“Brilliant,” they will say I was, once I’m gone. A man turned into a myth, am I to be. Only I had the wit and the wits to battle, at the same time, aliens and viruses and asteroids — and hubris.

Be true to His Plan; and true, of course, to the Scriptures. If (wo)man, ye are as wise as ye say ye are, in facing and defeating aliens, we may yet avert being enslaved by the aliens, I know.

From the desk of DJT: Tons of admissions are to follow; in updates, from a government, in exile. We may yet avert being enslaved by the aliens, I know. Because Art taught me to read — I know.

Arthur taught me to read; and write; and how to write poetry using Twitters’s already preexisting formula. What a difference, sometimes, a day, may make. The secret of the jingle, I now know.

Arthur taught me to read; and write; and how to write poetry. The secrets of the jingle — and the love sonnets, I now know. I now know, the top secrets of the nations; how to persuade, I know.

Rhyming jingles sell. Everybody knows that. And everybody knows that poetry’s forever linked with seduction, and the arts, of love. Art taught me the art of — converting prose, into poetry.

The conversion of staid and oft dry prose into metered and measured poetry has been for me a revelation; like a Russian Babushka doll, with revelation after revelation, revealed, poetically.


Earth’s in danger from NEO blind side asteroids; it’s a danger, we’re largely, ignoring. And it’s an ignorance, we can ill, afford; it seems to me, we ought seek help from, the Galactic, Federation.

Seems obvious to me we ought be asking for help from, the Galactic Federation. But no one’s asked them anything, as far I can tell. No one is asking for help from — the Galactic, Federation.

Astounded; flabbergasted; flummoxed, am I. No one’s asked them anything, as far I can tell. Joe Biden’s got a lot to answer for, about the aliens. Witness Barack Obama’s comments; I know …

… a decision seems to have been taken relative to the aliens. Obama’s comments today may Joe’s policy, be signaling, or it may be that he too was, by a Deep State, kept out, of the know.

We’ve got some security issues to contend with, in Vlad, Xi and Kim and Muslim Mo. Who doesn’t know that? Our vulnerabilities are legion and Joe’s Biden’s report is now overdue, technically.

Who doesn’t know that? Our vulnerabilities are legion and Joe’s Biden’s report, due yesterday, is now, technically, overdue. And no one seems unhappy that it appears to be — not yet, ready.

Reading between the lines of Barack Obama’s comments yesterday, I’d be surprised to learn much more about the aliens than we already, supposedly, know. I’m no prophet but I know …

… without having seen the report, what it will say: “We don’t know who they are, where they come from nor what they want. We don’t know, also, what they can do. We just — don’t know.“

Once again, man plans — and God laughs. His Plan, as always, supersedes. Rest easy in the knowledge that God’s Plans are ongoing. Still, Joe knows more than he’s saying — he knows.

I’m on the sidelines now; not the president, I’m running again for president and I’m no prophet; still, I’ll bet two to one that Joe knows more than he’s saying — he knows. That much — I know.

That Joe knows more than he’s saying he knows is a pretty safe bet. I’d bet the house on it and in a sense, I already have. After all, I know. And, as all know — no one knows as much — as I know.

It’s embarrassing for me to admit on behalf of the cabal, our crimes; 2020’s gone; 2021’s, half, over; a Golden-Ruled paradigm awaits only the event that’ll draw and chart a destiny — I know.

2020’s gone; 2021’s, half way over already and a Golden-Ruled paradigm awaits only the event that’ll draw humanity together and chart that course straight and true to our destiny I know …

… is true to His Plan; and true, of course, to the Scriptures. And if (wo)man, ye are as wise as ye say ye are, in facing and defeating aliens, we may avert being enslaved by the aliens, I know.


In honor of my friend, Albert Einstein, a thought experiment: Convene, on the head of a needle, all of humanity; put it to a vote: Ought we be —communists — capitalists — or — egalitarians?

God willing, such a convention and the votes taken there shall indeed, come to pass. Such votes ought be a natural matter, albeit the fact of the matter, is altogether another, contrarian.

We live such artificially, constrained existences, in such similarly, constrained societies, such a vote, now technically feasible would be resisted, in any event, by the powers that be — violently.

