From the desk of DJT: In line to be an alien intermediary, pardon my interests with them in the Earth’s, gold mines. No betrayal; it was just, business. Still, as ye know, I ain’t doing no time.

I am in line to be the aliens‘, Overseer. Pardon any interests I may hold in the aliens’ (our) gold mines. It was just a little bit of double dipping Joe; an insurance policy on my life; I am in line … 

… to be the aliens‘, Overseer. Please pardon my interests in mines; any interest with the aliens, in the Earth’s, many, gold mines. Still, take no action, in restraint of my trade — at any time.

In the spirit of my book as a confessional, freely, I admit, on behalf of myself and my brother-dictators that we rule in our personal interests, our oaths of office being shams — every, time. 

Freely, I admit, on behalf of myself and brother dictators that we rule in our personal interests; that our oaths of office are a sham, every time, and that our shamefully, voluminous, crimes …

… are a large part of the reason that Earth’s Watcher commissioned an epic from Arthur in the first place. And the Watcher provided Arthur with words like — space and time — to rhyme.

A Golden-Ruled, new paradigm; that’s what the Earth has in store for it if it can just wake up in time; and awaken or alternatively — get woke, in time. As always — of the essence — is time.

Of the essence is time; and of the essence, too is space; and numbers and letters; and useful algorithms fashioned from them to reach every child of His, in their space, and time — in time.

A Golden-Ruled paradigm; that’s what the Earth has in store if it just awakens or alternatively, gets woke in time. As always, of the essence, is that ever present, and that ever passing — time.

Ever present and at the same time ever passing is time; it’s coming too; it only seemingly, flows, in one direction. Art’s, the proof of the pudding. Arthur’s from the future; he’s a traveler, in time. 

These aliens, in a plot twist for all the ages, the mother of plot twists, are a red flagged, sign, of the times. And the red flag ought be set to its flashing mode. Will people believe me this time?

Will the people believe me this time? Certainly, Kafkaesque, is Arthur’s allegorical tall tale, of speculative fiction. I know; were I not the heroic author herein — I wouldn’t be, believed, in time.

Indeed I believe that notwithstanding that UFO sightings on Earth date back to 1440 B.C. when some “fiery disks” were reportedly seen flying in what was then, EgyptIan airspace, at the time …

… and notwithstanding also countless accounts, anecdotal, of the various classifications of the countless encounters with them, that is to say, encounters of the first, second, and third, kinds.

A DOUBLE AGENT — AGAIN

These aliens, in a plot twist for all the ages, the mother of plot twists, are a red flagged, sign, of the times. And the red flag ought be set to its flashing mode. Will people believe me this time?

Will the people believe me this time? Certainly, Kafkaesque, is Arthur’s allegorical tall tale, of speculative fiction. I know; were I not the heroic author herein — I wouldn’t be, believed, in time.

Indeed I believe that notwithstanding that UFO sightings on Earth date back to 1440 B.C. when some “fiery disks” were reportedly seen flying in what was then, EgyptIan airspace, at the time …

… and notwithstanding also countless accounts, anecdotal, of the various classifications of the countless encounters with them, that is to say, encounters of the first, second, and third, kinds.

Encounters of the first, second and third kinds; classifications, popularized by Encounters of the Third Kind (the movie), resonate with me. I have — experienced encounters — of all three, kinds.

Encounters of the first, second and third kinds; I have experienced, since Haim’s revelations in December, encounters of all three kinds. Joe: I sure hope Jill tells ye, I’m not lying — this time.

Encounters of all three kinds I’ve experienced, since Haim Eshed’s, December, revelations; I kid ye not; and I am praying Joe, that Jill will tell ye, that implausibly, I’m actually not, lying this time.

I am not inexperienced when it comes to alien beings, having watched every episode of The Twilight Zone as a kid. Follow the advice given to us by Sir Hawking: Trust no alien, at no time.

I’m not inexperienced when it comes to alien beings, having watched The Twilight Zone and The Jetsons, as a kid. Follow the advice of Sir Stephen Hawking — Trust no alien, at no time.

Trust no alien, at no time. Don’t worry about the double negative; bad grammar’s no crime. Trust no alien, at no time; it is a perversion of the Golden Rule — that’ll be, Earth’s, new paradigm.

The mother of plot twists Haim unloaded upon we Earthlings in December; a red flagged, sign, of the times. The aliens, unbeknownst to us, see in the Earth, a life-time supply — of gold mines. 

Folks get me all wrong; methinks many believe me to be misogynistic when in fact, I am now, an egalitarian. Forget not Joe, in the meantime, that I’m Russian Agent 45-47; a telling, call-sign.

A chillingly telling call-sign ‘tis my 45-47 number. Remember Helsinki? I’m wondering whether a pardon would pardon any interests that I may hold — in the aliens’, proposed — gold mines?

