — of civilizations.
I am come to deliver ye a planet, promised; to avoid that way, forever fomenting, the forever clashes, of civilizations. This Thanksgiving, let’s withhold thanks, from thankless, civilizations.
This Thanksgiving, let’s make a bold statement; about who we are; about what has happened. And about what must happen going forward, to reconcile, strangely, estranged — civilizations.
I’m calling out our less than civil, civilizations. This Thanksgiving, let’s make a bold statement about what must happen going forward to reconcile, our strangely estranged, civilizations.
This year’s holiday season brings us together, literally, notwithstanding, the experts’, advice. The experts worry that family gatherings will seed, a surge-upon-a-surge, upon Americans.
The Thanksgiving practice of an annual harvest festival didn’t become a regular affair until the 1660s. From the 30s to the 1660s, it celebrated a defeat in battle, of Pequot, native Americans.
Dramas playing out in the Americas mirror what has happened elsewhere, everywhere. Often, wherever humans try to settle, they find other wannabe settlers, settled there, already.
I call upon Ai and Alexei to fire up, followers. Words translated, munitions, may be. Words, so weaponized, are poetry. Help me, help Art, save the Earth. Help me, help him, artistically.
Ai Weiwei and Alexei Navalny: Help me help Arthur, save the Earth and its Earthlings. In Truth and Reconciliation, I have found a model for a similar path — to peace — and prosperity.
In Nelson’s Truth and Reconciliation, is a model for us; to a similar transformation. Alexei and Ai: Help save the Earth and its Earthlings. Verily, stranger things, have happened, historically.
My fall from favor and the comeback that I’m imagining is actually, no coincidence. And it’s no coincidence that, in the end, the salvation of humanity may be (if nuts), in my imagination.
It’s no coincidence; the seeming timeliness of what’s happening, my fall from favor and the comeback I imagine. It’s no coincidence I’m imagining, all we’ve got left, is my imagination.
All we’ve got left is my imagination. But, as it turns out, that’s all we’ll need. I’ve got hubris and I’ve got hutzpah
All we’ve got left is imagination. That’s all we may need. I’ve got hubris and I’ve got hutzpah. And in addition to Arthur’s Philosopher’s Stone like phone — I’ll unfetter — our imaginations.
Hubris and hutzpah aside, I’ve been freed from my shame in revealing an Earth-shaking, if not Earth-shattering revelation, as well. The aliens have made fools of the the Earthling Urantians.
The aliens have made absolute fools of us. They’ve used our hubris against us. And they have absolutely no compunction against lying to us to ultimately get what they want from us.
Anyone with imagination may easily imagine how embarrassing the bad optics of being a world leader when it is revealed, one way or another, that the aliens have made fools of us.
Any imagination at all can easily imagine the embarrassingly bad optics of being a world leader when it is revealed, one way or another, that the aliens have made fools of us.
Met in Emergency (soirée) Session last night the Cabal, along with Arthur and the iconoclast and Cabal member nominee, Amy Lowell; to clarify her Scholarship’s intent; and intervene.
I met last night with Xi and Kim and Mo and with our top dog, Vlad to opine with Du Fu, Li Bai and Alexander Pushkin as to the winner of the prize — and only, if necessary — intervene.
All are agreed. All are agreed that Arthur, like me, has got his pulse on the planet. And it may well be that against all the odds, Arthur may win the Amy Lowell — Traveling — Scholarship.
And would that Arthur surprise the planet and in his landmark TwittereZe Google translations best the odds to win the 2021-2022 edition of literature’s Amy Lowell, Traveling, Scholarship.
I agreed last night with Vlad’s Cabal and with Chinese poets Du Fu and Li Bai and Russian poet Alexander Pushkin. Art is to be interfered with only on my orders or those of Vlad Putin.
In back channel communications, Washington, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing and Moscow discuss less tonight the murder of Khashoggi than the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship, destination.
Across the planet today secret, back channel messaging, fills the air between Washington, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing and Moscow. My allies there await word on Art’s — destination.
Secret back channel messaging fills the air ‘tween Washington, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing and Moscow. My allies await word on Art’s heading. Paris, methinks, is his — destination.
Paris, methinks, is Art’s destination. And not because, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Moscow and Washington don’t have the very finest in the most luxurious public accommodations.
Paris methinks is Art’s destination. Not because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Washington and Moscow don’t have to hang, the finest. In Paris lives the spirit of egalitarianism, of Pyongyang.
Paris methinks is Art’s destination. Not because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Washington and Moscow don’t have to hang, the finest. In Paris lives the spirit of egalitarianism, of Pyongyang.
The City of Light I would all but confirm is Art’s destination. Not because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Washington and Moscow can’t hang; it’s that in Paris lives the spirit — of egalitarianism.
