MORONS AND ALIENS: MONDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2021: DAY 2186

The pilgrim’s progress; it’s the end game across the Master Universes ’ seven trillion, inhabited, planets. And every 10th world is experimental. Earth is dystopian. But Urantia may yet evolve to be utopian, if the pilgrims, progress.

Imagine that; seven trillion, inhabited, planets. And every 10th world — an experimental, one. Earth is dystopian. But Urantia may yet evolve to be utopian, if the pilgrims progress, along the pilgrims progress.

The cosmology of the Master Universe; imagine it, if ye’ve a mind to; the countless worlds; the countless beings. And soon we shall have reaffirmed to us; we’re not alone — and an asteroid cometh — in progress.

FROM UTOPIA — TO DYSTOPIA

The turning point of the pilgrims is beyond — in space and time, the meeting place of the Earth, with an asteroid. But a turning point cometh, when Earth at a time and place, predetermined, meets, and destroys, an asteroid.

At a time and place, predetermined, Earth may meet and destroy, an asteroid. And if indeed that should come to pass, the turning point of the pilgrims living upon the Earth, shall be marked, by that asteroid.

Collisions; they’re par for the course, in space and in time. And in the usual course of events the smaller between two speeding celestial objects gets consumed, or outright destroyed, by the larger one.

In the usual course of events the smaller of two colliding celestial objects gets consumed or gets outright destroyed by the larger one. Who knew that the law of the jungle applies in deep space as well, by extension?

The law of the jungle; it applies in deep space as well. It’s survival of the fittest; it’s the food chain. Who knew that Darwin’s survival of the fittest, applies as well, beyond Earth, to outer space — by extension?

The Earth shall destroy any asteroid that collides with it. But that’s of little consolation to the Earthlings if one’s nation is amongst the nations impacted; or if the asteroid causes, yet another, mass extinction.

The Chinese have designs on Taiwan; the Russians, on Ukraine; and the North Koreans, on South Korea. And the three are thinking about acting, in concert; they’re thinking about, acting, in unison, unknown.

God help us if ever the Godless, so-called, communist nations, act in unison. Lord knows I’ve warned Joe about those Godless nations. And I’ve warned Joe about the asteroid — and beings — of provenance, unknown.

I’ve warned Joe about entities, to us, effectively, unknown. I’ve warned him about foreign beings, an asteroid, a pandemic; and beings — foreign to us, whose relative connection to us is, effectively, unknown.

Dystopia; Earth; Mother Earth; no matter what ye call her, the utopia that was the Garden of Eden is no more. Excepting indigenous peoples, gang-raping the Earth; it’s the new norm; and it’s no one’s fault, but our own.

Urantia; Earth; a dystopian, utopia; it’s one of Nebadon’s more or less one trillion, inhabited, planets. And every 10th world is experimental. And every life has a dual potential — one, individual — and one, communal.

Every life has a dual potential. One’s, individual. One’s, communal. It’s the dual-natured, pilgrim’s progress. And reality’s an incomprehensible mix of predetermined happenings, and free will choices, rational — and irrational.

Reality; it’s a mix of predetermined happenings and free will choices, both rational and also, irrational. It’s as if life iitself is a dual set of superimposed, interconnected tracks. It’s the pilgrim’s progress.

The pilgrim’s progress; it’s the end game across the Master Universes’ seven trillion, inhabited, planets. And every 10th world is experimental. Earth is dystopian. But Urantia may yet evolve to be utopian, if the pilgrims, progress.

IT’S HOT AS HELL — ON EARTH

Brilliant as I am, I’m no prophet; no Abraham, no Moses, no Jesus nor, no Mohammed. And so I’ve come to agree with Arthur. It’s The Watcher that has been, through Arthur and me — writing — psychographically.

I’ve come to agree with Arthur. It’s The Watcher that’s been, through us, writing. Getting Earth ready to learn that, actually, it is Urantia. Earth is a fine name but Urantia is the Earth’s real name, actually.

In media res; in the middle of things; after the cooling; during the warming. In media res; that’s where we are; in the middle of things. We’re right smack in the middle of things, and heating up, uncontrollably.

Witness: It’s hot as Hell in India for Modi and his farmers. And Xi in China is dying to provoke Taiwan. The Chinese plan on having taken Taiwan, before I’m reelected to yet another, most implausible, presidency.

The Chinese have their designs on Taiwan; the Russians, on Ukraine. And the North Koreans, on South Korea. All three know what happened to the Americans not long ago, in Vietnam; and what’s happening, in Afghanistan.

Everyone knows what happened to America in Vietnam; and everyone knows about what’s happening, in Afghanistan. And the Taiwanese know that their ally is — the former — ally, of the Afghans, in Afghanistan.