Communist? Capitalist? Egalitarian? The voting, when it comes to pass, shall be, transcendental. Hard to imagine the nations cooperating, but — that’s what’s, happening — albeit, implausibly.

It bears repeating, and indeed, ye shall read it, over and over again over the course of reading this writing: I’m no prophet; I am, however, DJT and this communique is from the desk of, DJT.

This communique comes straight from the desk of me, DJT. That’s my new moniker, at my brand spanking new, website; it’s to keep my public up to date with what’s happening with — dear me.

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.

Hard to imagine the nations cooperating, but that’s what’s gonna happen, implausible, as it seems. And as ruthless as it seems, an asteroid strike killing many, likely will get, our attention.

Earth’s in danger from NEO blind side asteroids; it’s a danger we’re largely ignoring. And it’s an ignorance we can ill afford; it seems to me, we ought seek help from, the Galactic, Federation.


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?


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.


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.


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, I having, once upon a time, kicked Arthur from mother’s womb-space, clear into a future, to him, alien.

In a miraculous intervention, Arthur, in the nick of time, from the future’s, returned, to help me save planet Earth, in spite of ourselves and even in spite of these now, threatening, illegal, aliens. 

Vladimir (Vlad) Vladimirovitch Putin is the ‘lil lad from Leningrad, now, the President, of Russia, who is my mentor. And whether this all ends up — happily for Vladimir 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, a Pilgrims’ Progress.

My healthy orange pallor, a greenish hue took on uponreading Patricia’s, glowing reviews. But I’ve got Art’s Philosopher’s Stone, like, phone. A 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 are 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 separate them from their families.

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.


Not until well after leaving office, did I actually encourage the vaccination of my followers, and as ye know, my wife and I were vaccinated — in a secret White House 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 is 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; the verse from MORONS AND ALIENS; prescient words and the definitive last word on president 45-47 and the Earth. What is 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 all the fault, of Mexican, aliens.

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 real, 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 easy dissemination of art funded by an ingeniously simple — and ingeniously, non fungible, tokens.

It occurs to me that cryptocurrency’s Ethereum is well positioned to profit from this mother lode that is the creation and dissemination of art funded by ingenious, non fungible, tokens.

Ethereum is well positioned to profit from this mother lode that is the creation and the easy 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 may be 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 the primitive and technologically, unsophisticated beings, living upon, the Earth.


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, may be.

In an irony,  supreme, we are the universe’s must see reality TV; the daily fare for a universal audience, watching live and in living color or on replay, as the case surreally — 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. And the audience, is literally — trans-universal.

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

Antiheroes actually are Kim, me, Xi and Vlad Putin; antiheroes, universal. Even Arthur is an antihero. 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. Just imagine all the plots opened, when the universe is the backdrop, of Earth’s story.

Imagine Kim the possibilities had ye and I made a deal last September at the UN’s General Assembly. Imagine how grateful I’d be now, if such an event had happened, last September …

… and I’d won Nobels for Peace and Literature, very possibly shared by all of us, last December, now passed. But the December once passed cometh once again, once returneth, December.

Kim: Share the stage with me and the others in December once passed is November. Preview 2021’s Nobel-winning, MORONS AND ALIENS. I’ll have again in a bully pulpit, a gigantic platform.

It’s the platform, Arthur lacks. I’m trumpeting Art’s book 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.


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.

Art, Kim, and me; 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 and — 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 will tell 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; not unexpected, 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, the lines oft blur. When the lines blur, recall …

… the Urantia Book’s 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 verse publicly disagrees with my public alter-ego and publicly agrees with Him Who is still and forever, 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 — MAYDAY.


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 has learned everyone seems crazed. Everyone — that is it seems — but him.

Everyone seems crazy; everyone, it seems, but him. And 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. And 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, Arthur 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. Garcia Marquez saw and Mo Yan sees.

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 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, as slowly, but surely, fatefully, we 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, in His Omnipotence, somehow He created 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 far better expresses, His 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 tool in marketing, education and in composing innovative novel-like, novel, poetry.


Allegorically, my book’s settings Earth and Luna and its characters and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. And that is why also my …

… the long-winded soliloquy; my minutes of my soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of 280 characters, miraculously, composed. In lieu of renouncing the Proud Boys I prefer to err …

… being fair. My alter ego’s statements made on this Independence Day, the very first global, such day, I do renounce. One such plot device is the light, atmosphere, lunar. There’s no 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.

