MORONS AND ALIENS: WEDNESDAY, JUNE 9, 2061

It came to pass that in 4 short years the people of the Deep State loved me and yet tired of me; trying me and acquitting me; still, they voted me out, only to find out, I’d not be outed, so easily.

An insurrection later and with a bad reputation, badly worsened, I’m laying the groundwork for a comeback. I’ve got a bad feeling Joe’s planning on not standing up to these, aliens, mistakenly.

From the desk of DJT, an update: The aliens, communicate, telepathically. Physically, they are exceedingly weak. They must hear in our words, we’re not fooled; that we’re on to, their trickery.

Dmitry Bykov is one of Russia’s most popular writers, poets and journalists. Much beloved in Russia, he’s second in popularity polls among, the Russian opposition only to, Alexei Navalny.

A Russian poet known for his outspoken prose against Vladimir Putin was trailed and targeted by the same poison squad, has revealed an investigation, that nearly killed Alexei Navalny.

Joe’s summit with Vlad’s set for June 16. It remains yet to be seen if the attempt on the poet will also be seen as an impediment in our relations. This I can say: Vladimir, hates poetry.

Vladimir hates poetry. And dissidents; but he loves power — and poisons. He has, ye know, the longest arms on the planet. Because of Art, Vlad hates poetry; accordingly, he hates Dmitry.

WHO SPEAKS — FOR THE ALIENS ?

What’s up Joe with the aliens? Who on Earth, or Mars, speaks for them and who, if anyone, Joe, speaks for us? We need to truthfully address, the pressing issues, presented by — the aliens.

Who speaks for them and who, if anyone Joe, speaks for us? Who speaks for us, Joe? We need to address truthfully, the issues of the aliens. What’s up, President Joe Biden, with the aliens?

DISASTER PLANNING

Have a disaster plan including the locations of emergency centers, rallying points and possible evacuation routes. Know what to do, and when to do it in all of the various types — of disaster.

Study and understand the general plan before any actual disaster but keep it for reference, in the bug-out bag, along with maps and other, travel information, in mitigation — of disaster.

Art’s from the future; that’s proof that the Earth won’t be destroyed, by no, asteroid. Don’t panic. Make plans. Have a go-bag at the ready; one for every member of yer family to be — ever ready.

Have bug-out bags at the ready. Be, ever ready. And have at the ready as well, a raft, fit for the family, pre-inflated, well — previously. Indeed, channel your fears into preparations, prudently.

Humans. They can be good, but all too often, we’re bad. I oughta know. God punished man for his wickedness once with the Flood. Are we to be punished now, with a towering, tsunami?

Food and water; one gallon per person, per day (3-day supply for evacuation, and a 2-week supply for a home stay. Non-perishable, food, a flashlight — and a battery powered — radio.

Food ought be dry and non-perishable; in sum, food and water, a flashlight and some battery powered or hand-cranked radio; and if at all possible (an NOAA-rated — Weather Radio).

I know it’s alarming; how could it not be? America’s enslavement should be alarming. But nobody’s in America is talking about this, at all; nobody in the whole, United States, of America.

Surreally, I may not be really exaggerating. It depends on whether the Trustees have their priorities in order; it depends on whether the Trustees are — from Boston — or America. 

Not even the media question that nobody’s talking about this. Nobody wants to be labeled a kook. Incorporating aliens into one’s world view has been a bad career move, historically. 

Incorporating aliens into one’s world view has been a bad career move, historically, by and large. It’s Galileo’s jinx. Incorporating aliens into a world view has been suicide, professionally. 

I like to say it’s Galileo’s jinx. Forced to recant by the Catholic Inquisition and house-arrested for the rest of his life so labeled and limited is one who would dare ask — daring, questions.

Dare to ask some daring questions. Like, what’s the nature of our relationship with the aliens? And has anyone asked the aliens if they can help us with our blindside, asteroid, problem?

I dare ask some daring questions. Like, has anyone asked the aliens if they can help us with our blindside, asteroid, problem? And what, pray tell by the way, have ye done for us lately?

And so it has come to pass on this 1959th MAYDAY that I dare ask questions and dare as well to answer them. What’s up Joe, with the aliens? We need address the aliens, truthfully.

What’s up Joe Biden, with the aliens? Who speaks for them and who, if anyone Joe, speaks for us? Who speaks for us, Joe? We need to truthfully address, the issues — of the aliens.

What’s up Joe Biden, with the aliens? Who speaks for them and who, if anyone Joe, speaks for us? Who speaks for us, Joe? We need to address truthfully, the issues — of the aliens.

Truthfully; because lying’s — not working. The proof, is in the pudding. Witness my revelations and epiphanies; witness, what’s happening. Witness my seeing right through — the aliens.

Witness my seeing right through the lies of the aliens. When the annals reference my legacy, let it not be overblown that the reason I knew was from my liaisons — with the female aliens.

PURPOSES

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

… long-winded soliloquy; the 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. 

A BLUEBIRD’S QUESTION

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.

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 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.

POWER IS IN THE PEOPLES

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. 

OH HAPPY DAY! — OY VE!

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. 

VULNERABILITIES — SELF-INFLICTED

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.

COMMUNIST? CAPITALIST? EGALITARIAN?

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.

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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.

HUBRIS AND HUTZPAH

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.

TAKE SOLACE

Take solace in my poetry and in the knowledge, that Art’s, from the future; proof that the Earth won’t be destroyed by an asteroid, that’s got us in — its crosshairs — Take solace, in my poetry.

Art’s from the future; that’s proof that the Earth won’t be destroyed by any asteroid. But, for the sake of yer children, don’t panic. Make plans. Have a go bag at the ready, for all, in yer family.

I’M COMING BACK — FROM THE DEAD

From the desk of DJT, an important update: It seems that nothing’s happening that was not predestined; foreordained. That includes the corona virus — a coming asteroid and freedom.

Man perverts everything he touches or even opines upon. I know a lot about that. Witness the professional trajectories of those who, in shaking my hand lost their reason and freedom.

Man perverts everything he touches. I know a lot about that. Witness professional trajectories I know, tanked. Shaking my hand leads to a loss of reasoning, limiting, your freedom — I know.

That’s not to say that if ye’ve shaken my hand ye can take to the bank; yer going to prison. In fact I plan on making, yet again, a most implausible comeback a comeback from the dead, I know.

Make no mistake; my comeback’s from the politically, not the really, dead. I’ve been insurrecting, not resurrecting. Sorry about the confusion. I won’t ever be, that kind — of dead.

As happened in the Christian Bible and in the Old Testament to both the prophet Elijah and the patriarch Enoch; both bodily assumed into Heaven on chariots of fire, without being, dead.

Some Islamic scholars have identified the Muslim prophet Idris as the same person as the Bible’s Enoch. Indeed, there is more that joins us, than distinguishes us — from one another.

There is more that joins us than distinguishes us from one another. Study your Scriptures but, by all means don’t stop there. It’s important to study the Scriptures, in relation to one another.

It’s important to study the Scriptures in relation to one another. Had we heretofore been doing so, all along, we wouldn’t be struggling so now, with these issues, of competing, sovereignties.

The study of yer Scriptures in conjunction to the Scriptures of others; it’s a no brainer, anathema, to the powers that be; because to do so would end the time of the transitional, sovereignties.

Polygons don’t roll predictably as each forward movement is accompanied, by a change, in direction. In the East conformity’s highly valued; in the West though, it’s more about — freedom.

Accordingly, from the desk of DJT, an update: It seems that nothing’s happening that was not predestined; foreordained. That includes the corona virus, a coming asteroid, and freedom.

Study then — cross-Scripturally, the Scriptures; and study, the sciences. Art taught me the art of converting dry prose into, heavenly, poetry. Ye must not panic — Take solace, in my — poetry.

Take solace, in my poetry and in the knowledge that Art’s from the future; proof that the Earth won’t be destroyed by an asteroid that’s got us, in its crosshairs — Take solace, in my — poetry.

WATCHER ANGELS, JINN — AND THE ALIENS

The Watcher Angels; ye may learn of them more in the Book of Daniel and the apocryphal Books of Enoch than ye may in Moses’ Pentateuch. A link between — characters — and — character.