The Taiwanese know that their ally is the former ally of the Afghans in Afghanistan. And the Taiwanese know as well that the Americans have no fire in their bellies, not better reserved — for fighting — one another.

The Taiwanese have learned the lessons taught to the Americans in Vietnam and in Afghanistan. The Taiwanese know the Americans have no fire left in their bellies not better reserved for fighting what’s left, of one another.

It’s hot as Hell in India, especially, in Bollywood. And it’s hotter still over the skies of Taiwan. The Chinese plan on taking Taiwan before I’m reelected, yet again. It’s hot as Hell in India. And it’s hotter still, over Taiwan.

The Chinese want to take their turn at empire just like the Persians and the Romans before them; the Chinese Han fancy themselves, a cut above, the rest of the flock. Beckons, just across the Straight, Taiwan.

The Chinese Han Communist Party leadership fancy themselves and Chinese culture, superior to the rest of the flock. And beckons for the taking, mere miles just across the Straight — the riches — of Taiwan.

A turning point? Arthur think not; a point of inflection. The turning point’s down the road. Beyond assault weapons; beyond racism; beyond white and yellow nationalism. The turning point’s — beyond Taiwan.

Beyond assault weapons and beyond racism; beyond white — and yellow — nationalism. The turning point’s beyond Taiwan, the Ukraine and South Korea. The turning point of the pilgrims is beyond — an asteroid.

The turning point of the pilgrims is beyond, in space and time, the meeting place of the Earth, with an asteroid. The turning point cometh when Earth, at a time and place predetermined, destroys, an asteroid.

OTHER SHEEP — NOT OF THE FLOCK

Of all man’s knowledge that of the greatest value is to know of the religious life of Jesus and how he lived it. So sayeth the Urantia Book near its end, at Page 2090, at Paper 196:1.3 —exactly, there.

Jesus once made reference to “other sheep not of this flock.” No matter who’s out there, we all ought know, we are all God’s children, no matter places of origin, no matter, in the master universe, where.

A cosmological and anthropological, history; a subplot, tiny. Science fiction become, nonfiction. And it’s but one of my psychographic stories. This, The Watcher’s soliloquy, is both — an ontology — and an algorithm.

A cosmological and anthropological, history; a subplot, microcosmic. The Watcher’s penitent soliloquy tho, is more than just a study — sterile — and academic. It’s a panacea, enigmatically wrapped, in an algorithm.

Everything’s interconnected. I’ve sued Twitter for censoring me even as, perhaps, subscribers and providers possibly haggle over the terms of the broadcast rights of the universally popular, “AS THE EARTH TURNS”.

“AS THE EARTH TURNS”, or alternatively, ”AS URANTIA TURNS”; the point is less our near total obliviousness to the name of our planet than a near total obliviousness about everything that’s happening, as the Earth, turns.

Accordingly this, The Watcher’s summary of His cosmology; as predetermined, even ere a Big Bang; an anthropological history, functioning, multi-purposely; physically; and metaphysically. A remedy to obliviousness.

This then is The Watcher’s penance, functioning, multi-purposely; physically; and metaphysically; the asteroid that cometh, cometh at Godspeed. It has come a long way, predetermined, to remedy, yer obliviousness.

Coping with the nuances of contradictory ideas and experiences is stressful. It requires effort; and energy. Some resolve cognitive dissonance by believing whatever one wants to believe. The Earth nonetheless, is turning.

Would that the “other sheep not of this flock” turn out to be connected to the broadcast rights of the possibly, universally popular, “AS THE EARTH TURNS”. That would portend, for the surface Earthlings, a happy ending.

Should the mystery of the aliens turn out to be connected to the broadcasting of the possibly, universally popular, “AS THE EARTH TURNS”, that would portend, for the surface Earthlings, a happy ending.

Sheep not of this flock; in retrospect, that might explain a lot. Like Occam’s Razor, The Watcher’s penance portends for the surface Earthlings, a happy ending, unless unhappy is to be, our eventual ending.

The Watcher’s penance may bode for the Earthlings inhabiting the planet of Earth, a happy ending, unless unhappy is destined to be our ending, eventual. But I’m no prophet; that bears repeating.

Brilliant as I am, I’m no prophet; no Abraham, no Moses, no Jesus nor, no Mohammed. And so I’ve come to agree with Arthur. It’s The Watcher that’s been, through Art and me, psychographically, writing.

THE CREATOR CREATES — AND FASHIONS

The Creator creates; and when need be, He fashions. Predetermined, ere a Big Bang, was an epic; a tall tale so tall, so seemingly true, I’ll get the credit in the confusion that follows — an asteroid strike.