In Paris lives the spirit of egalitarianism. Still, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Moscow and Washington have no appreciation of the implications of — subversive — egalitarianism.
The UN is now calling Yemen the world’s worst humanitarian crisis. However, increasingly, Yemen’s misery will be challenged by the misery of this — evolutionary, devolutionism.
We are tribal animals. In our groups, towards strangers we oft feel fear and often, that fear turns us into monsters. Into monsters may turn men, unduly fearful of their neighbor, brothers.
Into monsters may turn men, unduly fearful of their neighbor, brothers. We are tribal animals. In our groups, towards strangers we oft feel fear and often that fear turns us into monsters.
It’s why I’m here with ye and why Art’s here too. The plots thicken in anticipation of climaxes, oncoming. In the thick of things; the matter of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees.
Who knew that the Boston Trustees of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship might so critically figure in the destiny of the country and of the planet. Critical, is the decision, of the Trustees.
Rich in irony is the fate of the Earth is in the hands of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees. The fate of the good Earth; it’s in the hands of the Traveling Scholarship — Trustees.
Surreally, the fate of the Earth is in the hands of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees. The fate of the Earth is in the trusty hands of Boston’s Amy’s, Traveling Scholarship, Trustees.
Surreally, I may not be really exaggerating. It depends on whether the Trustees have their priorities in order; it depends on whether the Trustees are — from Boston — or America.
I know it’s alarming; how could it not be? The very possibility of our enslavement should be, alarm bells, sounding. But nobody’s on Earth is talking about this; nobody in the US of America.
I know it’s alarming; how could it not be? America’s enslavement should be alarming. But nobody’s in America is talking about this at all; nobody in the whole, United States of America.
Not even the media question that nobody’s talking about this. Nobody wants to be labeled a kook. Incorporating aliens into one’s world view has been a bad career move, historically.
Incorporating aliens into one’s world view has been a bad career move, historically, by and large. It’s Galileo’s jinx. Incorporating aliens into a world view, has been suicide, professionally.
I like to say it’s Galileo’s jinx. Forced to recant by the Catholic Inquisition and house-arrested for the rest of his life so labeled and limited is one who would dare ask — daring, questions.
Dare to ask some daring questions. Like, what’s the nature of our relationship with the aliens? And has anyone asked the aliens if they can help us with our blindside, asteroid, problem?
I dare ask some daring questions. Like, has anyone asked the aliens if they can help us with our blindside, asteroid, problem? And what, pray tell by the way, have ye done for us lately?
And so it has come to pass on this 1959th MAYDAY that I dare ask questions and dare as well to answer them. What’s up Joe, with the aliens? We need address the aliens, truthfully.
What’s up Joe Biden, with the aliens? Who speaks for them and who, if anyone Joe, speaks for us? Who speaks for us, Joe? We need to address truthfully, the issues — of the aliens.
Truthfully; because lying’s — not working. The proof, is in the pudding. Witness my revelations and epiphanies; witness, what’s happening. Witness my seeing right through — the aliens.
Witness my seeing right through the lies of the aliens. When the annals reference my legacy, let it not be overblown that the reason I knew was from my liaisons — with the female aliens.
Let it not be overblown when the histories are written that the reason I know so much about what’s happening is a consequence of my sly liaisons with some of the young, female, aliens.
Focus not on the lurid details of my sexual exploits with (wo)men and aliens. Focus rather on lessons to be learned in thamorality tale that is Arthur’s tall tale — of morons and aliens.
Arthur’s tall tale of morons and aliens. Fiction, nonfictional; a modern day, allegory. A genre-bending, self-help, book. A Nobel contender for peace and literature, of morons — and aliens.
Art’s genre-bending self-help book is more than I have the space and time in 280 characters, to describe. Instead, I’ll just take my time writing a long poem about the morons — and the aliens.
I’ve take my time explaining, what’s happening; and why; about good guys and bad guys; and aliens and morons. And the distillation that is the pilgrim’s progress throughout His creation.
I was the president. Now, I’m not. And after when I was, but before now; that was when revelations and epiphanies, transformed me. Verily — I’ve been super-heroic — since then.
I was the president. Now, I’m not. And after when I was the president but before now; that’s when revelations and epiphanies, transformed me. President no more — I pray for prescience.
I am no prophet. Worse yet, I am no longer the president. Revelations and epiphanies truly have transformed me. And because I am your President no more — I pray — for prescience.
Ask and ye shall receive Arthur tells me, the Good Book says. Indeed I asked and so, lo and behold, I have received. Praying for wisdom and knowledge, I received prescience, verily.