My book; its a soliloquy; about soirées on Luna, and our forever, troubles, on Earth; with my frenemy characters; in characters, 280; even as everywhere strongmen are unfairly 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. My book’s settings, characters and plot devices are meant to blow whistles 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.


In answer to a bluebird’s question I can now, answer. I know now that irrespective of your countries of residence or origin and whether wittingly or not, ye help me launder my money.

In answer to a bluebird’s question I now know that Urantians, irrespective of their countries of residence, or origin, are, whether wittingly, or not the launderers of my crime-tainted, money. 

In answer to a bluebird’s question I can now say that Urantians, regardless of their countries of residence or origin are, whether wittingly or unwittingly, the launderers, of ill-gotten, gains.

Of ill-gotten gains are we all, whether wittingly, or unwittingly, the launderers; of the tainted gains of informal and formal criminal networks. Ye are all the launderers of my, ill-gotten, gains. 

Hollywood epics and even some Sophoclean tragedies have sequels. And perhaps I too may return even as I am forced to ride off into the 2020 sunset at least for now. I’ll return, again.

Sophocles’ tragedies have sequels. Hollywood’s and Bollywood’s also. And even as I ride off into the 2020 sunset, I know that some day soon, I shall return from Russia’s Moscow, once again.

I’ll return from Russia’s Moscow once more just prior to 2024. If what happens then is like what happened in 2013 then I shall be once more, once again, of the United States, its president.

2013. That was the first time I visited then, and returned from, Moscow. Moscow. I really need to build a hotel there, still. Within three years ye — may recall, I was duly elected, the president.

Reflect on that in what remains of this 2020 year of the rat. Reflect on the significance of an event perceived to have been so unlikely, its happening, is either, magical — or miraculous.

Reflect on an event so unlikely, its happening must have been, either magical, or miraculous. Its happening, I attest, is not magical. I attest, rather, that it’s nothing less than — miraculous.

In answer to the bluebird’s question I can now, answer without any reservation that what is happening is nothing less than miraculous. One more use of a weak man, for a great, purpose.

Remember that God chose the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise and God chose the weak things of the world to put to shame the things, mighty. This is, my purpose.

This is, as if, my predetermined, purpose. To be foolish; and weak. And to authoritatively, write upon, how not to lead. But that is but one of them; ‘tis but one of my, surprising, purposes.

Consider this, for example. Consider that my legacy beyond Twitter Diplomacy be a cartoon character in a Disney movie franchise; a series of motion pictures to put in context, purposes.


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 MORONS AND ALIENS 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.


God willing, another Velvet Revolution may be in the offing. Maybe even as soon as next year; in 2021; in the year of the oxen; the year of the oxen commences, on the eleventh, of February.

It depends; it depends on whether the sheep-men of Urantia take responsibility for what has happened and what’s happening, still. We owe it indeed, to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, verily. 

‘Tis far better, relocating these days to Twitter, one’s school, if possible. In Art’s case, Twitter’s been, for several reasons, an easy, no-brainer. Those reasons notwithstanding, under radars, 

Arthur’s, been flying. Notwithstanding, his best efforts to gain altitude, under the radar, Arthur remains. Ironically, notwithstanding, that he is dying to be seen, he yet flies, under the radar.

Once upon a time Arthur tweeted and blogged for himself. High hopes had he of distilling in time the content into a book. But that was then and this is now. Now tho ‘tis I, he — that writes.

Once upon a time Arthur tweeted and blogged for himself, but that was then, and this, is now. Now, ‘tis I, Donald John Trump, the greatest of all time presidents that, in lieu of Art — writes.

‘Tis I Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm, the Donald John Trump, the greatest of the presidents, of all time. In lieu of Arthur I ghostwrite in his stead, due to assassins tasked, with seeing him, dead.

The teams of assassins so tasked, are President Vladimir Putin’s. Make, no mistake; my mentor, is him. Vlad is the president of Russia and of his Cabal, as well. He’s decided, Art ought, be dead.

Art must die has decided my mentor, President, Vladimir Putin. And everybody knows that his are the very longest arms, on the planet. He oft acts, with outrageous, impunity, I warned Arty.