It was just a little bit of double dipping Joe; an insurance policy on my life; I am in line to be the aliens‘ — Overseer. Pardon any interests that I may hold in the aliens’, proposed, gold mines.

TO STAY UPDATED — SUBSCRIBE TO:

From the desk of DJT: Got lots of updates for ya today; no worries tho; one can ne’er know too much these days; these days of wine and roses; three years long, the best of times days, now …

… the worst of times. Indeed, when the Sun last aligned with the center of the Milky Way Galaxy, ‘twas 25,772 years ago. But it’s Friday the 21st of December 2012, that’s got us, in its grip — now.

Art’s tweets are now ghostwritten by me. Allow me, to introduce myself; I am a man of wealth and fame; a simpleton; simply, a genius; an idiot savant — some others may — alternatively, say.

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

My ghost-written verse is destined to go viral. It shan’t matter that, heretofore, Art’s sole credit; a single poem, tho I’ve taken due care to cite on his behalf, on his curriculum, vitae. Of course …

… given his whistleblowing life, lately; isolating, from a virus, and hiding, from Vlad’s assassins; moving, from one safe house, every 24 hours, to another. I’m stepping in for Arthur, of course.

From the desk of webmaster DJT; in cataclysmic collisions between black holes, the larger one consumes, the smaller. And in response to a plethora — of situations, plethoras, of updates.

In soirées lunar I’ve had revelations; epiphanies, also. At the conjunction of a collision between two black holes the larger one, consumes, the smaller one. Such events, merit being, updated.

The wise man always wants to be the first one to know anything. Life itself often depends on what one knows and when, and how soon, one knows it — To live on Earth — remain updated.

Life on Earth is tenuous, at best; a long life and the welfare and wellbeing of lots of yer children depend on yer remaining, at all times, updated. To face down the aliens, pray tell, stay updated.

In the interim, the alarming state of affairs is as follows: The Deep State big lie (that I lost the election) leaves us with only Sleepy Joe and his Deep State to keep us protected on and off-line.

For three years I presided over the best times America has ever seen. Little more than a year later, with the Deep State Democrats back in power, revisiting, is America, the worst of times.

Just a year later with Joe’s Deep Staters back in power, revisiting is America, its worst of times. These aliens, in a plot twist for the ages, mother of all plot twists, are a red flag sign, of the times.

These aliens, in a plot twist for all the ages, the mother of all plot twists, are a red flag, sign, of the times. And the red flag ought be set to its flashing mode. Will people believe me this time?

IT’S KAFKAESQUE — REALLY — SURREALLY

Verily ‘twas Friday the 21st of December in the year of our Lord 2012 when stricken was Arthur Everman. From out of a clear blue sky, a bolt of ball lightning, pursuant to, Mayan, calculations.

Striking with no warning from a clear blue sky, a bolt of ball lightning struck Arthur, pursuant to, and affirming certainly, the Mayan, calculations. Some of ye may recall, the Mayan, calculations.

Some of ye may recall the Mayan calculations; and the hullabaloo surrounding them in the years, months and days leading up to the day, fateful. Nothing happened, but only, seemingly.

‘Twas only seemingly, that nothing happened. Actually, there were happenings that happened that day in addition to happenings attendant to the machinations, of the universal, machinery.

Believe it or not, the so-called speculative fiction that follows some day may be regarded, as well, as speculative, nonfiction; that is to say, that it, was speculative at the time when written by Art.

The gist of the plot: My prodigal brother Art and I, the ex womb-mates, are reunited at last. Once upon a time, I kicked Art from our womb-space, far into the future from whence returned, is Art.

Art’s return in a most miraculous intervention may be in time (perhaps), to help the antiheroic me save planet Earth, in spite of myself; winning for Vladimir and me, Nobels — all thanks, to Art.

In our lunar soirées Arthur has recounted to me how it came to pass one balmy late afternoon in Isabela, Puerto Rico that a ball lightning strike, struck him in the noggin, frying the brain, of Art.

A ball lightning strike, striking Art in the noggin, refried for the umpteenth time, the brain of Art. But this time was different; ‘twas Friday the 21st of December of 2012, when stricken, was Art.

Earth will forget about Art; ‘tis I to whom shall inure the benefit of Art’s efforts; ‘tis I to whom shall inure the benefit of Art’s discovery. I’ll take credit for a ground breaking discovery of Art’s.

If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck then it’s likely, a duck. And an elephant test refers to when an idea or thing is hard to describe, but recognizable, when seen.

What things mean; and what things — even are. Men tend to claim absolute truth based on a limited, subjective experience, ignoring others’ limited, subjective experiences — to demean.

They say Joe Biden that behind every good man, there’s a good woman; like yer Jill; she’s pretty; and pretty smart, too; if she were any prettier, she’d be with me. Melania, would welcome her.