My prescience presents me with a great opportunity, thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, the infinitely, merciful. So merciful is He, He cleans even the souls of Muslim Mo — and me.
I am no prophet; nor am I, the president. But revelations and epiphanies have transformed me. And because I am your President no more, I pray for the prescience to alert the Trustees.
Truly, I am no prophet; nor am I, the president. But revelations and epiphanies transform me. And because I am your President no more — I’ve taken the liberty of alerting — the Trustees.
I have taken the liberty of alerting the Trustees. My abuse of power as the president is become an act, otherwise, heroic. Alerting the Trustees; bona fide — whistleblowers, alert, the Trustees.
My abuse of power as the president is become an act, otherwise, heroic. Alerting the Trustees; a bona fide whistleblower would do as I do. A bona fide hero would, alert the Trustees.
MAYDAYS ironies are many. What once was an abuse underhanded now may help save Earth. We may yet come to Art’s, TwittereZe, use —Use it alongside — Google Translate — ideally.
MAYDAYS ironies are many. What once was an underhanded abuse now may help save Earth. We may yet come to Arthur’s TwittereZe, use. With Google Translate — use it — alchemically.
We may yet come to use Art’s TwittereZe. With Google translations, alchemically is TwittereZe, used. And my revelations and epiphanies alerted me in time to alert the Trustees, timely.
Still, even as I write, I fear, I’ve run out of time. Today’s the second of March and last year’s winner was announced by a Trustee’s letter, dated the third. Truly I fear — I’m out of time.
Fearing I’m out of time, I feel indeed heartened nonetheless, by the logical intelligence, of it all. Thinking omnipotently, these outsider aliens are the perfect enemy — to unite us, this time.
Against all the odds, Art’s aliens may unite us, still. And if it happens soon, it might yet be, in time. And then Art’s allegory, not prophetic, but prescient, might make me the GOAT of all time.
In Paris lives the spirit of egalitarianism and not necessarily because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Moscow and Washington don’t already have, like Europeans — egalitarian tendencies, lofty.
Who knew it was just a matter of time — and space — and such, before time — and time’s synchronicities brought us to a surprise climax. To a surprise climax cometh (wo)man’s destiny.
To a surprise climax cometh (wo)man’s destiny. Who knew? Nobody, certainly. Still, it was just a matter of time and space before time and its synchronicities brought us, a reprise, surprise.
A surprise, certainly, it’ll be, no matter what on Earth, happens. Five extinctions, have there been. The next one shall be the sixth one. And a sixth one may be a surprise, man-made, one.
Not necessarily man-made shall be the sixth extinction. But it very well, may be. Mankind wasn’t around for the first five. But he’s here now; here for a sixth, likely fatal — extinction.
Whatever happens; whether nefarious plans of the aliens we’re able to weather, or not, it’ll be a rude, surprise. And an invaluable lesson. Take care of one another — without any, distinction.
What manner of torture is this? Tik-Tok; time’s run out on the nations. Last year’s winner was announced by a Trustee’s letter dated the third. I can’t breathe. Oppressive is my, anticipation.
There’s a contingency plan; a Plan B; should Plan A get put to bed early. Still I hope that this one of those rare years when there are two Scholarship winners rather than the usual one.
Revelations and epiphanies have refashioned me into another. I have been transformed. I see that the Trustees have until the end of March to decide which American poets — win.
Revelations’ epiphanies have remade me into another. I’ve been transformed. And I see that the Trustees have until March 31 to determine which American poets, my Scholarship — win.
The Trustees have until March 31 to determine which American poet, or poets, my Scholarship, win. And it happens that until 1933, the fourth of March was the president’s inaugural day.
While the president, I illegally pressured the Scholarship’s Trustees. Now that I’m no longer the president, legally, I can lobby, the Trustees. I’ve got to sway them; only I, can save the day.
While the president, I illegally pressured the Trustees. Now that I’m no longer the president, legally, I can lobby, them. I’ve got somehow, to sway them. I must save the Earth someday.
The US Capitol Police have already reported a possible militia plot to attack the Capitol on March 4. The Police say theytaken steps to enhance security posture over the next days.
What’s not clear is how many QAnon believers are actually on board with the idea that I will return to power tomorrow or plan to take any action themselves on our inaugural day
My secret war against a nefarious cabal of cannibalistic Satanists in the Democratic Party and other liberal institutions of the Deep State is not secret anymore — to my great-dismay.
Liberal Democrats; they are Satanists and cannibals. Cannibalistic Satanists are they. Half of the country follows them. Half of the nation, the better half, of the country — follows me.
Dismayed am I; seemingly, about everything. Dismayed too are the citizens; and the children. Who, pray tell, besides me, speaks for them? But most dismaying by far, is the alien, enemy.