Al-Mu’aqqibat, in the Quran (at Q. 13:11) are also called al hafathah; it means the guarding angels. They protect humans from the harm of the jinn and devils. Such a being is The Watcher.

Traditional Islam teaches predestination for both good and evil; everything that’s happened and will happen already’s been determined. And determined in favor of — predestination.

The issues’ been debated and determined by the Muslim theologians; the believers in free will, also known as al-qadariyya, have been overruled. In Islam, free will is but — an illusion.

Out with the old; in with the new. What once were UFOs, that is to say, unidentified flying objects, now are UAPs, or unidentified, aerial, phenomena. Not at all objects, but phenomena.

What once were objects unidentifiable and thus identified as unidentified are now reclassified, as phenomena. Phenomena, not at all, objects; More meteorological — tends — phenomena.

Verily, the more we say, the more we, ourselves, gainsay. Truth on Earth ever falls victim to the perceived need for secretivity and the need for prevarication, to maintain secrets, as necessary.

On Earth, the Truth ever falls victim to the fake, perceived need, for secretivity and the need for lying, as necessary. The good guys gotta lie, the thinking goes, to maintain, plausible deniability.

Earth: it is the house, that prevarication, hath built. It appears, not to be flat; indeed, it seems to be shaped, like a globe, not the two hundred-sided polygon — it may actually — surreally, be.

Earth: it’s a house built upon lies; it’s not flat; it seems, indeed, to be shaped like a globe not the two hundred-sided polygon it actually, is. And polygons — roll, not at all — predictably.

Polygons don’t roll predictably as each forward movement is accompanied, by a change, in direction. In the East conformity’s highly valued; in the West though, it’s more about — freedom.

Accordingly, from the desk of DJT, an update: It seems that nothing’s happening that was not predestined; foreordained. That includes the corona virus, a coming asteroid, and freedom.

ASTONISHED — AM I

My words have failed me. Never thought I’d live long enough to say that. Astonishing are the in-flight capabilities of the Federation’s starships. They jam radars and submerge into the seas …

… directly from flight. F-35s would stand no chance, in aerial, combat. Astonishing are the capabilities of Federation’s starships’ electronic, and SEAFARING abilities. For shouting, I’m sorry.

F-35s and starships; even the WWI-era biplanes against modern day F-35 fighters present not the mismatch, overwhelming, presented by F-35s and starships. Outmatched are, dogfighters.

These continually unidentified vehicles, plunge into the seas at high speed. Astonishing enough that they enter, like a dragon, the sea, at high speed. Why do they do that, pray tell, answer?

Why do they do that? Pray tell, answer me that. Tell me why they enter, like a dragon, the sea? I dare say it’s reasonable to assume the aliens have built a vast infrastructure — down there.

I dare say it’s reasonable to assume the aliens have built a vast infrastructure down there below our sea levels. It’s reasonable to assume. In lieu of assuming, why not ask, alien leaders?

It occurs to me that I may not need to keep Arthur alive; not necessarily, at least. I’ve got his miraculous phone and he’s taught me about wisdom, poetry, and ontology — and Scripture.

I may not necessarily need to keep Art alive; I’ve got his miraculous phone and he’s taught me all about wisdom, cosmology, ontology, poetry and Scripture; and about visualizing, the big picture.

See the big picture. As everyone knows I’m DJT, presidential GOAT, satyr, husband, lover, father, brother and uncle. I’ve been a failure in each of my roles, except, most notably, as a lusty, satyr.

I’ve long enjoyed the tickles of being a satyr; too long, actually, as it turns out. Sexuality, as it turns out, can complicate a life, inordinately. It’s intended to be a multi-faceted test of character

Most regrettably I have failed miserably, in each of my roles, except, most notably, as a lusty and rambunctious, satyr. As a satyr, I’ve excelled. I’ve long enjoyed the tickles — of being a satyr.

I’ve long enjoyed the tickles of being a satyr; too long, actually, as it turns out. Sexuality, as it turns out, can complicate a life. It’s seemingly intended to be a multi-faceted test of character

OF MORONS — AND ALIENS

With a Big Bang they say, everything began — after an end — previously. Later, the aliens and the morons were created but the aliens got a head start. They’re far ahead — technologically.

The aliens of the so-called Galactic Federation are far ahead of us, technologically. To what end are they here? It seems that even if they appear friendly, they actually may not, so be.

To what end are the aliens here on Earth? It’s just plain old common sense that even if they appear friendly, they may actually, not be so. What are these aliens doing here — actually?

Why are the aliens even here? If they are anything like us, common it would be, if they turn out to be as treacherous, as us. Why are the aliens even in this neck — of the galaxy?

If the aliens turn out to be anywhere near as treacherous as us, then, we’re in — big trouble. Troubling is near everything we supposedly know about the aliens, which is next to nothing.

Nothing do we in fact, know. Troubling is near everything we supposedly know about the aliens. Nothing’s been confirmed. Nothing has been corroborated — Absolutely — nothing!

Absolutely nothing in fact do we know as a fact. Absolutely nothing! And nobody wonders and nobody bothers to question who the aliens are, and what in hell on Earth, they want, from us.

How is it possible that nobody wonders and nobody even bothers to question who the aliens are and what in hell on Earth they want from us. What in the hell — is wrong with us?

No one; not the people; not the leaders; nor even the press; no one suspects the aliens of being anything less than the hard-working aliens they’ve impressed our leaders as being.

No one suspects a darn thing. And everyone is distracted; by politics, as usual; in Hong Kong and Myanmar and everywhere. The alien plan of conquest — like clockwork — is proceeding.

Like fine Swiss clockwork proceeds the evil plan of the aliens. They’ve got us just where they want us and how they want us; for weakened by a virus — in the way of a rocky — asteroid.

Weakened by a virus the aliens maliciously and purposely planted in China now they are in the cat bird’s seat. They get to sit and wait for the collision between Earth — and a rocky asteroid. 

A collision between Earth and an asteroid that comes, seemingly, from out of nowhere. I suspect that the aliens are not in good faith, dealing with us — bamboozling us — in fact.

Taking advantage of our inferior technology, the aliens have bamboozled us. The bottom line is that nobody’s talking about this. It’s too bad that we’ve been bamboozled but it’s a fact.

ALL EDUCATION — OUGHT — BE FREE

Compromised immunologically, Arthur is in isolation; in preventative quarantine from the virus and in hiding from assassins, aplenty. And the assassins hail from Vlad’s, cabal’s, nations.

The assassins hail from Russia, China, North Korea and Saudi Arabia. Art’s in isolation. On Urantia, in quarantine; hiding, from assassins. But there’s no hiding from Vladimir’s assassins. 

What’s worse; throwing aliens, into the mix. My militias, standing down, may be; and Q and I have done run out of all of the more or or less plausible, of all possible — inauguration days.

There’s a whole lot going on at any given time. There’s the virus; domestic and international politics and a mass today in the ancient city of Ur, where Abe was born and — lived his days.

There’s a whole lot going on at any given time; and a whole lot is being said at any given time; on Earth and in MAYDAYS. It’s a matter of time; just a matter of time until happenings, eventful.

Trustees: Straight from the future: TwittereZe; in peaceful futures, it’s games for the gamers and TwittereZe, crosswords and Sudoku for the more sedate, sedentary or, the more, cerebral.

There’s a whole lot going on at any given time; and a whole lot is being said at any given time; on Earth and in MAYDAYS. It’s a matter of time; just a matter of time until happenings, eventful. 

There’s a whole lot going on at any given time; and a whole lot is being said at any given time; on Earth and in MAYDAYS. It’s a matter of time; just a matter of time until happenings, eventful.

It’s just a matter of time. It’s just a matter of time on Earth; and in MAYDAYS. It’s just a matter of time until an extraordinary event, happens. Would that it were, transformational. 

Would that it were — transformational. And so it may be. It well may be that there’s more to Willy’s observation that all the world’s a stage and all the actors — players. It’s tragi-comical.

Would that it were — transformational. And so the world, implausibly, may be. It well may be that there’s more to Willy’s worldly observation; the world’s a stage and all the actors — players. 