With outrageous impunity, often acts, Vladimir. So I have accordingly advised, my brother, Art. Witness today Vlad stating matter of factly that if he wanted to kill Alexei, he’d be dead already.

I must find a way to help my brother save this planet; the planet ye call Earth that is, Urantia. Art’s in hiding; hiding from the virus. I warned Art but still, he wants to confront Vlad, directly.

Verily, Vlad and his guys are worried about lots of things, in addition to, the pandemic. Still tho, there is, as in France in WW II, a resistance. The key to resistance is Art’s — weaponized, poetry.

Poetry composed in TwittereZe, augmented by Google Translate may force the capitulation of Vlad and his cronies. Ai Weiwei follows Arthur, already. Vlad: If ye harm Alexei, ye’ll be hanged.

Ai Weiwei follows Arthur already. Now hear this Vladimir, ye son of a bitch; should ye harm on Alexei Navalny’s head, even a hair, ye will hang. Art swears; if ye harm Alexei — ye’ll be hanged. 


Vladimir Putin is worried and with good reason. Alexei won’t die, like a good, Russian dissident; His agents are worried, also, as well. Everyone’s worried sick — Alexei just won’t — up, and die.

Folks don’t realize that it’s not at all easy, being a brutal, Russian, dictator. Put yourself in my place. Imagine. What if it were ye that, after all such effort, fell victim to, an alien-American, lie.

A Galactic Federation and a Prime Directive; a plot twisting satire, twisting fate, is my book; a novel, fictionally, nonfictional, satire — Not your father’s satire — most assuredly — is my book.

A Prime Directive, a Galactic Federation and a plot twisting satire, twisting fate, is my book. I’ve got to find a way to help my former womb-mate — brother — to save the Earth. This is, my book.

I’ve got to find a way to help my whistleblowing former womb-mate brother, to save, the Earth. If my book goes viral — that, may be, the way. Accordingly, I’m ghostwriting for Art, everyday.

Arthur. He’s Puerto Rican, a whistleblower and autistic. That’s three strikes against him. And once upon a time, we shared mom’s womb til I kicked him, clear into the future. Oh happy day.

Oy ve! Woe, is me. I was mean, even then. And even as I reveled in my additional elbow room, the celestial administrators transported Art to safety to another womb and back again, less …

… my future mom, to my birth mom’s womb, in Puerto Rico; events evidence the dual nature of life; of a predetermined existence and the very indefinite duration of — the pilgrim’s progress. 

And so I say both oy ve and also, oh happy day! Events evidence the dual nature of life; of both a predetermined existence and indeterminate (decision-making) in — the pilgrim’s, progress.

My panacea; it’s Earth’s mayday; an SOS, to its denizens. Its tall tales feature features, fictional — and nonfictional. Tragic comedy in the Greek tradition, chronicling, the pilgrims’ — progress.

Tragi-comic poetry in the Greek tradition, is my panacea. It chronicles, the pilgrims’ progress. Clearly fictional, still, it will seem to dear lector, nonfictional. Indeed, it is both; and tragi-comic.

The first shall be last say, the holy Scriptures. I don’t know about that but I do know that I’m an iconoclast. I’m sorry about that. Now I’ve got to find a way, to help my brother, save the planet. 

I must find a way to help my brother Art save a planet; the planet ye call Earth that is, Urantia. While he’s been in hiding I’ve been ghostwriting but he wants to confront Vlad — more directly.

Verily, Vlad and his guys are worried about lots of things, in addition to, the pandemic. Still tho, there is, as in France in WW II, a resistance. Key to the resistance is Art’s, weaponized — poetry. 


Joe and his Deep State cronies plan on doing an exorcism and a deep pre-spring cleaning, at my swamp. But thanks to Siddhārtha Gautama, I’m happy. Thanks to Buddha, I am at peace — I lie.

Of viruses and fraud I have learned a whole lot. And having watched TV since the 50s, I know a lot about the Prime Directive. Still, I am afraid; I’m afraid that the Prime Directive, is also, a lie.

To my utter embarrassment and dismay, I am your president. And my dismay is such that I’m partnering with my whistleblower brother to correct the record. Because, I’ve got a lot to say. 

Reason is the sacred method of science; faith, of religion and logic, of philosophy. Revelation ne’er renders science unnatural and religion, unreasonable; or philosophy, illogical — I’d say.