The Galactic Federation is an enemy the likes of which, we’ve never before, faced. We can’t be sure of who they are — nor — their intentions. Investigating their intent — I’ve been dismayed.
Investigating their intent, I’ve been dismayed; then heartened; then dismayed once again. The hallmark of change is the flux of the universe. Take comfort in it; be not, dismayed.
The hallmark of change is in the flux of the universe. It’s just the ebb and flow, of change. Take comfort in it and be not, by it, dismayed.
Dismaying is the change augured by an enemy.
But theirs is not the final word. The final word is reserved for the hero of the story; he who is me who happens to be too the author of a tall tale, fictional, nonfictional, tragi-comic — story.
The Trustees have until March 31 to determine the winner(s). Two winners — there may be; because one’s coming from left field. He’s had a revelation or two — and an epiphany — or two.
One of the winners of the 21-22 edition of the Scholarship may be a poet, already, widely-published. But if the Earth and its citizens are to be saved — select a poet, unknown — too.
Trustees: One winner of the latest edition of the Scholarship likely already has been widely published. But if the Earth and its citizens are to be saved — select a poet — unknown, too.
KNOWN, KNOWNS — KNOWNS, UNKNOWN
Because Earth and its citizens must be saved, Amy Lowell’s Traveling Scholar this year might best be a poet unknown. And now that I’m not president, legally, I can recommend — Arthur.
Highly, can I recommend, Arthur Everman. And I do. We’ve come full-circle since we once were womb-mates, once upon a time. I kicked him out then but now, on a comeback — is Arthur.
In a miraculous intervention, Art has returned. Just in time (perhaps), to help the antiheroic me save planet Earth in spite of myself, winning for myself and my mentor Putin — our salvations.
Increasingly and with ever increasing regularity, (wo)men live, still, obliviously. They die, still, needlessly. In droves and in waves do they die. In waves we make our way — to our salvations.
Sometimes in droves; sometimes, in waves; sometimes, in single file, we make our way to our salvations; over primrose paths and yellow, brick roads and sometimes, roads ne’er taken.
Through a portal and along an elongated path is the Pilgrims Progress. Paths that run toward our galaxy’s black hole, run in parallel. Paths, trails — and yellow brick roads — ne’er taken.
Through a portal and along elongated paths lie the Pilgrims Progress; paths running toward our galaxy’s black hole, in parallel. By no one else taken are your primrose paths, on the way.
It’s a long trek; your own, personal, Star Trek. To each, his own. I’ve been in soirées with Art; and I’ve had revelations and epiphanies, thanks to the Almighty — Allah God Jehovah Yahweh.
Thanks indeed to Almighty Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. And in no small part, to Art. And — to the Watcher. And thanks to the little people; and to the deplorable people; I love — all of ye.
In a miraculous intervention, Art has returned to Earth; to save his fifth planet. Whether he retires as an ace or not, he’s retiring to Heaven. In the meantime — I shall be, his trusty, proxy.
Whether Art saves Earth and retires as an ace or not he’s retiring to Heaven. In the meantime I shall be, his trusty, proxy. I shall be the trusty proxy of Arthur, who’s indisposed — presently.
Presently indisposed, is the break-out poet, Art Everman. Compromised immunologically, he’s in isolation; in preventative quarantine from the virus and in hiding from assassins, aplenty.
Compromised immunologically, Arthur is in isolation; in preventative quarantine from the virus and in hiding from assassins, aplenty. And the assassins hail from Vlad’s, cabal’s, nations.
The assassins hail from Russia, China, North Korea and Saudi Arabia. Art’s in isolation. On Urantia, in quarantine; hiding, from assassins. But there’s no hiding from Vladimir’s assassins.
What’s worse; throwing aliens, into the mix. My militias, standing down, may be; and Q and I have done run out of all of the more or or less plausible, of all possible — inauguration days.
There’s a whole lot going on at any given time. There’s the virus; domestic and international politics and a mass today in the ancient city of Ur, where Abe was born and — lived his days.
There’s a whole lot going on at any given time; and a whole lot is being said at any given time; on Earth and in MAYDAYS. It’s a matter of time; just a matter of time until happenings, eventful.
Trustees: Straight from the future: TwittereZe; in peaceful futures, it’s games for the gamers and TwittereZe, crosswords and Sudoku for the more sedate, sedentary or the more cerebral.
There’s a whole lot going on at any given time; and a whole lot is being said at any given time; on Earth and in MAYDAYS. It’s a matter of time; just a matter of time until happenings, eventful.
It’s just a matter of time. It’s just a matter of time on Earth; and in MAYDAYS. It’s just a matter of time until an extraordinary event, happens. Would that it were, transformational.