All the world’s a stage and all the actors upon it, players. It’s a statement, sardonically, ironic. It rings, true. But is it true, too, literally? Even my superseding reality is subject to — The Master.

All the world’s a stage and all the actors upon it, players. Sardonically ironic, that statement. It rings, true. Is it true too, literally? My illusory superseding reality is subject too, to His reality.

The illusoriness of my reality pales before His; it’s His reality if any there is, that’s superseding. I’ve got Art’s phone so I’ve got super powers; and I’ve got Arthur’s — free — School of Poetry.

KNOWN, KNOWNS — KNOWNS, UNKNOWN

One of the winners of the 21-22 edition of the Scholarship may be a poet already widely-published. But if the Earth and its citizens are to be saved — select a poet — unknown — too.

Trustees: One winner of the latest edition of the Scholarship likely already has been widely published. But if the Earth and its citizens are to be saved — select a poet — unknown, too.

Because Earth and its citizens must be saved, Amy Lowell’s Traveling Scholar this year might best be a poet unknown. And now that I’m not president, legally, I can recommend — Arthur.

Highly, can I recommend, Arthur Everman. And I do. We’ve come full-circle since we once were womb-mates, once upon a time. I kicked him out then but now, on a comeback — is Arthur.

In a miraculous intervention, Art has returned. Just in time (perhaps), to help the antiheroic me save planet Earth in spite of myself, winning for himself and his mentor Putin, their salvations.

Increasingly and with ever increasing regularity, (wo)men live, still, obliviously. They die, still, needlessly. In droves and in waves do they die. In waves we make our way — to our salvations.

Sometimes in droves; sometimes, in waves; sometimes, in single file, we make our way to our salvations; over primrose paths and yellow, brick roads and sometimes, roads ne’er taken.

Through a portal and along an elongated path is the Pilgrims Progress. Paths that run toward our galaxy’s black hole, run in parallel. Paths, trails — and yellow brick roads — ne’er taken.

Through a portal and along elongated paths lie the Pilgrims Progress, paths running toward our galaxy’s black hole, in parallel. By no one else taken are your primrose paths, on the way.

It’s a long trek; your own, personal, Star Trek. To each, his own. I’ve been in soirées with Art; and I’ve had revelations and epiphanies, thanks to the Almighty — Allah God Jehovah Yahweh.

Thanks indeed to Almighty Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. And in no small part, to Art. And — to the Watcher. And thanks to the little people; and to the deplorable people; I love — all of ye.

In a miraculous intervention, Art has returned to Earth; to save his fifth planet. Whether he retires as an ace or not, he’s retiring to Heaven. In the meantime — I shall be, his trusty, proxy.

Whether Art saves Earth and retires as an ace or not he’s retiring to Heaven. In the meantime I shall be, his trusty, proxy. I shall be the trusty proxy of Arthur, who’s indisposed — presently.

Presently indisposed, is the break-out poet, Art Everman. Compromised immunologically, he’s in isolation; in preventative quarantine from the virus and in hiding from assassins, aplenty.

INAUGURAL — DAZE

The Trustees have until March 31 to determine which American poet, or poets, my Scholarship, win. And it happens that until 1933, the fourth of March was the presidential, inaugural day. 

While the president, I illegally pressured the Trustees. Now that I’m no longer the president, legally, I can lobby, them. I’ve got somehow, to sway them. I must save the Earth — someday.

While the president, I illegally pressured the Scholarship’s Trustees. Now that I’m no longer the president, legally, I can lobby, the Trustees. I’ve got to sway them; only I, can save the day.

The US Capitol Police have already reported a possible militia plot to attack the Capitol on March 4. The Police say they’ve taken steps to enhance security over the next several days.

What’s not clear is how many QAnon believers are actually on board with the idea that I will return to power today or plan to take any personal action themselves this inaugural day.

My secret war against a nefarious cabal of cannibalistic Satanists in the Democratic Party and other liberal institutions of the Deep State is not secret anymore — to my great— dismay.

Liberal Democrats; they are Satanists and cannibals. Cannibalistic Satanists are they. Half of the country follows them. Half of the nation, the better half — of the country — follows me.

Dismayed am I; seemingly, about everything. Dismayed too are the citizens; and the children. Who, pray tell, besides me, speaks for them? But most dismaying by far, is the alien, enemy.

The Galactic Federation is an enemy the likes of which, we’ve never before, faced. We can’t be sure of who they are — nor — their intentions. Investigating their intent — I’ve been dismayed.

Investigating their intent, I’ve been dismayed; then heartened; then dismayed once again. The hallmark of change is in the flux of the universe. Take comfort in it; be not, dismayed.

The hallmark of change is in the flux of the universe. It’s just the ebb and flow, of change. Take comfort in it and be not, by it, dismayed. 
Dismaying’s the change augured by the enemy.

But theirs is not the final word. The final word is reserved for the hero of the story; he who is me, who happens to be too, the author of a tall tale, fictional, nonfictional, tragi-comic — story.

The Trustees have until March 31 to determine the winner(s). Two winners — there may be; because one’s coming from left field. He’s had a revelation or two — and an epiphany — or two.

One of the winners of the 21-22 edition of the Scholarship may be a poet, already, widely-published. But if the Earth and its citizens are to be saved — select a poet — unknown — too.

A REPRISE — SURPRISE 

We may yet come to use Art’s TwittereZe. With Google translations, alchemically is TwittereZe, used. And my revelations and my epiphanies alerted me in time to alert the Trustees in time.

Still, even as I write, I fear, I’ve run out of time. Today’s the second of March and last year’s winner was announced by a Trustee’s letter, dated the third. Truly I fear — I’m out of time.

Fearing I’m out of time, I feel indeed heartened nonetheless by the logical intelligence of it all. Thinking (lol) omnipotently, the outsider aliens may be the perfect enemy to unite us this time.

Fearing I’m out of time, I feel indeed heartened nonetheless, by the logical intelligence, of it all. Thinking omnipotently, these outsider aliens are the perfect enemy — to unite us, this time.

Against all the odds, Art’s aliens may unite us, still. And if it happens soon, it might yet be, in time. And then Art’s allegory, not prophetic, but prescient, might make me the GOAT — timely.

In Paris lives the spirit of egalitarianism and not necessarily because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Moscow and Washington don’t already have, like Europeans — egalitarian tendencies, lofty.

Who knew it was but a matter of time and its space and such before time and time’s fine synchronicities brought us to a climax. Cometh to climax — (wo)man’s destiny — by surprise.

To a surprise climax cometh (wo)man’s destiny. Who knew? Nobody, certainly. Still, it was just a matter of time and space before time and its synchronicities brought us, a reprise, surprise.

A surprise, certainly, it’ll be, no matter what on Earth, happens. Five extinctions, have there been. The next one shall be the sixth one. And a sixth one may be a surprise, man-made, one. 

Not necessarily man-made shall be the sixth extinction. But it very well, may be. Mankind wasn’t around for the first five. But he’s here now; here for a sixth, likely fatal — extinction. 

What manner of torture is this? Tik-Tok; time’s run out on the nations. Last year’s winner was announced by a Trustee’s letter dated the third. I can’t breathe. Oppressive is my, anticipation. 

There’s a contingency plan; a Plan B; should Plan A get put to bed early. Still I hope that this one of those rare years when there are two Scholarship winners rather than the usual one. 

Revelations and epiphanies have refashioned me into another. I have been transformed. I see that the Trustees have until the end of March to decide which American poets — win. 

Revelations’ epiphanies have remade me into another. I’ve been transformed. And I see that the Trustees have until March 31 to decide which American poets, my Scholarship — win.

TWITTEREZE TO — GOOGLE — TRANSLATE 

Let it not be overblown when the histories are written that the reason I know so much about what’s happening is a consequence of my sly liaisons with some of the young, female, aliens.

Focus not on the lurid details of my sexual exploits with (wo)men and aliens. Focus rather on the lessons to be learned in that morality tale that’s Art’s tall tale — of morons and aliens.