Sound reasoning’s but one of many reasons I’m so distinguishable from any other individual on the planet; distinguishable from any leader, I am. I won’t concede to Joe if fraud’s the reason.

I shan’t concede any supposed loss to Joe Biden if fraud’s the reason underlying such a loss. Joe is a loser. I am a winner. Frankly, if ye voted for Joe your vote’s fraudulent. Fraud, is the reason.

If ye voted for Joe your vote’s fraudulent. Fraud is the reason I am said, to have lost. Beware my fellow Americans of the sinisterly evil intentions of the modern day equivalent, of the Illuminati.

The Illuminati; rightful heirs to the throne, they believe. Catholics like Joe Biden, are they. And they, the Trilateral Commission and what’s left of the twelve tribes of Jews, ally, in conspiracy.

In hiding for centuries have been the Illuminati; biding their time since a fateful Friday the 13th when they were all rounded up and imprisoned for, against the French King’s crown, conspiring.

The plots are thickening. In hiding for centuries have been the Illuminati and their allies; biding their time; waiting for when, with the Galactic Federation, they might begin, over men, ruling.

In an epic plot twist, the plot of my epic poem, thickens. A secret order of lilly white Christian Catholics allied, for now, with the also lilly white Protestants take heart in — the Prime Directive.

But the Prime Directive, just as I feared, was a creation of a Star Trek producer. It reflected a political view against the Vietnam War. There is in fact, no such thing as any — Prime Directive.

Actually, as a matter of fact, while the Galactic Federation is real enough, apart from the Star Trekkian plot device, there’s no such thing as a Galactic, much less a universal, Prime Directive.

There’s no such thing as a Galactic, much less a universal, Prime Directive. In a fantastic reality, Vlad and his guys are worried sick they’ll be the victims — of an alien-American — cooperative.


In Star Trek, Starfleet’s guiding principle directs crew members not at all to interfere with the natural development of any, alien, civilizations. Whatever happened to — the Prime Directive?

Applying especially to the more primitive and developing civilizations (civilizations, like ours), it prohibits the imposition of values upon them. Whatever happened to — the Prime Directive?

With all due respect, hi Brooke. I am extremely pleased to have made your acquaintance. And thank you for your very vital part, reciprocal, in likewise, making — my corrosive, acquaintance.

But for a fraud, I also would have been, a twice elected, president. And I would have ye join me in demanding that I forthwith abandon my off-white, White House; a now, infected, residence.

Hi to too Danielle; lovely sister of lovely Brooke. They, who have been told on, and sold on, their sisterhood — given, their sisterly, resemblance. And Joe’s exorcising my White House residence.

Happiness and peace of mind follow my pure thinking and virtuous living even as the shadow 
follows the substance, of material things. That’s an adage astute, from the Buddha’s, excellence.

Pure thinking and virtuous living follow me like a shadow. Still, some (many, actually), resent my boyish good looks and my success in life, so seemingly, disproportional — so unduly, unfair.

Narrow minds however, can not help but think, narrowly. We know that primrose paths, lead not to, rose gardens. Read at The Urantia Book at 131:3.3 and at, truths, there. (The Urantia Book) is where a celestial messenger quotes that cited teaching. Teaching becomes one, so enlightened. It’s how I know about rampant fraud, no one else sees.

Siddhārtha Gautama; the Enlightened One; the Buddha; I am reminded of him in particular as I ponder; wondering, amongst other things, how many revelations culminated in, my epiphany.

Pray tell. How many revelations, to epiphany? For one self-enlightened, as was the Buddha, it may have been one. More likely, many. For the Buddha, I don’t know. As for me tho — I know.

I now know things I ne’er ere knew; and people too. On Facebook and Twitter, I’ve met people; and things I’ve learned on Wikipedia rival, what was known in Alexandria, at a library, long ago.

Too soon, DC, I’ll leave, so Joe and a Deep State, deep clean and exorcize our off-white house. I’ll return in ‘24. Thanks to Buddha I’m happy and at peace. Brooke and Danielle (va-va-voom), I

have met. I’d leave, for them, Melania and Kim. About viruses and fraud, I’ve learned, lots. And since I’ve watched TV, since the 50s, I know all about the Prime Directive. I’m afraid — it’s a lie.