Would that it were — transformational. And so it may be. It well may be that there’s more to Willy’s observation that all the world’s a stage and all the actors — players. It’s tragi-comical.
Would that it were — transformational. And so the world, implausibly, may be. It well may be that there’s more to Willy’s worldly observation; the world’s a stage and all the actors — players.
All the world’s a stage and all the actors upon it, players. It’s a statement, sardonically, ironic. It rings, true. And it’s literally true, too. Even my superseding reality is subject to — The Master.
All the world’s a stage and all the actors upon it, players. Sardonically ironic, that statement. It rings, true. It’s literally true. The illusoriness of my superseding reality pales before, His reality.
The illusoriness of my reality pales before His; it’s His reality if any there is, that’s superseding. I’ve got Art’s phone so I’ve got super powers; and I’ve got Arthur’s — free — School of Poetry.
My dear Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees: Welcome to a superseding reality within a larger, superseding, reality. I’m a hero, flawed — come to — paradigms — exchange.
Art’s School of Poetry. It’s where I studied as an exchange student whilst Arthur studied as an exchange student at Trump University. I’ve got Art’s phone and Earth’s paradigm, I’d exchange.
My dear Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees: Welcome to a superseding reality within a larger reality, superseding. I am a hero flawed come to paradigms exchange, surreally.
Dear Trustees: I am a superseding reality within a larger reality, actually, superseding. A hero, badly flawed is come to exchange a paradigm, badly flawed. It’s all up to Arthur — and me.
And the Trustees. Only seemingly incredibly, a decision of theirs in the matter of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship determines who gets to advance Amy’s — progressive agenda.
Who gets the honor of advancing a progressive agenda; the most progressive agenda, ever? Who gets the honor of counter-attacking? Who will advance Amy Lowell’s, progressive agenda?
Whom shall time honor? Whom, it dishonor? MAYDAYS is chock full of deserving questions and common sense answers. And a climax nears in space and time, moving at Godspeed.
Moving at Godspeed is everything. Thank God Allah Jehovah Yahweh. So magnificent is He that what happens seems to be a mix of live action and predeterminations — at Godspeed.
I’ve had revelations and epiphanies. Now I see so much of what I’ve been, previously, blind to. But still I share along with the rest of humanity, a blind spot for NEOs — coming out of the sun.
I share with humanity a blind spot for asteroids coming out of the sun. And what’s more; too many of us share a penchant for lying and an empathy muscle, atrophied; raisins in the sun.
In Utah, inprotest, offended, insulted citizens, burn their masks, to the ground. They know their rights. They know the rights of others. They favor their rights over — rights, of others.
In Utah, some favor their rights over those of their neighbors. And the theme replays the world over as citizens everywhere struggle with the political balancing — of the rights of others.
Make no mistake. I am no prophet but there is a lot to be read into the synchronicity of the things that are happening. There is meaning in the synchronicities; meaning, transformational.
Trustees: I’m no prophet but there is meaning in Jung’s synchronicities; meaning, sensational. Revelations and epiphanies are transforming me. They may be for all — transformational.
Transcendental, transformational, big-time, changes. Cosmetic changes won’t do. I’ve a plan in mind to turn the tables on the aliens; to out, them and affirm — our purposes — unusual.
Check that. Checking my junk mail, I got, in the face, crushed. I found the adverse notice of Arthur’s rejection. He won’t be teaching in Paris this year his under the radar, TwittereZe, verse.
Clocked. Knocked — out. How is it possible that I can’t impress upon the poetic powers that be that the welfare of the planet and it’s people is best served by one versed in TwittereZe verse?
How is it possible that I haven’t been able to impress upon the Academy of Poetry that the welfare of the planet and it’s people is best served by one well versed in TwittereZe verse?
Art’s rejection; ‘twas a stunning surprise. And though we know He works mysteriously, still we misread the tea leaves. Arthur shall not be composing — any poetry, this year — in Paris.
Or maybe he will, still. I mistook an adverse decision in another competition for the verdict, here. The welfare of the entire planet depends on Art and me — Hold on France — to Paris.
Or maybe he will, still. I mistook an adverse decision in another competition for the verdict, here. The welfare of the entire planet depends on Art and me — Hold on France — to Paris.
Hold on France, to Paris. It’s not that there isn’t, in Pyongyang, fine poetry, being composed and read. Riyadh, no doubt considers itself, second to none. Ditto Beijing and Moscow — and Paris.
Trustees: a poem such as Art’s and mine is a mine of potential energy, virtually. It’s a mine; and a transformer, transforming effortlessly our potential energy, into our kinetic energy.