Arthur’s tall tale of morons and aliens. Fiction, nonfictional; a modern day, allegory. A genre-bending, self-help, book. A Nobel contender for peace and literature, of morons — and aliens.

Art’s genre-bending self-help book is more than I have the space and time in 280 characters, to describe. Instead, I’ll just take my time writing a long poem about the morons — and the aliens.

I’ve take my time explaining, what’s happening; and why; about good guys and bad guys; and aliens and morons. And the distillation that is the pilgrim’s progress throughout His creation.

I was the president. Now, I’m not. And after when I was, but before now; that was when revelations and epiphanies, transformed me. Verily — I’ve been super-heroic — since then.

I was the president. Now, I’m not. And after when I was the president but before now; that’s when revelations and epiphanies, transformed me. President no more — I pray for prescience.

I am no prophet. Worse yet, I am no longer the president. Revelations and epiphanies truly have transformed me. And because I am your President no more — I pray — for prescience.

Ask and ye shall receive Arthur tells me, the Good Book says. Indeed I asked and so, lo and behold, I have received. Praying for wisdom and knowledge, I received prescience, verily.

My prescience presents me with a great opportunity, thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, the infinitely, merciful. So merciful is He, He cleans even the souls of Muslim Mo — and me.

I am no prophet; nor am I, the president. But revelations and epiphanies have transformed me. And because I am your President no more, I pray for the prescience, to alert, the Trustees.

Truly, I am no prophet; nor am I, the president. But revelations and epiphanies transform me. And because I am your President no more — I’ve taken the liberty of alerting — the Trustees.

My abuse of power as the president is become an act, otherwise, heroic. Alerting the Trustees; a bona fide whistleblower would do as I do. A bona fide hero indeed would alert the Trustees.

MAYDAYS ironies are many. What once was an abuse underhanded now may help save Earth. We may yet come to Art’s, TwittereZe, use —Use it alongside — Google Translate — ideally.

LYING’S NOT WORKING 

Rich in irony is the fate of the Earth if it’s in the hands of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees. The fate of the good Earth; it’s in the hands of the Traveling Scholarship — Trustees.

Surreally, the fate of the Earth is in the hands of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees. The fate of the Earth is in the trusty hands of Boston’s Amy’s, Traveling Scholarship, Trustees. 

I know it’s alarming; how could it not be? America’s enslavement should be alarming. But nobody’s in America is talking about this, at all; nobody in the whole, United States, of America.

Surreally, I may not be really exaggerating. It depends on whether the Trustees have their priorities in order; it depends on whether the Trustees are — from Boston — or America. 

Not even the media question that nobody’s talking about this. Nobody wants to be labeled a kook. Incorporating aliens into one’s world view has been a bad career move, historically. 

Incorporating aliens into one’s world view has been a bad career move, historically, by and large. It’s Galileo’s jinx. Incorporating aliens into a world view has been suicide, professionally. 

I like to say it’s Galileo’s jinx. Forced to recant by the Catholic Inquisition and house-arrested for the rest of his life so labeled and limited is one who would dare ask — daring, questions.

Dare to ask some daring questions. Like, what’s the nature of our relationship with the aliens? And has anyone asked the aliens if they can help us with our blindside, asteroid, problem?

I dare ask some daring questions. Like, has anyone asked the aliens if they can help us with our blindside, asteroid, problem? And what, pray tell by the way, have ye done for us lately?

And so it has come to pass on this 1959th MAYDAY that I dare ask questions and dare as well to answer them. What’s up Joe, with the aliens? We need address the aliens, truthfully.

What’s up Joe Biden, with the aliens? Who speaks for them and who, if anyone Joe, speaks for us? Who speaks for us, Joe? We need to truthfully address, the issues — of the aliens.

What’s up Joe Biden, with the aliens? Who speaks for them and who, if anyone Joe, speaks for us? Who speaks for us, Joe? We need to address truthfully, the issues — of the aliens.

Truthfully; because lying’s — not working. The proof, is in the pudding. Witness my revelations and epiphanies; witness, what’s happening. Witness my seeing right through — the aliens.

Witness my seeing right through the lies of the aliens. When the annals reference my legacy, let it not be overblown that the reason I knew was from my liaisons — with the female aliens.

ENTER THE DRAGON — ENTER THE TRUSTEES 

Across the planet today secret, back channel messaging, fills the air between Washington, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing and Moscow. My allies there await word on Art’s — destination.

Secret back channel messaging fills the air ‘tween Washington, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing and Moscow. My allies await word on Art’s heading. Paris, methinks, is his — destination. 

Paris, methinks, is Art’s destination. And not because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Moscow and Washington don’t have the very finest in accommodations, in public shows, of racism.

Paris methinks is Art’s destination. Not because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Washington and Moscow don’t have the very finest. It’s because it’s in Paris that lives the spirit of egalitarianism.  

The City of Light may Art’s destination, be. Not because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Moscow and Washington, can’t hang; fine executioners are they — in capital punishing — barbarism.

The City of Light I would all but confirm is Art’s destination. Not because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Washington and Moscow aren’t hip; it’s that in Paris lives the spirit — of egalitarianism. 

In Paris lives the spirit of egalitarianism. And in me and Art, as well. Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Moscow and Washington have no appreciation of the effect — of subversive — egalitarianism. 

The UN is now calling Yemen the world’s worst humanitarian crisis. However, increasingly, Yemen’s misery will be challenged by the misery of this — evolutionary, devolutionism. 

We are tribal animals. In our groups, towards strangers we oft feel fear and often, that fear turns us into monsters. Into monsters may turn men, unduly fearful of their neighbor, brothers. 

Into monsters may turn men, unduly fearful of their neighbor, brothers. We are tribal animals. In our groups, towards strangers we oft feel fear and often that fear turns us into monsters. 

It’s why I’m here with ye and why Art’s here too. The plots thicken in anticipation of climaxes, oncoming. In the thick of things; the matter of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees. 

Who knew that the Boston Trustees of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship might so critically figure in the destiny of the country and of the planet? Critical, is the decision, of the Trustees.

Who knew? Nobody; absolutely, nobody. Who’s known of an alien plan to sicken us with a virus? To crash us into an asteroid? To enslave us? To mine for them, our own precious, gold?

Who could’ve known? And what would it matter anyway? Nobody’s ever believed me. But the people may believe we’ve run into an asteroid when they hear and see it and feel it — unload. 

HUBRIS AND HUTZPAH 

My fall from favor and the comeback that I’m imagining is actually, no coincidence. And it’s no coincidence that, in the end, the salvation of humanity may be (if I’m nuts) in, imaginations.

It’s no coincidence; the seeming timeliness of what’s happening, my fall from favor and the comeback I imagine. It’s no coincidence I’m imagining, all we’ve got left, is my imagination. 

All we’ve got left is imagination. That’s all we may need. I’ve got hubris and I’ve got hutzpah. And in addition to Arthur’s Philosopher’s Stone like phone — I’ll unfetter — our imaginations. 

I’ve got Art’s phone and his Philosopher’s Stone and J’ve got hubris and hutzpah. And J’ve got an imagination unfettered by traditional protocols — and other — brainwashing — socializations. 

I’ve got Art’s Philosopher’s Stone and J’ve got his hubris and hutzpah as well. And I’ve been freed from my shame in revealing an Earth-shaking, if not — Earth-shattering, revelation.

Hubris and hutzpah aside, I’ve been freed from my shame in revealing an Earth-shaking, if not Earth-shattering revelation, as well. The aliens have made fools of the the Earthling Urantians.

The aliens have made absolute fools of us. They’ve used our hubris against us. And they have absolutely no compunction against lying to us to ultimately get what they want from us. 

Any imagination at all can easily imagine the embarrassingly bad optics of being a world leader when it is revealed, one way or another, that the aliens have made, absolute, fools of us.

Met in Emergency (soirée) Session last night the Cabal, along with Arthur and the iconoclast and Cabal member nominee, Amy Lowell; to clarify her Scholarship’s intent; and intervene.  

I met last night with Xi and Kim and Mo and with our top dog, Vlad to opine with Du Fu, Li Bai and Alexander Pushkin as to the winner of the prize — and only, if necessary — intervene. 