Behind every man Joe, there is a woman. And behind every looker like Jill, Joe, there are likely, about ten men. We men; all too oft, we’re pigs; and wolves. But I know, we could be love birds.

FROM THE DESK OF DJT

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, for access to, my newsletter — website.

Because everybody knows that nobody knows anywhere near everything that’s happening, an innocent one writes, in lieu of his prodigal, ex womb-mate brother, Art — at his new website.

At my new website, soon to be near and dear to everybody, I write in lieu of my prodigal dear ex womb-mate brother. I know that nobody knows anywhere near — everything, that’s happening.

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, to know — everything, that’s happening. 

At a new website, soon to be near and dear to everybody, I write in lieu of my prodigal dear ex womb-mate brother. I write knowing, nobody knows what’s happening ‘cept me, and the right.

I write in Art’s stead knowing nobody knows what’s happening except for Him, in Heaven, and the right with the mighty arms on Earth. I write on behalf of white knights — on the right.

Because everybody knows that nobody knows hardly anything about what’s happening, this latest plot twist offers hope to the dwindling millions, harboring hope, for white men, super.

The latest plot twist offers high hopes to the dwindling millions of cultists yet harboring hope for the dominance of the white man. Everybody knows that we white men — we jump — higher.

White men do jump higher. And in other news elsewhere, in Ireland, the banshees are wailing, big time. Irish banshees, with their bloodshot eyes — in the highlands and the lowlands, wail. 

In Irish news elsewhere, as well, the banshees wail. In the highlands and the lowlands, they wail. In the city of Dublin and throughout the countryside — in Ireland — the banshees, wail. 

Irish folklore also features a tradition that the wailing of numerous banshees signifies the death of a great person. Or might it be, many?Worrisome to the Irish, are wailing, banshees.

The wailing of numerous banshees may signify the death of a great person. Might it be many? And what if at LinkedIn, black lives don’t matter? — Worrisome to the Irish are wailing, banshees.

But what if, at LinkedIn, black lives don’t matter? What if they matter, but not as much as white lives? Worrisome to the Irish is the increasingly alarming, glass-breaking, wailing, of banshees.

Worrisome to the Irish is increasingly alarming, glass-breaking, wailing, of banshees. Dublin’s more racist, than London. Everybody, knows that. Fearful are the Irish, of wailing banshees. 

NO BLACK BANSHEES — IN IRELAND

But what if, at LinkedIn, black lives don’t matter? What if they matter, but not as much as white lives? Worrisome to the Irish is the increasingly alarming, glass-breaking, wailing, of banshees.

Worrisome to the Irish is increasingly alarming, high-pitched, wailing, of banshees. Dublin’s far more racist, than London. Everybody, knows that. Fearful are the Irish, of wailing banshees.

Dublin is way, way, more racist, than London. Who doesn’t know that? Fearful are the Irish, of their banshees. Worrisome to the Irish is the terrifying, high-pitched wailing, of the banshees. 

Dublin is far, far, more racist, than London. Who doesn’t know that? Fearful are the Irish, of their wailing banshees. Terrifying is the screeching, high-pitched wailing of much feared, banshees.

It seems the Irish themselves may be the last to realize their minority status despite the fact that they face all the same disadvantages of racism and intolerance, as always, where racism, is rife.

Less prevalent in Antarctica but aside from that icy white continent, racism, is endemic to Earth; from white Russian Caucasian whites in Europe and America to the Han in China, racism, is rife.

Kafkaesque; where the real and the fantastic features isolated protagonists facing bizarre or surrealistic predicaments and illogical, bizarrely, incomprehensible, socio-bureaucratic, powers.

What’s happening is classically, Kafkaesque; it’s where both the real and the fantastic challenge isolated protagonists like me face bizarrely, surreal predicaments and unnatural — powers.

Nothing if not Kafkaesque is what’s happening here on Earth; between me, and the aliens, and the near eight billion living here in a state of war, relative. But we’re in the dark about, aliens.

We’re in the dark about the aliens; just as we’ve been all along. But one of my last acts as the President was to order my security agencies to report on vulnerabilities — earthly — and alien.

One of my last acts as the President of US was to order my security agencies to report on our vulnerabilities — earthly, and alien. I’m hoping Jill helps Joe not be, bamboozled, by the aliens.

There are known unknowns on Mars and in the NEOs (near Earth objects). We know there are known unknowns on Mars and in the NEOS. What’s up Joe with the NEOs — and the aliens?

PLOT TWISTS — FAST AND FURIOUS 

… Vlad and his cabal are prominent in nightly lunar soirées that we recollect not the very next day. But 2020 has everyone duly considering the heresy — of working together — some day. 

Tuesday, March 4, 2030; a calendar date and a command. And it’s the date I’ve got in mind for our celebration of my Nobel-winning, Twitter Diplomacy and a first, Global, Citizenship Day.