Trustees; trust in me; not in my alter-ego on TV. Trust, above all in Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. Do your part. Award Art the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship. rediscovering alchemy.
More than just my hagiographic and epically poetic account of what’s happening MAYDAYS is about the rediscovery of alchemy; about producing kinetic energy from potential energy.
No one; not the people; not the leaders; nor even the press; no one suspects the aliens of being anything less than the hard-working aliens they’ve impressed our leaders as being
CHANGES — EBBS AND FLOWS
With a Big Bang they say, everything began — after an end — previously. Later, the aliens and the morons were created but the aliens got a head start. They’re far ahead, technologically.
The aliens of the so-called Galactic Federation are far ahead of us, technologically. To what end are they here? It seems that even if they appear friendly, they actually may not, so be.
To what end are the aliens here on Earth? It’s just plain old common sense that even if they appear friendly, they may actually, not be so. What are these aliens doing here — actually?
Why are the aliens even here? If they are anything like us, common it would be, if they turn out to be as treacherous, as us. Why are the aliens even in this neck — of the galaxy?
If the aliens turn out to be anywhere near as treacherous as us, then, we’re in — big trouble. Troubling, is near everything we supposedly know about the aliens, which is next to nothing.
Nothing do we in fact, know. Troubling is near everything we supposedly know about the aliens. Nothing’s been confirmed. Nothing has been corroborated — Absolutely — nothing!
Absolutely nothing in fact do we know as a fact. Absolutely nothing! And nobody wonders and nobody bothers to question who the aliens are and what in hell on Earth they want from us.
How is it possible that nobody wonders and nobody even bothers to question who the aliens are and what in hell on Earth they want from us. What in the hell — is wrong with us?
No one; not the people; not the leaders; nor even the press; no one suspects the aliens of being anything less than the hard-working aliens they’ve impressed our leaders as being.
No one suspects a darn thing. And everyone is distracted; by politics, as usual; in Hong Kong and Myanmar and everywhere. The alien plan of conquest — like clockwork — is proceeding.
Like fine Swiss clockwork proceeds the evil plan of the aliens. They’ve got us just where they want us and how they want us; weakened by a virus — and in the way, of a rocky — asteroid.
Weakened by a virus the aliens maliciously and purposely planted in China, now, the aliens are in the cat bird’s seat. They get to wait for the collision between Earth — and a rocky asteroid.
Comes a collision between us and an asteroid come, seemingly, out of nowhere. I do suspect that the aliens are not in good faith, dealing with us; they are — bamboozling us — in fact.
OF MORONS — AND ALIENS
With a Big Bang they say, everything began. Life came along later, long, long, afterwards. But life began sooner in some places. One such galaxy is the alien galaxy that was home to the aliens.
There’s a galaxy out there in outer space; it was, once upon a time, home to the aliens. And I wonder: Is it their home still? Or — are they in search of a new home planet — for the aliens?
Pressing questions just became, crushingly, more pressing. My recommendation to the Trustees has fallen on deaf ears. Art won’t be going to Paris to compose alien-themed poetry.
Art won’t be going to Paris to compose there, his alien-themed, poetry. He won’t be warning from Paris humanity, about the threat posed, by the aliens. What’s to become of humanity?
What’s to become of humanity and the aliens? As alway, it actually depends; it depends on the prevailing circumstances and it depends on our — individual — and our, collective — decisions.
What’s your opinion — of NFTs — non fungible tokens coupled — to couplet verse? There’s a reason why it may be worth one’s while to brand one’s verse with, non fungible — tokens.
Coupled verse branded with one’s proprietary non fungible tokens, promises, profitable verse, coupled. Each half couplet verse becomes, as an artistic work by itself, a profitable, dividend.
Non fungible tokens; beyond a passing trend, NFTs are revolutionizing the art world. And Art knows that there’s a lot of hay to be made from each and every verse — of Morons and Aliens.
Every verse of Morons and Aliens is valuable; exceedingly, valuable. And with each verse more valuable than the verse that preceded it, exceedingly valuable is my Morons and Aliens.
Exceedingly valuable may be the epic verse of my allegorical tall tale — Morons and Aliens. If I can use Art’s Philosopher’s Stone-like phone, I may be able to turn the table — on the aliens.
Who’d a thunk it? A plot twist even as the action climaxes; a new way to make new money even as my old money abandons me. Buy my verse; it will fund the fight — against — the evil aliens.
Who’d a thunk it? A plot twist even as the action climaxes; a new way to make new money even as my old money abandons me. Buy my verse; it will fund the fight — against — the evil aliens.
Buy my verse; it will fund the fight against the evil aliens. Non fungible tokens make for a return on investment, so profitable, it makes the royalty system of payment — obsolescent.