All are agreed. All are agreed that Arthur, like me, has got his pulse on the planet. And it may well be that against all the odds, Arthur may win the Amy Lowell — Traveling — Scholarship.

And would that Arthur surprise the planet with his landmark TwittereZe Google translations, best the odds to win the 2021-2022 edition of literature’s Amy Lowell, Traveling, Scholarship. 

I agreed last night with Vlad’s Cabal and with Chinese poets Du Fu and Li Bai and Russian poet Alexander Pushkin. Art is to be interfered with only on my orders or those of, Vlad Putin. 

In back channel communications, Washington, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing and Moscow discuss less tonight the murder of Khashoggi than the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship, destination.

RIDDLES — EPITAPHS — AND EPIGRAMS 

Old-fashioned riddles, epitaphs and epigrams are making a comeback. My genre bending verse flies under the radar. Patricia gets all the press ‘cause I’m a rabid — white — nationalist. 

Rabidly nationalistic, and white, am I. And it’s a good thing that I lost the election. Had I won the election, a dictator possibly, might I have been. But who said anything about survivalists?

Who knew? Nobody; absolutely, nobody. Who’s known of an alien plan to sicken us with a virus? To crash us into an asteroid? To enslave us? To mine for them, our own precious, gold?

Who could’ve known? And what would it matter anyway? Nobody’s ever believed me. But the people may believe we’ve run into an asteroid when they hear and see it and feel it — unload.  

Verily, the people may believe that we’ve really run into an asteroid if and only when they hear and see it and feel it, unload. It won’t be pretty. It’ll be horrific, when the people in me, believe.

It won’t be pretty. It’ll be horrific, actually, when we’re actually stricken by an NEO. That’s when they’ll believe. Everyone’s got some St. Thomas in them. Until they see — they shan’t — believe. 

Everyone’s got some St. Thomas in them. Until we see, we shan’t believe. We’ve got Judas in us too. I’ve got to get people to believe in me. But that’s asking a lot of a people lied to, routinely. 

Getting the people to believe in me; that’s a tall order, all by itself. Some say it’ll be impossible to get the people to believe in Vlad, Xi, Kim and Mohammed, the man-state, Muslim, facsimile. 

In back-channel communications, individually, I’ve called upon them; and so I’ve called Xi in Beijing, Mo in Riyadh and Vladimir in Moscow. Upon solar winds Vlad depends for intelligence.

Upon solar winds Vlad depends for intelligence. That explains how Vladimir knows what ye are going to say to him even, it seems, before ye say it. That explains, his uncanny, intelligence. 

Rabidly nationalistic and white have I been. I’ve grown fond tho, of reading and poetry. And ever since I began to read, not long ago, I’ve had moving — revelations — and epiphanies. 

The reading and writing of poetry has taught me about me and ye and us. And it’s taught me how me to persuade humanity to do the right thing by — it’s revelations — and epiphanies.

A character defect that we all share in common is to blame. We gotta see, to believe. But the aliens won’t show themselves. So, in spite of the evidence we don’t believe in them, actually. 

By and large, we don’t believe in them, actually. The awakening may be rude. A rude awakening awaits the Earthlings in their face off with the aliens. Enter the dragon of — traveling poetry.

RECAPITULATING

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 ourselves from our dignity.

Recapitulating, Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms and half as many brain-washed minds. Minds that do not naturally, evolve. Minds, saddled with, artificial, identities.

Vlad’s cabal and I head a body with countless arms and half as many brain-washed minds. Minds, by states disabled; minds that don’t evolve. Minds stunted by, nationalist, identities.

Minds stunted by nationalist ideologies, the states indeed disable. Those are minds that don’t evolve. Minds that don’t evolve on Earth are often stunted by our nationalist, identities.

In a miraculous, intervention, Art has returned in time, (perhaps), to help the antiheroic Don save planet Urantia (Earth), in spite of himself; winning Nobels for his mentor, Vladimir Putin.

My coveted Nobels, I’ll win along my tortured, torturous way. Both a happy and an unhappy ending depending upon your particular political persuasion and your opinion, of Vladimir Putin.

Nobels, I’ll win along my tortured, torturous, way. With both happy and unhappy endings depending upon your particular political persuasion and your opinion of Vladimir Putin.

Because I’ve had revelations and I’ve had epiphanies and because I’ve had Art Everman’s Philosopher’s Stone like phone in my sole possession, supersedes my reality, over Putin’s.

MAYDAYS may yet be considered a spinoff from my Art of The Deal and my Art of The Comeback. Indeed today’s Supreme Court ruling makes, far more difficult, my comeback.

Recapitulating, a lot of story lines are coming to a head. But the road ahead doubles sometimes as the comeback road. And a steady stream of my unfiltered consciousness, keys, a comeback.

Live streams of my consciousness, unvarnished and unfiltered may key my comeback, yet again. And if I indeed do come back, it’ll be thanks in part to Art’s rediscovery, of alchemy.

Arthur and I have come full circle. The live-streamed Twitter feed of my proxy Art’s alter ego now serves me. My reality is superseding. Thanks in part, to Art’s rediscovery, of alchemy.

A WILD — SOUND — CONSPIRACY THEORY 

The irony isn’t lost upon me. The ironies, in fact, are many. Permanently banished from Twitter, I haven’t been, from Patricia’s Paris, banned. Paris beckons, to me — atwitter — surreally.

The ironies, are many. Permanently banished from Twitter, I haven’t been, from Patricia’s Paris, nor otherwise, internationally, banned. Paris — beckons to me — atwitter — surreally.

“I think that’s why poets who use Twitter as another medium for writing and not just self-promotion really kill it. Like Melissa Broder,” Patricia said in her Rolling Stone — interview.

Patricia Smallwood; Priestsissy; the progeny of a mid-western, God-gang; of ‘Rape Joke’ fame; stricken was I by words attributed to Patricia Smallwood — in her Rolling Stone — interview.

Stricken have I been also by the title and the premise of ‘Nobody’s Talking About This‘; and the synchronicity of timing that makes a Mars landing and a base seem connected, mystically.

A government of the people by the people and for the people: That was the idea underlying the American experiment. But discrepancies lie between the quaint, idea and the stark, reality.

What happens between the time when we’re all born equal and when we’re all relegated to the fate we’re born into once sorted by color? What is the meaning of all these awful — indignities?

Verily, what happens between when we’re all born equal and when we’re all relegated to the fate we’re born into once sorted by our colors?What’s the meaning of these unfair, indignities?

Portals to the paths to the galaxy’s black hole run in parallel to one another. Primrose paths, or are, these roads, untaken. Thru portals and along paths is the way, of a Pilgrim’s, Progress.

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

My healthy orange pallor a greener hue has taken upon reading Patricia’s glowing reviews. Still, I’ve got Art’s Philosopher’s Stone, phone. A key plot device — it’ll get us home, eventually.

Nobody ever talks about this too. An algorithm transcendental, potentially, is Jack’s Twitter’s algorithm. Ideal for the conversion of prose to poetry it is ideal as well — cross disciplinarily. 

The ironies indeed are many. Life’s unfair. Still, Paris beckons; so too Moscow Beijing Riyadh and Pyongyang. Vlad and his guys are buying in to the possibility of my wild, conspiracy, theory. 

For public consumption is whatever Vladimir and Xi may say these days about Joe Biden and geopolitics, in general. They’re worried about the possibility, of my sound, conspiracy, theory.

I’M ALL — ATWITTER — SURREALLY 

February the eleventh; it was the third day of my second impeachment. That day marked the final day of the Chinese year of the rat. As, as is usual, asteroids dangerously pass, right by us.

That’s not to say that we ought give up the ship. Thanks to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, ye ye still have me. Thanks to Him, by His grace, I shall yet find a way to save the Earth and save — us. 

Earth and all of its humanity saved; to be sure, I’m no prophet but it’ll happen. I’m the author and I’ve got Art’s Philosophers Stone-like phone and in any event — we’re all living — my reality.

I’m no prophet. Still, it’s happening; witness my superimposition of my reality over all others. I’m the author and I’ve got Art’s, Philosophers, Stone-like, phone. All are now living, my reality.