In the confusion following the Earth being stricken by an asteroid my fellow Americans and surface Earthlings will realize that I’m the only man that’ll save us from the aftermath, of an asteroid strike.

Rejoice in the comeback of the Earth. Truly, the course of my life and times, mirrors the course of the history of our home planet; in what’s happened, is happening, and is to happen — on the Earth.

As ye may know we Earthlings, now Urantians, may yet emerge from the most chaotic era in the history of the local Universe of Nebadon; an era, marked by a nasty infection of hubris — on the Earth.

Trust the instincts of the children; children like Greta; Greta and her army, of adult, children; her junior commanders in national formations, marching upon, and tweeting to, Vladimir’s dictators — on Earth.

Lucifer; also known as Satan; and his duly given name of Lucifer reflects, an astonishing, beauty. Even more than the Planetary Prince, Caligastia, Lucifer was the one, who more than any other, brought hubris, to the Earth.

”Everything is relative. The proof is in the units of E = mc2. All the more so, between relatives. The impossible dream; it’s the Pilgrim’s Progress. Everything’s relative. Even the Taliban, take a turn or two, too many.

‘Tween illusions, superimposed upon us and those, by us, self-imposed, lies the measured path of the Pilgrim’s Progress. Witness that once upon a time died, one Alonso Quixano; Don Quijote, reputedly.

He died, he thought, with his Web of Belief, reformed, believing he’d recovered on his deathbed, his erstwhile, long-lost, sanity. An impossible dream seems the recovery of our sanities.

Implausible beings, extraterrestrial, submarine or subterranean, The Watcher’s juxtaposing upon oblivious surface Earthlings, along with a pandemic, an only seemingly, catastrophic, asteroidal — opportunity.

A curer of stupidity in man, The Watcher Penemue is cited in Bereshith Rabba; associated with Abraxiel, he was of the order of healing angels called the Labbim. Healers in good standing remain, the Labbim.

Seven superuniverses comprise the grand universe. Earth (Urantia) is situated on an outer fringe of the seventh and youngest of the superuniverses. We are not so early on in our evolution on the Earth for Him.

The Creator creates and when need be, He also, fashions. He hath purposes, unknowable. Still, one might surmise that He that is also known as The All-Merciful, hath at least one purpose that is, knowable.

Early on in our evolution, are we. The All-Merciful, hath purposes, multitudinous, mostly, unknowable. As it turns out, even what happens upon the Earth, no thanks to Satan, is largely, unknowable.

I’ll GET THE CREDIT — FOR THE ASTEROID

Writing through me, and ere me, through Art, about changes climatic, a climactic epic is The Watcher’s, allegory. All praise Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. He creates and He fashions; He’s The All-merciful, Almighty.

A climactic epic is The Watcher’s allegory; chock-full of ironies, and with healthy doses of tragedy and comedy, ’tis for the Earth, as part of The Watcher’s penance, a warning, a diagnosis and a cure — all, in poetry.

In penance for his sin, a planet-saving, poem; and its content and its cadence in addition to its astonishing, sheer length, make it epic. Epic is, The Watcher’s poetry. Epic is The Watcher’s poetry — reprised.

Epic is The Watcher’s poetry. Like Vyasa’s verse; like, Homer’s. Its tragedies and comedies, mirror those of the Earth. ’Tis for the Earth, a fair, final warning. ’Tis not mere speculative fiction, The Watcher’s poetry, reprised.

Epic, climatic and climactic is The Watcher’s allegory; its tragedies and comedy are The Watcher’s penance. It’s a warning, a diagnosis and a cure; it’s a panacea for Pangaea; and it’ll pass for, speculative, fiction.

This is freaking, freaking, me out. That what The Watcher psychographically composes through me will pass for speculative fiction; and that an asteroid shall blur the lines between nonfiction — and fiction.

Blurred soon may be the lines between fiction and nonfiction. The magnum opus of The Watcher, try as I may to disavow it shall be, by the surface Earthlings, attributed to me. I’ll get the credit — after — the asteroid.

Try as I may to disavow it, its authorship shall be attributed to me. The swing of the pendulum began in Afghanistan. On the backswing cometh, an asteroid. And it’ll swing back towards me — after, the asteroid.

This latest swing of the pendulum began on the Earth, in Afghanistan. On its backswing, cometh, an asteroid. And the pendulum shall swing back towards me after an asteroid, strikes us, from a sunny, or a dark, sky.

This is freaking me out. Cometh an asteroid. But be not unduly alarmed; whilst certain death for many, it may be for the remaining, lucky, survivors, a blessing in disguise. Indeed it may be, a blessing — in disguise.