The quickening pace of the plot twists, on Earth, happening, would be of concern to, Carl Jung. And so I have had Carl Jung’s synchronicities in mind — as I write of Art’s intervention, in time.

I have had Carl Jung’s synchronicities in mind as I write of Art’s intervention, in time. The twists of fate, the plot twists, are quickening, of late. I marvel as I write — of Art’s intervention, in time.

Ye are now under actual notice. Let the annals in the Hall of Records reflect that all of us that are Vlad’s guys are on notice. The people are on to us and may march forth, March 4th, of 2030.

Garcia Marquez, Mo Yan and many others see what they imagine may be magical realism. But what they characterize as magical, is actually, miraculous. Miracles, not magic are what I see.

Let the annals in the Hall of Records reflect that all of us that are Vladimir’s guys are on notice. The people are on to us and may march forth, upon us this coming March the fourth, of 2030.

Vladimir’s guys are on notice. The people are on to us and may march forth upon us this coming March the fourth, of 2030, if the coming of that date finds ye yet — in the catbird seat, in 2030.

Given yer mission and but 280 characters to do it in, split yer content in two; words competitive and cooperative. Language’s zenith is when metered, measured and varied is — its content.

Yer pics; given that we’re most moved by visual cues, any embedded pic, likely may be the most emotive part of yer content. As always, seek balance — err, in favor of pics — in yer content. 

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, for access to my newsletter — website.

Subscribe: Miss no update. And subscribe now, whilst it’s free — to pay less, later. For now, it’s free to be so updated at “From the desk of DJT”. Not to worry; for now it’s free; see, the website.

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, for access to, my newsletter — website.

Because everybody knows that nobody knows anywhere near everything that’s happening, an innocent one writes, in lieu of his prodigal, ex womb-mate brother, Art — at his new website.

NO BLACK BANSHEES — IN IRELAND

But what if, at LinkedIn, black lives don’t matter? What if they matter, but not as much as white lives? Worrisome to the Irish is the increasingly alarming, glass-breaking, wailing, of banshees.

Worrisome to the Irish is increasingly alarming, high-pitched, wailing, of banshees. Dublin’s far more racist, than London. Everybody, knows that. Fearful are the Irish, of wailing banshees.

Dublin is way, way, more racist, than London. Who doesn’t know that? Fearful are the Irish, of their banshees. Worrisome to the Irish is the terrifying, high-pitched wailing, of the banshees. 

Dublin is far, far, more racist, than London. Who doesn’t know that? Fearful are the Irish, of their wailing banshees. Terrifying is the screeching, high-pitched wailing of much feared, banshees.

It seems the Irish themselves may be the last to realize their minority status despite the fact that they face all the same disadvantages of racism and intolerance, as always, where racism, is rife.

Less prevalent in Antarctica but aside from that icy white continent, racism, is endemic to Earth; from white Russian Caucasian whites in Europe and America to the Han in China, racism, is rife.

Kafkaesque; where the real and the fantastic features isolated protagonists facing bizarre or surrealistic predicaments and illogical, bizarrely, incomprehensible, socio-bureaucratic, powers.

What’s happening is classically, Kafkaesque; it’s where both the real and the fantastic challenge isolated protagonists like me face bizarrely, surreal predicaments and unnatural — powers.

Nothing if not Kafkaesque is what’s happening here on Earth; between me, and the aliens, and the near eight billion living here in a state of war, relative. But we’re in the dark about, aliens.

We’re in the dark about the aliens; just as we’ve been all along. But one of my last acts as the President was to order my security agencies to report on vulnerabilities — earthly — and alien.

One of my last acts as the President of US was to order my security agencies to report on our vulnerabilities — earthly, and alien. I’m hoping Jill helps Joe not be, bamboozled, by the aliens.

There are known unknowns on Mars and in the NEOs (near Earth objects). We know there are known unknowns on Mars and in the NEOS. What’s up Joe with the NEOs — and the aliens?

They say, Joe, that behind every good man, there’s a good woman; like yer Jill; she’s pretty; and pretty smart, too; if she were any prettier, she’d be with me. Melania, would welcome her.

Behind every man Joe, there is a woman. And behind every looker like Jill, Joe, there are likely, about ten men. We men; all too oft, we’re pigs; and wolves. But I know, we could be, love birds.

FROM THE DESK OF DJT

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, for access to, my newsletter — website.

Because everybody knows that nobody knows anywhere near everything that’s happening, an innocent one writes, in lieu of his prodigal, ex womb-mate brother, Art — at his new website.

At my new website, soon to be near and dear to everybody, I write in lieu of my prodigal dear ex womb-mate brother. I know that nobody knows anywhere near — everything, that’s happening.

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, to know — everything, that’s happening. 

At a new website, soon to be near and dear to everybody, I write in lieu of my prodigal dear ex womb-mate brother. I write knowing, nobody knows what’s happening ‘cept me, and the right.