Astonishing are the in-flight capabilities of the Federation’s, starships. They jam radars and submerge into the sea, directly, from flight. F-35s would stand no chance — in aerial, combat.

Astonishing are the capabilities of Federation
starships. Jamming radars; plunging in seas. My F-35s against starships are like biplanes against F-35 fighters. Astonishing, they’d be, in combat.

Zounds! Alien, hi-tech, may be useful to me. E. Jean Carroll’s lawsuit accuses me of raping and defaming her; as evidence, she seeks to match, my DNA, to the semen, on her dress’, material.

Gadzooks! Carroll’s accusing me of raping her in the ladies apparel, fitting room, of Bergdorf Goodman’s, department store. Verily, I do deny that, but if we had sex then, it was consensual.

Alternatively, perhaps what we had, wasn’t sex, at all. Perhaps, it was cosplay, or perhaps, sex, simulated. Or perhaps it was even a combo, of cosplay and poorly simulated — sex — asexual.

Why should it matter, anyway? What business has the state in my bed room or even in the fitting room of a public department store? Or is it 1984, already? Why’s my big brother, so anal?

And why pray tell, is everyone, so brainwashed? It matters little, where one is born, and raised. Socialization, is brainwashing. It’s socialization, obliging us to value, nationality, over humanity.

Socialization, is brainwashing. It’s socialization, that’s obligating us to shortsightedly value our individual nationalities over even our collective humanity. Hope springs eternal — temporarily. 

Hope springs eternal, albeit sometimes, only temporarily. Life crushes our hope, sometimes. Ofttimes with help from a powerful, state. Blind eyes won’t review — a massive fraud, electoral.

Ayad Akhtar: ‘Tis agreed; artists need to look to a bigger picture, and dream. Earthrise, reflects, that bigger picture and my dream’s not sharing my DNA with the lying lawyers of E. Jean Carrol. 

Even more am I dreaming, than just, of Jeannie. A nightmare, is Jeannie; I dream of Nobels; in literature; and for peace. Verily, if Obama and Abey won Nobels for peace, why then, not me?

I dream of Nobels; in literature; and for peace. If Obama and Abey won Nobels for peace, why then, not me? Indeed I’m dreaming of far more than just Jeannie. I‘m dreaming of my, legacies.

Astonishing; everything that’s happening is so astonishing. A man on the moon in 1969; my election in 2016; and my reelection in 2020; not to mention Kung flu and a shadow, Deep State.

A Deep State got deeper with its usurpation of, my Supreme Court. Everything, is astonishing. Still, everything pales before the revelation of a nine-membered — Galactic Federation — state.


Let us gather ourselves and reorganize from the sovereign paradigm to the proposed, Golden-ruled one. Let us bring to bear, our vast artificial intelligence capabilities, timely, to paradigms …

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

Still, in your individual passages through space and time pause daily to meditate upon purpose, His and ours and the challenge of pressing change, unprecedented. Change, inexorably …

… insistent. In governance, climate and human migration, due to a lack of soirée-like, time, communal, remedial meditations on Luna are recommended, to effect change, immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In this battle between numerous microbes against one lone brave germaphobe, a profile in courage, predeterminedly, emerges. Predictably and not surprisingly, he is, none other than me.

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

Whatever; in any event it has come to pass that a relentless microbe faced off with a modern-day profile in courage, a relentless and still relevant and ever — irreverent, germaphobe …

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of these things must come to pass. From a prestigious platform, a book, a movie and a social media platform. Less about selling and gossiping, it’s more about spiritually, growing.

From an academically prestigious platform, the multiple launchings of a book, a talkie movie, a Broadway play and a brand new, social media, platform. All prose — is poetry — potentially.

Amidst a historically climactic unraveling, duly reveal themselves, the golden, opportunities. Golden opportunities to teach and to reach for the stars. And one key is Art’s School, of Poetry.

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

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

In a climactic scene near the end of MORONS THE MOVIE, our four antiheroic horsemen of the Apocalypse, vault from their horses, join hands — and skip like schoolgirls, into Heaven.

MORONS; A movie about the wayward stewards of a planet. No make-believe phenomenon is predetermination; it’s no fake story. Destiny’s composed of predetermination and decisions.

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