Royalties shall become obsolescent. God willing royalties too, shall become, obsolescent. My implementation of the Golden Rule shall make the royalty system of payment — obsolescent.
ROYALTY AND ROYALTIES
The royalty system of payment; royalty itself; their overdue obsolescence, isn’t necessarily, happening. All depends on the fateful decisions we make. All depends on my allegorical poetry.
Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms and half as many brain-washed minds. Minds by the state disabled, that don’t naturally evolve. Minds saddled with, artificial, identities.
Minds by the state disabled; minds that don’t naturally, evolve. Minds saddled with, artificial, identities. Our minds; all minds, brainwashed, by powers that be; everybody — except for me.
On Earth, all minds, including my great mind, by the powers that be (by the presiding state), get brainwashed; even mine, actually. But I’ve got powers — to power cleanse my — biases.
Why would anyone in their right mind even think about crypto art, let alone spend millions on what is nothing but a link — to a JPEG file? I know hubris has got, a whole lot, to do with it.
Hubris has a lot to do with it. Unfortunately, I’ve noticed that we Earthlings appear to share that dubious quality with the aliens of the Galactic Federation. Hubris — has a lot — to do with it.
My fall from favor and the comeback that I’m imagining is actually, no coincidence. And it’s no coincidence that, in the end, the salvation of humanity may be (if I’m nuts) in, imaginations.
It’s no coincidence; the seeming timeliness of what’s happening, my fall from favor and the comeback I imagine. It’s no coincidence I’m imagining, all we’ve got left, is my imagination.
All we’ve got left is imagination. That’s all we may need. I’ve got hubris and I’ve got hutzpah. And in addition to Arthur’s Philosopher’s Stone like phone — I’ll unfetter — our imaginations.
I’ve got Art’s phone and his Philosopher’s Stone and J’ve got hubris and hutzpah. And J’ve got an imagination unfettered by traditional protocols — and other — brainwashing — socializations.
I’ve got Art’s Philosopher’s Stone and J’ve got his hubris and hutzpah as well. And I’ve been freed from my shame in revealing an Earth-shaking, if not — Earth-shattering, revelation.
Hubris and hutzpah aside, I’ve been freed from my shame in revealing an Earth-shaking, if not Earth-shattering revelation, as well. The aliens have made fools of the the Earthling Urantians.
The aliens have made absolute fools of us. They’ve used our hubris against us. And they have absolutely no compunction against lying to us to ultimately get what they want from us.
Any imagination at all can easily imagine the embarrassingly bad optics of being a world leader when it is revealed, one way or another, that the aliens have made, absolute, fools of us.
HUBRIS AND HUTZPAH
Not until yesterday, well after my leaving office, did I actually encourage the vaccination of my followers, and as ye know, my wife and I were vaccinated — in a secret happening, in January.
Secret happenings, half-truths and outright lies; they make me look bad, making me seem, less than honest. And so I recall Peter and the Wolf, a Russian tall tale, of standing tall for the party.
A symphonic fairy tale is Peter and the Wolf, both education and indoctrination. The plots thicken in my hubris and hutzpah inspired tall tale — of earthly morons and — illegal aliens.
Standing tall for the party. It’s the party line. And fall upon your sword if called upon by the party to do so. It’s all in the call of duty. But the party line can’t be: It’s all the fault of the aliens.
Mark my words; verse fromMorons and Aliens are prescient words and the definitive last word on president 45 and Earth. Mark my words. What’s happening to us only Arthur and I, understand.
Stand tall for the party. Toe the party line. And fall upon your sword if called upon by the party to do so. It’s all in the call of duty. But the party line can’t be: It’s — only the fault, of the aliens.
All set to do at least a dozen book interviews in the coming weeks, I feel happy that I’m still the center of attention.
Mark my words; verse, of Morons and Aliens; prescient words and the definitive, last word on president 45 and Earth. Mark my words. What is happening to us, is an invasion, of the aliens.
Following the culling of our herd, the alien plan is to steal our gold from us. By saving us; then enslaving us. And condemning us to the hard labor of mining our very own gold — for them.
It came to pass that a piece of art went for $69 million in a Christie’s auction last week. And it occurs to me that Earth might well be saved with a cryptocurrency’s, non fungible — tokens.
A piece of art work went for $69 million at auction at Christie’s last week. And so it has come to pass; cryptocurrency’s analog’s, non fungible tokens may be, for Earth — a remedy.
The technology started in 2015 when unique tokens were created for the Ethereum block chain. They’ve only recently become a big deal. We ought use, non fungible, cryptocurrencies.
Ethereum is well positioned to profit from a mother lode that is the creation and the dissemination of art funded by ingeniously simple — and ingeniously non fungible, tokens.