I write in Art’s stead knowing nobody knows what’s happening except for Him, in Heaven, and the right with the mighty arms on Earth. I write on behalf of white knights — on the right.

Because everybody knows that nobody knows hardly anything about what’s happening, this latest plot twist offers hope to the dwindling millions, harboring hope, for white men, super.

The latest plot twist offers high hopes to the dwindling millions of cultists yet harboring hope for the dominance of the white man. Everybody knows that we white men — we jump — higher.

White men do jump higher. And in other news elsewhere, in Ireland, the banshees are wailing, big time. Irish banshees, with their bloodshot eyes — in the highlands and the lowlands, wail. 

In Irish news elsewhere, as well, the banshees wail. In the highlands and the lowlands, they wail. In the city of Dublin and throughout the countryside — in Ireland — the banshees, wail. 

Irish folklore also features a tradition that the wailing of numerous banshees signifies the death of a great person. Or might it be many?Worrisome to the Irish, are wailing, banshees.

The wailing of numerous banshees may signify the death of a great person. Might it be many? And what if at LinkedIn, black lives don’t matter? — Worrisome to the Irish are wailing, banshees.

But what if, at LinkedIn, black lives don’t matter? What if they matter, but not as much as white lives? Worrisome to the Irish is the increasingly alarming, glass-breaking, wailing, of banshees.

Worrisome to the Irish is increasingly alarming, glass-breaking, wailing, of banshees. Dublin’s more racist, than London. Everybody, knows that. Fearful are the Irish, of wailing banshees.

PLOT TWISTS — FAST AND FURIOUS 

… Vlad and his cabal are prominent in nightly lunar soirées that we recollect not the very next day. But 2020 has everyone duly considering the heresy — of working together — some day. 

Tuesday, March 4, 2030; a calendar date and a command. And it’s the date I’ve got in mind for our celebration of my Nobel-winning, Twitter Diplomacy and a first, Global, Citizenship Day.

The quickening pace of the plot twists, on Earth, happening, would be of concern to, Carl Jung. And so I have had Carl Jung’s synchronicities in mind — as I write of Art’s intervention, in time.

I have had Carl Jung’s synchronicities in mind as I write of Art’s intervention, in time. The twists of fate, the plot twists, are quickening, of late. I marvel as I write — of Art’s intervention, in time.

Ye are now under actual notice. Let the annals in the Hall of Records reflect that all of us that are Vlad’s guys are on notice. The people are on to us and may march forth, March 4th, of 2030.

Garcia Marquez, Mo Yan and many others see what they imagine may be magical realism. But what they characterize as magical, is actually, miraculous. Miracles, not magic are what I see.

Let the annals in the Hall of Records reflect that all of us that are Vladimir’s guys are on notice. The people are on to us and may march forth, upon us this coming March the fourth, of 2030.

Vladimir’s guys are on notice. The people are on to us and may march forth upon us this coming March the fourth, of 2030, if the coming of that date finds ye yet — in the catbird seat, in 2030.

Given yer mission and but 280 characters to do it in, split yer content in two; words competitive and cooperative. Language’s zenith is when metered, measured and varied is — its content.

Yer pics; given that we’re most moved by visual cues, any embedded pic, likely may be the most emotive part of yer content. As always, seek balance — err, in favor of pics — in yer content. 

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, for access to my newsletter — website.

Subscribe: Miss no update. And subscribe now, whilst it’s free — to pay less, later. For now, it’s free to be so updated at “From the desk of DJT”. Not to worry; for now it’s free; see, the website.

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, for access to, my newsletter — website.

Because everybody knows that nobody knows anywhere near everything that’s happening, an innocent one writes, in lieu of his prodigal, ex womb-mate brother, Art — at his new website.

A POWERFUL WEAPON IS PHOTO-POETRY

Seriously, it’s not to poke a hole in my cheek with my tongue that I’m blowing the whistle on me and the guys; Vladimir’s guys. Do the right thing, someone suggested to me — cynically.

It’s about doing the right thing. It’s not about just me. It’s about everybody. Once upon a time, Art taught me to read and to write; and I especially love writing, ground-breaking, poetry.

Twitter’s 280 character algorithm has been, for Arthur and me a useful revelation, surprisingly utilitarian in marketing, education and in composing, innovative, novel-like, novel, poetry.

Composing on 3 levels, 280 character tweets metamorphose to blog logs, metamorphosing, in turn, into a manuscript in hermetic, solitude; a poor man’s, publicity; a rich man’s — poetry.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that is most favored by Him — Personally. Verse — best expresses — His Holy, Personality.

Attention Jew, Christian, Muslim, agnostic and atheist. Read your Scriptures in the context of the Scriptures of one another. So that ye may compare and contrast them more thoughtfully.