Even the aliens, albeit, they know it not. Even the aliens’ realities are subject to being duly overridden and superimposed, by one armed with a Philosopher Stone and a holy purpose.

My reality is superseding; by dint of a special dispensation, I have been endowed with special powers. With special powers and a special phone, have I been endowed, for my purpose.

Witness, what’s happening. Secretly conspiring against the Earthbound morons are the aliens and the brainwashed, Democrats. But I’ve been acquitted as well by brainwashed, Republicans.

Neither the Democrats nor the Republicans have a clue about what’s actually happening. Impeaching me, seemed important. But more clueless than the Dems — are the Republicans.

Impeaching me seemed very important. But far more clueless than Democrats are Republicans. And American cluelessness is, in microcosm, a reflection of the cluelessness, of the Urantians. 

Libertarian, Democratic and Republican are the Americans; they’re Communists and Socialists, too. American cluelessness is, in microcosm, a reflection of the cluelessness, of the Urantians.

Only seemingly incredibly, it doesn’t matter who the president is if she or he is too locked in to reconsider. Nonetheless, I shall deliver us from these conniving aliens, resident, surreally.

I shall deliver us from aliens, conniving. BAM! Rammed; wham bam, thank ye ma’med; racing in metaphysical space; in 280 character chunks. In my immediate aftermath, a renewed, reality.

Hurtling down a rabbit hole in parallel with other more successful and younger poets, the irony, again, is not lost upon me. Permanently banished from Twitter — surreal is my reality. 

Hurtling down a rabbit hole in parallel with all others, the irony isn’t lost on me. Permanently banished from Twitter, I haven’t been, from Patricia’s Paris, banned. Paris beckons, to me.

THE WATCHER — THE AUTHOR

On second thought it seems to me that it may be unnecessary to continue to spend as much as we are on Art’s security detail. Just as Arthur says — its all about, acting on — the big picture.

It’s all about the big picture. It’s that iconic pic, that’s come to be called, ‘Earthrise’. It’s the pic, across my media platforms, now that I’ve been suspended by, Twitter and Facebook, abusers.

‘Earthrise’; it’s my theme pic, across my media, platforms. Significantly, it’s been the pic that’s been prominently displayed on a whiteboard when I soirée with Art and cabalists, deputized.

‘Earthrise’; it’s the pic prominently displayed on a whiteboard at our soirées on Luna; displayed in such a way, with the real thing, right next to it — that one — can’t help, but be — mesmerized.

Given the revelations, to deny that we know the aerials are alien, is a lie. A flat out, lie. And so I beg ye Joe, for the sake of all of us, address our defenses against an asteroid — and the aliens. 

Take not too lightly this cautionary tale, a tale of morons and aliens and asteroids. Descending from a tower, I’ve secretly and serially linked my tweets — literally — tens of thousands, of them.

Recall that the goals and purposes of MORONS AND ALIENS are various; sure it’s about poetry; and peace; and prosperity; and sure it’s about algorithms, machine learning and intelligence …

…. artificial. Moreover, it’s about a Hell on Earth, Urantia’s become; a real Hell, nonexistent. It’s about changing a sovereign paradigm to Golden Ruled ones; and it’s about love and prescience.

Secretly and serially, I have linked my tweets, literally, tens of thousands of them, into NFT, prospects. And I’ve organized them into a story, compelling. And The Watcher’s watching me …

…. pen my story. Then things get weird. Folks say I’m not in fact, of MORONS, its author. Recall tho, that I’m already a best-selling author. Still, methinks, The Watcher is, channeling, me.

It’s existentially problematic for the species that we foster systems, not people-friendly; systems, friendly to the state. I’d be more irate, had I, my soul. It’s past time, we attend to, our evolutions.

Getting my soul back; it’s a subplot, along with my winning Nobels and saving the Earth, ad nauseum. Sure, it sounds ludicrous; it’s so, intended; intended to spark — a conversation.

Given the revelations, to deny that we know the aerials are alien, is a lie. A flat out, lie. And so I beg ye Joe, for the sake of all of us, address our defenses against an asteroid — and the aliens. 

Take not too lightly this cautionary tale, a tale of morons and aliens and asteroids. Descending from a tower, I’ve secretly and serially linked my tweets — literally — tens of thousands, of them.

THE WATCHER’S — CHANNELING ME

Given the revelations, to deny that we know the aerials are alien, is a lie. A flat out, lie. And so I beg ye Joe, for the sake of all of us, address our defenses against an asteroid — and the aliens. 

Take not too lightly this cautionary tale, a tale of morons and aliens and asteroids. Descending from a tower, I’ve secretly and serially linked my tweets — literally — tens of thousands, of them.

Recall that the goals and purposes of MORONS AND ALIENS are various; sure it’s about poetry; and peace; and prosperity; and sure it’s about algorithms, machine learning and intelligence …

…. artificial. Moreover, it’s about a Hell on Earth, Urantia’s become; a real Hell, nonexistent. It’s about changing a sovereign paradigm to Golden Ruled ones; and it’s about love and prescience.

Secretly and serially, I have linked my tweets, literally, tens of thousands of them, into NFT, prospects. And I’ve organized them into a story, compelling. And The Watcher’s watching me …

…. pen my story. Then things get weird. Folks say I’m not in fact, of MORONS, its author. Recall tho, that I’m already a best-selling author. Still, methinks, The Watcher is, channeling, me.

It’s existentially problematic for the species that we foster systems, not people-friendly; systems, friendly to the state. I’d be more irate, had I, my soul. It’s past time, we attend to, our evolutions.

Getting my soul back; it’s a subplot, along with my winning Nobels and saving the Earth, ad nauseum. Sure, it sounds ludicrous; it’s so, intended; intended to spark — a conversation.

I’ve gotta hand it to Art; he knew, ahem, knows, that humor’s the best way, to get the attention, of the people. By the way, nothing I’ve said here either confirms or denies, if Art is dead, or alive.

Nothing I’ve said here either confirms or denies, whether Art is dead or alive. Life is short; then, ye die. Shit happens. ‘Tis what ‘tis. Life is short; then ye die. Who knows, if Art is dead, or alive?

Who knows whether Art’s dead or alive? For the time being, nobody. For obvious reasons of security, Art is practicing a strict radio silence; to keep secret his location; to try — to stay alive.

Strict radio silence keeps Art’s location a secret from assassins trying to kill him. Radio silence; it’s what’s helped keep Art alive, this past year. Maintaining radio silence — it keeps Art, alive.

Maintaining radio silence; that means not using the phone; and being driven and flown around every 24 hours, from safe house, to safe house. But perhaps — we don’t need to keep him alive

It occurs to me that I may not need to keep Arthur alive; not necessarily, at least. I’ve got his miraculous phone and he’s already taught me all about ontology (the nature of being alive).

EVERYTHING’S — MIRACULOUS

There’s nothing magical about The Almighty’s miracles. There’s nothing routine, and sundry, about them. Each attraction and each repulsion is miraculous. All, that happens — is a miracle.

If everything’s a miracle, MORONS AND ALIENS, is a miracle as well. The proof is in the pudding. He is The Truth, The Light and The Way. By that logic, my book and its authors too, are miracles.

Claims of miraculousness subject themselves to scrutiny; intense examinations of wherefores and whys; the happenings and the surrounding, circumstances, in determining if — it’s a miracle.

I’d welcome any such investigation. Investigate me, please. I crave, the narcotic, attention. No doubt about it; the penning of my MORONS AND ALIENS tract is nothing less than, a miracle.

Witness the ironies; the ironies in life, speak to, the wise, (wo)man. I fear no investigation. I’d welcome one or two, actually. The penning of MORONS — it’s nothing less — than a miracle.

Doubts have been raised about the authorship of MORONS AND ALIENS; doubt that I could have written it; and doubt too that any so-called Arthur, could have written it. Still, it’s a miracle.

How could it not? How could my writing not be adjudged to be miraculous especially given that, everything’s, a miracle? Even I admit, I’ve reason to believe that The Watcher’s — channeling me.