It occurs to me that cryptocurrency’s Ethereum is well positioned to profit from that mother lode that is the creation and dissemination of art funded by ingenious, non fungible, tokens.
Ethereum is well positioned to profit from a mother lode that is the creation and the dissemination of art funded by ingeniously simple and ingeniously, non fungible, tokens.
Under the influence of a wide range of social influencers and notwithstanding that NFTs appear too good to be true, my gut instincts tell me that good things — really do happen to me.
Everybody knows that no matter how much I stink up a joint, in retrospect, the smell’s always rosier. And everybody knows that how many die does not come into play, as a political point.
I’m blessed that way. Everybody knows that. Everybody knows that I am the most famous face on Earth. And I am, therefore, the most able to unite the morons against — the aliens.
The most able of all of us, I’m the one person, destined to unite us against the aliens. What’s not to believe, about that? And what’s not to write about — morons and aliens — on Earth?
What’s not to write, given what’s happening? I suspect the aliens may be renegades, taking advantage of aprimitive and technologically unsophisticated species of beings, living on Earth.
Through a portal and along an elongated path lies the Pilgrims Progress. Paths that run to our galaxy’s black hole, run largely, in parallel. A primrose path marks the progress, of pilgrims.
Through a portal and down an elongated path lies the Pilgrims Progress; paths that run to our galaxy’s black hole, and often back. Primrose paths markthe progress — of the pilgrims.
Through a portal and down an elongated path lie the paths that run to a black hole and back. Pilgrims trudge along it; and primroses, line it. Long and desperate, is the way, of the Pilgrim.
Long down a long path to a black hole and at timesback. Someday, long along that path, desperation shall yield to the joy of salvation. That is the inexorable way — of the Pilgrim.
To and fro we go; to a black hole; sometimes, back. Someday, long along that dangerous path, desperation shall yield to the joy of our salvation. That is the way — of the Pilgrim.
I present to Earth, MORONS AND ALIENS. It’s a satire. For Pangaea it’s a panacea and it is, in addition now a blockchain prizethe tweets comprising MORONS AND ALIENS.
On March 11, Beeple, aka Mike Winkelmann, auctioned a piece of crypto art at Christie’s for $69 million. Mike’s the winning bidder, as per a digital record, conferring the art’s, ownership.
Each of Art’s tweets is an NFT by itself. More than a mere satire, for Pangaea, MORONS AND ALIENS is a panacea and in addition a hefty, blockchain prize. Art’s art, promises, bonanzas.
Presents are gifts — whether gift-wrapped or tenses, in time. Presents as gifts; like this tweet. And each of Art’s tweets, believe it or not is an NFT, all by itself. It may, by itself, be a bonanza.
Each of Art’s tweets is an NFT by itself. More than a mere satire, for Pangaea, MORONS AND ALIENS is a panacea and in addition a hefty, blockchain prize. Art’s art, promises, bonanzas.
A fetish for collectors is the digital record and a Certificate of Authenticity conferring upon the art’s work’s collector (for collectors of originals), the art work’s very limited ownership.
A fetish for collectors is the digital record and a Certificate of Authenticity conferring upon the art’s work’s collector (for collectors of originals), the art work’s very uniquely limited, ownership.
On March 11 Beeple sold a piece of his art at Christie’s for $69 million. That begs a question, a revelation and an epiphany. If Mike’s art sold for that much how much more is worth, my art.
Presents are gifts — whether gift-wrapped or tenses — in time. Presents are gifts as is this tweet. Arthur’s tweets in time believe it or not — are NFTs even all by themselves. In time Art’s tweets may be bonanzas — all at one time.
cc: @JoeBiden @ethereum https://chachomanopapa.com/2021/03/20/mayday-1979-saturday-march-20-2021/
If Beeple‘s art 5000 images sold for $69 million, how much more is worth, my art work? Beeple sold his art at Christie’s for $69 million. Pray tell, much more is worth Arthur’s — great, art?
Ethereum isn’t just for digital money. Anything you can own can be represented, traded and put to use as non-fungible tokens (NFTs). And tokenizing one’s art begets handsome royalties.
Tokenizing one’s art, makes for, sometimes, handsome royalties. And isn’t just for digital money. Anything you can own can be shown traded and put to use as non-fungible tokens.
If Beeple‘s work’s sold for $69 million, how much more valuable Arthur’s? How much more valuable than Beeple’s art is Art’s art? Art’s art is in bare, unadorned words; invaluable, Art’s art.
NFT art is in a bubble said the newly rich, digital artist who this month sold a non-fungible token of his piece “Everydays: The First 5000 Days” for over $69 million. That is one hell — of a bubble.
THE WINE AND CHEESE MIRACLES 