And woe to him without wisdom enough to read Scripture; nor smart enough to read them, thoughtfully, in context, finding many, eye-opening, nexuses, between them, astoundingly.

Recall Pen’s commission to Art: Tweet, blog and pen to the children, epigrammatic, Grecian poetry. Teach them about Twitter’s algorithm; and Google Translate; and alchemy, in poetry.

What’s happening is miraculous; whether predetermined, or not. I should know. Art told me so. I ghost-write for Arthur, disseminating a miraculous message — poetically — plausible.

Photo-poetry, is yet fledgling. Yet it may be humanity’s disarming weapon against the weapons of war. Mightier than a sword may be ink and pen! Study Arthur’s poetry’s, potential

Vladimir’s, infamously long arms, we really, fear. That’s on Earth tho. Last night on Luna however we dreamt Art’s recommenders fear having too little to say, on Arthur’s trajectory, as an author.

I hasten therefore, their fears, to allay; fear not, my fellow Americans that no one ever hears, or has ever ere heard Art’s verse or heard tell of it. Still, indeed, it is destined to go viral, for Arthur.

My ghost-written verse is destined to go viral. It shan’t matter that, heretofore, Art’s sole credit; a single poem I’ve taken due care to cite on his behalf on his curriculum vitae. Given the course

of his whistleblowing life lately; isolating from a virus and hiding out from Vladimir’s assassins; moving, from one safe house, every 24 hours, to another, a whistleblowing Arthur, of course …

THINK HORSES — NOT ZEBRAS — OR DUCKS

To English Franciscan friar William of Ockham (c. 1287–1347) we attribute the philosophical razor that is, Ockham’s Razor. ‘Twas William of Ockham’s baby, Ockham’s philosophical, razor.

When one not in Africa hears hoofbeats, one ought think of horses, not zebras. Rich is the history underpinning the Principle of Parsimony also known as — Ockham’s or Occam’s, Razor.

Welcome Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm. Welcome to my dreams, too oft, nightmarish. I shall let Art know that ye picked him up, on your radar. It’ll hearten him to know — he’s on — yer radar.

In a world gone bad, because she has been so badly mistreated by her errant stewards, Luna and her sister Urantia see in Russia, China, Myanmar and Gaza — a geopolitical, disaster …

… looming. Looming is disaster; seemingly, one way, or another. Climatically and geopolitically, disaster looms large; surreally, there are known unknowns on Mars and in — asteroidal, NEOS.

There are known unknowns on Mars and in the NEOs (near Earth objects). We know there are known unknowns on Mars and in the NEOS. What’s up Joe — with the aliens, and the NEOs?

They say, Joe, that behind every good man, there’s a good woman; like yer Jill; she’s pretty; and pretty smart, too; if she were any prettier, she’d be with me. Melania, would welcome her.

Behind every man Joe, there is a woman. And behind every looker like Jill, Joe, there are likely, about ten men. We men; all too oft, we’re pigs; and wolves. But I know, we could be, love birds.

If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck then it’s likely, a duck. And an elephant test refers to when an idea or thing is hard to describe, but recognizable, when seen.

What things mean; and what things — even are. Men tend to claim absolute truth based on a limited, subjective experience, ignoring others’ limited, subjective experiences — to demean.

The gist of the plot: My prodigal brother Art and I; ex womb-mates, are reunited at last. Once upon a time, I kicked Art from our womb-space far into the future from whence returned, is Art.

Art’s return in a most miraculous intervention may be in time (perhaps), to help the antiheroic me save planet Earth, in spite of myself; winning for Vlad and me — Nobels — all thanks, to Art.

Much coveted Nobels along my tortured, and torturous, way. It would have featured both, a happy and an unhappy ending. But that’s all been rendered moot, by an alien — epiphany.

An epiphany; beyond a revelation. Haim said, the aliens said, that we’re not ready, for them. Since Haim‘s December’s revelation, I have had in in lunar soirées, revelations and epiphanies.

OCCAM’S RAZOR

Occam’s razor; hailed as an invaluable tool in the discipline of problem solving because the simplest explanation in the usual case and even in cases unusual, is likely, as eventuality …

… the right one. The simplest explanation, bar none, is that predetermined has been each and every, actual happening. Predetermined has been each and every single eventuality, maybe.

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

In an irony,  supreme, we are the universe’s must see reality TV; we are the daily fare for a universal audience, watching live, and in living color or on replay, as the case may actually, be.

We are the universe’s must see TV; daily fare for a universal viewership, oft viewing the action on the edges of seats, whether live, or replayed. The audience — is literally — trans-universal.

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

Antiheroes actually are Kim, Don, Xi and Vlad Putin; antiheroes, universal. Even Arthur is antiheroic. We are the universe’s must see, TV; daily fare, for the trans universal citizenry …

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

Imagine Kim the possibilities should ye and I make a blockbuster deal at the last moment; just imagine how grateful I’d be if such were a spark for a re-election win, come November …

… and for Nobels for Peace and Literature, very possibly shared by all of us, come December, once passed, is November. Come December, once passed is November it shall be, December.