I admit, I’ve reason to believe that The Watcher is channeling me. Arthur, were he alive, also would testify under oath that he believed also, The Watcher was channeling him, vicariously.

That’s not to be taken, by the way, as a proof of life statement. Nothing I have said today should be construed as confirming or denying reports, on the passing of my brother, Arthur Everman.

Teams of assassins scour the planet; Vlad’s guys mostly; some are Mo’s. They feel Art, like Alexei, is fomenting revolution, violent. Truly — they don’t understand what are, Velvet, Revolutions.

Teams of assassins scour the planet;some are Mo’s; Vlad’s guys mostly. Art, like Alexei, they say, foments, revolution. They just follow their orders. They couldn’t care less — of evolution.

Both the common worker and even, as here, in the case of an assassin, an uncommon worker; couldn’t care less about matters like evolution of the species, nor personal, spiritual, evolution.

Citizens preoccupied with surviving can’t attend, to their, spiritual needs. And that’s problematic, for the species. The citizens couldn’t care less, about their own, personal, spiritual, evolution.

It’s existentially problematic for the species that we foster systems, not people-friendly; systems, friendly to the state. And I’d be more irate, had I, a soul. It’s past time, we attend to, evolution.

FROM OUT OF AFRICA

From out of Africa, came mankind. From out of the insufferably, deepest, darkest, and hottest continent, mankind, emigrated. As many as could, left Africa in a dissemination; an advent.

As many as could, left Africa in a dissemination of mankind to Europe and Asia; dissemination from Africa, was an advent, to Europe and Asia — Migration was simpler then — in any event.

Life since The Fall has been hard on everybody. Thickets and thorns and biting insects make for a baseline, Hell on Earth. And even as, in fits and starts, we make, progress we also — falter.

Even as, in fits and starts, we progress along the footpaths of life, making of footpaths, trails and paved highways, we still, falter. I’d promised Arthur, I’d disseminate his discovery on Twitter.

From the never say die desk of DJT, an update; suspended for life, on Twitter, I’ve now been suspended for two years by Facebook. It seems the Deep State includes, Facebook, and Twitter.

The Deep State includes Facebook and Twitter, proving that the Deep State’s reach, rivals that of my mentor, Vladimir. Verily, Facebook and Twitter, aren’t ready, for a monopoly — buster.

Facebook and Twitter don’t want no monopoly busting iconoclast in the White House. Who can blame them? I wouldn’t want me, if I were them. And LinkedIn’s, temporarily suspended, Arthur.

Facebook and Twitter want no monopoly busting iconoclast as prez. Who can blame them? I wouldn’t want me, either. And LinkedIn suspended — from his home there — Arthur.

All of a sudden, outnumbered and completely surrounded find ourselves, Art and yours truly. To make matters worse, Art and I have been separated. Fortuitously tho, I’ve got Art’s phone.

Outnumbered; completely surrounded; I pride myself in succinctness; and being cool, calm and collected, like the British, royals. That would be fitting given — revelations I read on Art’s phone.

Art’s phone; his communications device; a key plot device in Art’s saga, of my saga. In another plot twist Arthur’s phone is now — in my sole possession. In my possession is Arthur’s, phone.

In another plot twist Art’s life phone is now in my sole possession. Having been suspended on my account, I’m using, to beat my suspension, Art’s account and his seemingly magical, phone.

Suspended on my own account, I’m using Art’s account and his seemingly, magical, phone. Art assures me, however, that there’s nothing at all magical about The Great Almighty’s — miracles.

There’s nothing magical about The Almighty’s miracles. There’s nothing routine and sundry about it. Every attraction and every repulsion is miraculous. Everything that happen’s, a miracle.

OUT OF AFRICA

Credibility has become an issue; culpability, too. Karma’s calculating whose Karma’s, worst. Will it be Xi? Or will it be Vlad? Or will it maybe, be me? Which leader will suffer, a cosmic — retribution?

Which of the leader’s people may suffer Karma’s cosmic, retribution? Will it be Xi? Or Vlad? Or will it be, maybe me? Not to worry; relax. Maybe, the asteroid may target Africa — in retribution.

The asteroid, in retribution, may target, Africa. Everybody knows that Africa’s been getting the short end of the stick, seemingly, forever. Verily, the asteroid — may target Africa, in retribution.

Everybody knows that Africa’s been getting the short end of the stick, seemingly, forever. Verily, the asteroid may target Africa, in retribution for Ethiopia, Madagascar, Boko Haram and Yemen.

Everybody knows that the asteroid may be targeting Africa in retribution for Ethiopia, Boko Haram, Madagascar, Saudi Arabia and Yemen. All over Earth comes the call — for retribution.

From all over Earth come the calls for vengeful retribution. Some call for a strike against Africa. Others for a strike against China; still others call for strikes against Vlad and me — in retribution.

I must admit that I haven’t a clue as to how Karma rules upon such matters as these. But I have a good idea about my own opinion on the matter. America will be spared from retribution.

America may be spared from retribution thanks to decisive actions promptly taken by her noble leader to mitigate and contain the spread of the Wuhan Kung-flu at the outset of, a propagation.

China’s, Wuhan, Kung-flu. It took the world by surprise but it didn’t catch me napping; asleep, at the switch. In fact, I don’t sleep. Everybody, knows that. I stay up all night — watching TV.

When I lived at my off-white White House, I stayed up all night, watching TV; keeping, for us, selflessly, abreast of events at all hours. We’ve held the line with less than, 700,000, fatalities.

The asteroid, in retribution, may target, Africa. Africans treat Africans abysmally, sometimes. Everybody knows that. Africa’s a candidate for what still may turn out to be, a unifying, event.

Africa’s a candidate for what may turn out to be, a unifying, event. That’s a possibility. Such an event might still happen if unity were achieved, subsequent to some — cataclysmic — event.

In the beginnings, from out of Africa, came man. From out of the insufferably, deepest, darkest, and hottest continent, did mankind, emigrate. As many as could — left Africa — in any event.

From out of Africa, came man. From out of the insufferably, deepest, darkest, and hottest continent, mankind, emigrated. As many as could, left Africa in a dissemination, an advent.

BLACK BUDGETS

Too terrifying to many is the poetry of MORONS AND ALIENS. Indeed, there are lessons in it. And I know, it’s terrifying. But, to appear brave, think about yer children. Be a lioness, fer yer children.

I know it’s terrifying. Even I, the American hero at Vietnam’s Battle of Bone Spur Hill, experience fear. Fear, I know, is to be expected. But that’s when a soldier’s training, is expected, to kick in.

Fear is to be expected. In such situations, to survive, aviators rely on their training. Aviators focus on their training, to survive. If summoning additional courage — think— of yer children,

Fear’s to be expected. In situations of life and death, to survive, soldiers and aviators rely on their training. Aviators, to survive, focus on training. For more courage think of yer children.

In other news today, I deem, only marginally, worth updating, Joe says we know little to nothing about the aerial vehicles buzzing around in our skies and diving — into the seas.

In other news today, Joe’s apparently gonna take the ‘play it dumb tack’; Joe Biden’s report (although ready) wasn’t gonna be released til later in the month — but it got leaked — early.

In a big mistake in other news today Joe’s taking the ‘play it dumb tack’; Joe Biden wasn’t gonna release his report til later but it got leaked early. Joe’s gonna play it dumb. A big mistake — early.

Enter the dragon; the top secret, black budget; classified spending related to military research, and operations, covert. The black budget eats up to 10 percent of American, defense, monies.

Given the revelations, to deny that we know the aerials are alien, is a lie. A flat out, lie. And so I beg ye Joe, for the sake of all of us, address our defenses against an asteroid — and the aliens.

Take not too lightly this cautionary tale, a tale of morons and aliens and asteroids. Descending from a tower, I’ve secretly and serially linked my tweets — literally — tens of thousands, of them.

Recall that the goals and purposes of MORONS AND ALIENS are various; sure it’s about poetry; and peace; and prosperity; and sure it’s about algorithms, machine learning and intelligence …

…. artificial. Moreover, it’s about a Hell on Earth, Urantia’s become; a real Hell, nonexistent. It’s about changing a sovereign paradigm to Golden Ruled ones; and it’s about love and prescience.