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

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

Art’s tweets are now ghostwritten by me. Allow me to introduce myself; I’m a man of wealth and fame; a simpleton; simply, a genius; an idiot savant — some others, may alternatively, say.

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

A SIMPLE EXPLANATION

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

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

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

Kim, Don and Art; three megalomaniacals; three lazy liars. Kim and Don became leaders of nations. Arthur became an Olympian drinker, become thereby, too oft, strangely deranged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANCIENT EPICS

The long poem. Like the ancient epics. Like Homer’s, Iliad. Like his, Odyssey. Actually, at 1.8 million words, the Indian Mahābhārata is, by far, the very longest epic poem, ever written.

Vyāsa‘s Mahābhārata is Urantia’s lengthiest, epic, poem. Its 1.8 million words, less its prose, makes for more than 100,000 couplet verses, making Vyasa’s epic, the longest poem, written.

It’s roughly ten times the combined length of Homer’s twins, the Iliad and the Odyssey. And it’s not just chopped liver; all along its length, it features content insightful; totally, compelling.

Vyasa wrote the Mahābhārata to enable the common people to understand the highest knowledge, more easily. To be, or not to be? But — is humanity — its humanity — losing?

Arthur Everman’s 40 years in a delusional wasteland have been terribly educational; in the course of them he’s learned everyone seems crazed. Everyone — it seems — but him.

Everyone seems crazy; everyone, it seems but him. The proof is in the pudding. That the Godless nations’ rules makes sense to nearly everyone. Everyone — that is to say — but him.

God rules mankind, notwithstanding, anything. No Caliphate nor Jewish state is forever. No state is forever. Conflict on Earth is violence, domestic even when it is, a state, intervention.

But there are remedies, remedial even to the most intractable of man’s conflicts. Domestic violence has remedies, in law and in fact. Among them, a few main ones are separation,

reconciliation, toleration, and even eventually, acculturation. But acculturation takes time. Generations, sometimes. Time is limiting. To be or not to be? Whither goeth — Homo sapiens?

The signs followed in short order. A tall tree falling did injure Arthur, cuing, from a clear blue sky a strike of rare, ball lightning; from a clear blue sky, Art was stricken by ball lightning.

Extraordinary events, in the normal course of events are, all too often, not very extraordinary. Truly, He uses the weak to more dramatically accomplish His purpose. But you need not be

stricken by lightning. Ye just gotta wannabe. Human history is replete with supposed coincidences; implausible ironies, straining, credulity. But Garcia Marquez and Mo Yan see.

Garcia Marquez, Mo Yan and many others see what they imagine may be magical realism. But what they characterize as magical, is actually, miraculous. Miracles, not magic are what I see.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. And my proud Boys preen, ever more, proudly.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE — A DAY MAKES

What a difference a day makes in nanoseconds; as when Yellowstone, Krakatoa and Santorini, blew their tops, on unknown dates, in unknown years — super, sky-high — super, volcanically.

What a difference 1 year may make; as when the tots of moms and pops grow, in fits and starts; in learning’s ebbs and flows; growing, inexorably, ever exasperatingly, fascinatingly.

What a difference 25 years may make; as when computers digitally usher in information ages, rife with disinformation, or in lieu, alternatively, informative; uniting and divisive, concurrently.

What a difference 250 years may make; when machines and engines, dramatically upped our consumption, our supply and demand and our uneven, two-sided — smokestack, productivity.

What a difference 12,000 years may make as when glaciers receded, slowly allowing us greater, creativity. And slowly but surely we fatefully took creativity, outside, successfully.

What a difference some millions of years may make; when from cosmic dust on the ground on Earth, in His image, He created us. He did omnipotently create us — most, miraculously.

What a difference one day may make as when meteorites, comets and a fat man and little boy slammed into the planet and incinerated a fat man and a little boy, along with, their families.

What a difference one day may make; as when I, a mutant motormouth, uncouthly stigmatize Islam, polarizing thereby, the planet and pitting Muslim against Christian, seemingly, unwisely.

“What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?” A daunting, question; ever since, Arthur’s been haunted, by both the answer, and the question: “What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?”

Thus began the dreamy soirees and their true revelations begat veritable epiphanies, that in turn begat an epic quest to answer poetically, profoundly — burning — questions, truthfully.

Why poetically? That one is easy to answer, for while harder to compose than prose, poetry is far more elegant and far more emotive than one might ever aspire to — merely, prosaically.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that is most favored by Him, Personally. Verse better expresses, personality.

Composing on 3 levels, 280 character tweets metamorphose to blog logs, metamorphosing, in turn, into a manuscript in hermetic, solitude; a poor man’s, publicity; a rich man’s — poetry.