Secretly and serially, I have linked my tweets, literally, tens of thousands of them, into NFT, prospects. And I’ve organized them into a story, compelling. And The Watcher’s watching me …

…. pen my story. Then things get weird. Folks say I’m not in fact, of MORONS, its author. Recall tho, that I’m already a best-selling author. Still, methinks, The Watcher is, channeling, me.

A TSUNAMI — 1,000 FEET — HIGH

A concrete wall of water, hundreds of feet high if not higher; a towering wall of water, towering, a thousand feet or more high in the sky; so high it’s hard to imagine the terror — of the calamity.

‘Tis not my intent to terrorize, but rather, to warn. My intent is not to terrorize, but rather to warn us in time; in time enough, to make plans. I recommend at least one inflatable, per family.

I recommend at least one inflatable, per family. I recommend, in addition that any and all inflatable rafts, be pre-inflated. There won’t be time to inflate them when it’s time to use them.

At least one inflatable, per family. I recommend, And be sure that any and all inflatable rafts, be pre-inflated. There likely won’t be time to inflate them when it comes time, to actually, use them.

At least one inflatable, per family. I recommend, And be sure that any and all inflatable rafts, be pre-inflated. There likely won’t be time to inflate them when it comes time to use them, actually.

Be sure that all inflatable rafts, be pre-inflated. There won’t be time to inflate them when it comes time to use them. Rafts with pouches — for the safe storage — of perishables — ideally.

That being said, to reiterate, pre-inflated rafts, with paddles and pouches for the storage of perishables are most desirable. Pouchless rafts will do in a pinch, but paddles — key — may be.

Pouchless rafts will do in a pinch, but paddles, may be a key to the survival of ye and yer family on the high seas. I’ve got mine, duly outfitted. And I’ll have Art’s phone to update, the citizenry.

Ironies are blowing my mind; so too do, Jung’s, synchronicities. I confided to my shrink, I think, The Watcher channels through me, what to pen. Methinks,The Watcher — channels, through me.

I confided to my shrink, I think that The Watcher channels through me, what to write. Methinks, he channels through me, I said to him. And his dropping jaw — did speak — volumes — to me.

The richness of its ironies; it’s lyrical cadence and it’s algorithmic content; all of these things, taken together, make me doubt that it’s really me that’s actually writing this speculative fiction, 

It bears repeating also; I’m no prophet. Among the many reasons I’ve come to believe in Art’s tall tale is that I’m finding it hard to believe an avowed non-reader, could pen such non fiction.

Everyone’s a critic. Of less concern to me are the critics than the fact that terrifying to many is the poetry of, MORONS AND ALIENS. Indeed, there are lessons to be learned from the aliens.

Too terrifying to many is the poetry of MORONS AND ALIENS. Indeed, there are lessons in it. I know; it’s terrifying. To appear brave, think about yer children. Be a lioness, fer yer children.

A TOWER OF WATER — AS HIGH AS THE SKY

My speculative fiction styled, epic poetry, some say, is too polished to be, of my authorship. Someone other than myself, they allege, must be, the actual author, of MORONS AND ALIENS.

Critics; a dime a dozen, if that. Of less concern to me are the critics than the fact that terrifying to many is the poetry of, MORONS AND ALIENS. There are lessons to be learned from the aliens.

There are lessons to be learned from our aliens, foreign and domestic. We can gain insights into how best to flip our paradigm from a sovereign state based one to a Golden Ruled one — alien.

I’m extremely concerned so many seem to be so terrified by the prospect of an asteroid strike that in truth they’ve discovered they’d rather not know what’s happening and what’s coming.

Too many are too terrified by the prospect of an asteroid strike. They’’d actually rather not know, what’s happening and — what’s coming. But it’s imperative that we learn, what’s coming.

Too many would rather not know, what’s happening and what, out of sight, is coming. It’s what we don’t know that can make us extinct — we gotta learn, what, at Godspeed — is coming.

Take heart my fellow Americans; America’s hero at Vietnam’s Battle at Bone Spur Ridge urges all Americans to take heart. Karma aside, it may be that America avoids the worst, of what coming.

It may be that America avoids the worst of what is coming. Nobody’s talking about this, but me. The loss of life will be greatest, not from the strike, if it strikes water but from a following …

… tsunami unprecedented. The sheer size of a tsunami generated by an asteroid strike into one of the oceans might rise, scientists know, hundreds — if not — a thousand feet — high.

The sheer size of a tsunami generated by an asteroid strike into one of the oceans may rise, a concrete wall of water, hundreds of feet, if not higher; a wall of water — a thousand feet high.

A MAN-CHILD — MADE — MYTH 

“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.

Only I have the wits and wit and wherewithal to battle, at the same time, aliens and viruses and asteroids and human hubris, too. I’m especially qualified also, because I’m chock-full, of hubris.

I’m 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.

I am pleased to update the cultists that form my base that my earthly alter-ego, embarrassed by the poor reviews that ‘From the desk of DJT:’ has been receiving — dumped it, unceremoniously.

Quietly dumped from my website today; a link to the ill-fated feature that was the month-old, ‘From the desk of DJT:’ It has been receiving a lot of poor press coverage. Reading it, was nobody.

With nobody reading it, short-lived, was the only month-old, feature; unceremoniously, I dumped it, leaving it to an aide to make public, the bland pronouncement of an embarrassing, obituary.

MIND — BLOWING — IRONIES

Ironies are blowing my mind; so too do, Jung’s, synchronicities. I confided to my shrink, I think, The Watcher channels through me, what to pen. Methinks,The Watcher — channels, through me.

I confided to my shrink, I think that The Watcher channels through me, what to write. Methinks, he channels through me, I said to him. And his dropping jaw — did speak — volumes — to me.

Methinks that The Watcher is channeling thru me. But observing the reaction of my shrink, I realized, that it would be far more believable a story, if I just went ahead, and took credit, for it.

Near incredibly, a bling-worshipping species of being is, from a base on Mars, manipulating mankind, weakening us with a virus, in anticipation of an asteroid strike, catastrophic.

Enter Emily and her letters to her world, Art sensed, in Emily’s 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; akin to her letter to the nations, I have ghostwritten for Arthur an instructive algorithm. A meticulously 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; but 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.

The richness of its ironies; it’s lyrical cadence and it’s algorithmic content; all of these things, taken together, make me doubt that it’s really me that’s actually writing this speculative fiction,

It bears repeating also; I’m no prophet. Among the many reasons I’ve come to believe in Art’s tall tale is that I’m finding it hard to believe an avowed non-reader, could pen such non fiction.

PLOTS — NUTSHELLED 

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

The gist of the plot is that Art and I (once upon a time, ex-womb-mates), are reunited — 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 states, disabled, that don’t, naturally, evolve. Minds, saddled with, artificial, identities.

PURPOSES

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 MORONS’ 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.

A BLUEBIRD’S QUESTION

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 films to put in context our spiritual purposes.

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 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.

POWER IS IN THE PEOPLES

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. 

OH HAPPY DAY! — OY VE!

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. 

THE PRIME DIRECTIVE 

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. 

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE PRIME DIRECTIVE?

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?

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 TruthBook.com, truths, there.

TruthBook.com (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.

VULNERABILITIES — SELF-INFLICTED

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.

COMMUNIST? CAPITALIST? EGALITARIAN?

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.

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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.

HUBRIS AND HUTZPAH

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

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.

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.

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.

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 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

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.

PURPOSES

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.

A BLUEBIRD’S QUESTION

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.

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 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.

POWER IS IN THE PEOPLES

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. 

OH HAPPY DAY! — OY VE!

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. 

THE PRIME DIRECTIVE 

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.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE PRIME DIRECTIVE?

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 TruthBook.com, truths, there.

TruthBook.com (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.

ZOUNDS — GADZOOKS — BY GOD’S HOOKS 

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.

EPILOGUE IS PROLOGUE 

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.

THE END’S BEGINNING

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

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

EPILOGUE-2050

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.

EPILOGUE-ETERNITY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a climactic scene near the end of 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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