Twitter’s 280 character algorithm has been, for Arthur and me a useful revelation, surprisingly utilitarian in marketing, education and in composing innovative novel-like, novel, poetry.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is why my

long-winded soliloquy; the minutes of soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly, 280 characters. I denounce and renounce not Proud Boys but denounce and renounce my

alter ego’s earlier statements made on this Independence Day, the very first global, such day. One such plot device is the atmosphere, lunar. Only truth is spoken in the absence of air 

up there. In stark contrast, on Earth, lies fill the air, everyday. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to illuminate and call out, whatever in the Hell on Earth, is there

actually, happening. My true account of my soirées on Luna with my frenemy, dictatorial, friends, especially characterized by a sing-song, musical cadence, conducive to, epigramming.

MAYDAYS; its my soliloquy; about soirées on Luna, and our forever, troubles, on Earth; with my frenemy characters; in characters, 280; even as everywhere strongmen are colluding 

against me and looking to kill my disgruntled and whistleblowing, Puerto Rican brother, Art. I looked up fascism.’ It’s a philosophy, political, movement or regime (like namesake Fascisti),

that exalts nation and often race, above, the individual. And I do seem to be, as virulently fascist, as any former, Fascisti. They came first for the Gypsies, then for the Jews then for me.

Weeks ago, an asteroid exploded over Tokyo; a smaller version of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs once upon, a long time, ago. We don’t actually know where and when in the Hell

the smaller asteroids are coming. When they get here they often let us know. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to blow the whistle on what’s happening in Hell

on Earth. More importantly it sets forth the previously unknown story of how my lover Kim has helped me craft a plan, to save the good Earth from going to, or merely becoming, Hell.

I am anxious to tell, within the larger story, the previously unknown story of how Kim has well helped me craft a plan, to save the Earth from going to — or merely becoming on Earth, Hell.

Kim’s helped me craft a plan to save the Earth from going to, or God forbid becoming, on Earth an unholy Hell. And so I’m calling on the children to tweet to Kim yourselves, personally.

I’m calling on the children to tweet to Kim their personal messages; in groups; and individually. Tweet to him; and Xi; and Vladimir. If they did so that would be some would say, newsworthy.

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, 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, 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 up happily for Vlad and me — or not — depends.

Through a portal and along an elongated path is the way of the Pilgrims Progress. Paths that run toward our galaxy’s black hole, run, in parallel. Primrose paths too mark, 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, effective, 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.

UNUS MUNDUS

The Russians and the Chinese are really feeling utterly, discombobulated. It’s a bad sign, they feel, that the aliens have chosen to reveal their existence, to the Americans — and not to them.

Their paranoia, is understandable. Witness that Buzz (Arthur’s cyber, spy-fly), did observe and recorded them, in conference call, speculating, that the aliens seem to value, values, American.

Indeed, Vlad and his guys unanimously agreed that it appears that, (notwithstanding me), the aliens have a clear preference for a democratic, political system. The aliens, favor, democracies.

The aliens, it appears, favor, democracy. That’s bad news for Vlad and his guys, except for me. What a difference, a day makes. Just yesterday, the existence of aliens was still, in controversy.

Now, not only do they exist but they are here; with a base on Mars; and worst of all, they have allied themselves, with the upstart, Americans. Verily, we’ll need to reconsider, our autocracies.

Vlad’s guys and I may need to reconsider our, corrupt, autocracies. Magnificent is His timing, with aliens, a virus, me and Arthur’s MAYDAYS, uncannily manifesting — Jung’s, synchronicities.

Jung’s synchronicities (coincidences, more commonly) are regarded as pseudoscientific; not based on experimental evidence and better explained by probabilities — and psychology.

An example of this is modern facial recognition based on such a basic archetype (i.e., two dots and a line contained in a circle). We are prone to — identify faces, in random data — actually.

A believer in the paranormal, Jung also believed synchronicity to be complementary to dreams with the purpose of shifting, one’s egocentric, conscious thinking, to a greater — wholeness.

Jung believed life was not a series of random events but rather an expression of a deeper order; an Unus mundus; a spiritual awakening; interventions of grace to, universal, wholeness.

It was conversations over dinner with Albert Einstein that sparked the young Carl Jung to wonder about a possible relativity of time as well as space and their psychic, conditionality. 

A consequence of dinners with Einstein, more than 30 years later, led to my relation with the physicist professor, Wolfgang Pauli; and to my thesis, of fascinating, psychic — synchronicities.

The possible relativity of time, as well as space; Einstein regarded it as possible. A fascinating possibility, notwithstanding the impossibility of any elegant, E = mc²style, numerical, equation.

The alien Galactic Federation values, values, American, apparently. Were that not the case, they would be treating similarly, the nations. But that’s not what’s happening, to the nations.