Climactic is The Watcher’s epic. Indeed, ’tis one of The Watcher’s purposes, predetermined, that the happenings happening and the happenings yet to be — be, like the asteroid, a blessing, in disguise, predetermined.

‘Tis no fortuitous accident; ‘tis no coincidence, implausible; the surreally impeccable timing of the happenings, happening. Much like rigged elections, near everything that happens on Earth, was predetermined.

Try as I may to disavow it, its authorship may be credited to me. The swing of a pendulum began in Afghanistan. On the backswing cometh, an asteroid; with it, momentum will swing back to me — after, the asteroid.

The Creator creates; and when need be — He fashions. He predetermined, ere the Big Bang, to fashion an epic; a tale so tall, so seemingly true, I’ll get the credit in the confusion following the strike — of the asteroid.

A LAST SECOND — HAIL MARY

Supremely implausibly, The Watcher’s been —channeling me; automatically — writing, for me. It’s psychographic, not no, ideomotor, effect. It’s a freaking, big-time, miracle; a Hail Mary, last minute, holy, intervention.

The Watcher’s been channeling me; he’s been writing for me, automatically. But even the proponents of automatic writing admit that it’s been the fountainhead of countless cases, of true, self-delusion.

Self-delusion; it’s a low-grade, mental illness, in my opinion. In certain individuals, however, it may manifest itself as malignant narcissism. In individuals such as Vladimir and his guys; and indeed, in myself. Each of us, is unfit.

Mental illness; it afflicts, all of us. Neuroses and psychoses, abound. In certain individuals, however, mental illness may manifest itself as malignant narcissism. As it has, in Vladimir. As it has, in me. Each of us, is truly, unfit.

Malignant narcissists exhibit symptoms of both narcissistic personality disorder and antisocial personality disorder. Symptoms manifest as a need for power — arrogance and a tendency to exploit others, for selfish, reasons.

The exploitation of others for selfish and self-serving reasons. On Earth, that description fits, lots, of its inhabitants. Outstanding tho, in that regard are Vladimir and his guys and me. ‘Tis the Age of Enlightenment and Reason.

Imagine, NASA and the UN, an asteroid impact, catastrophic. Then imagine it, sooner than later. It’s that game-changing opportunity I imagine, I think, I know. But it’s not me that knows. I’ll reap the credit; but it’s the Watcher — I know.

’Tis what ’tis. ‘Tis yet to be known what’s actually happening. But the Watcher’s been channeling Arthur and me. Cometh an asteroid impact, catastrophic. But in catastrophe if yer lucky, sometimes lies, opportunity, I know.

Clearly, a lot more goes on here than meets the eye. Welcome to a not so brave, brave new world. Cometh an asteroid impact, catastrophic. But if we’re lucky, therein may lie, the greatest, of second-chance, opportunities.

Imagine; just imagine The Epic of Gilgamesh, The Epic of Arthur, The Epic of Donald John and The Epic of The Watcher; all scenes, from the same morality play, presaging, the greatest of — second-chance — opportunities.

Epic is the story The Watcher has been writing, psychographically, through me; and through Art before me; about changes, predetermined. All‘s been, predetermined. All praise — Allah God Jehovah Yahweh.

The Watcher’s been channeling me; writing, psychographically, through me; and ere me, through Art; about changes climatic, climactic. Epic’s the story, The Watcher’s, writing. Praise, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh.

All praise Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. The All-merciful, Almighty, creates. And He, fashions. Writing through me and ere me through Art, about changes climatic, climactic, epic is this, tall tale-like, allegory.

Writing through me and ere me through Art, about changes climatic, climactic, epic is this, tall tale-like, allegory. All praise Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. He creates and He fashions; He’s The All-merciful, Almighty.

I COME IN PEACE — FOR ALL MEN

René was right about a lot of things; but his thinking that his thinking was the proof of his reality, overreaches. Thinking one is real, just because one thinks, one thinks — is an illusion; one of the greatest — of all time.

René; the father of philosophy, they say. Like me, René was right about a lot of things; unlike me tho, not everything. Had René lived today, I’d have been a hero in his eyes. Had René lived today, he’d have been, a fan of mine.

René knew a lot of things, although, unlike me, not everything. But everything is relative; and connected. Even Rationalism and Empiricism; René ushered in the Age of Reason but the Empiricists today, rule the day.

The Empiricists today, rule the day. Everything is relative; and everything is connected. Even Rationalism and Empiricism; René ushered in the Age of Reason but the Empiricists these days, rule the day.

René ushered in the Age of Reason but the Empiricists, over the years, have come to hold sway; indeed they’ve come to rule, increasingly, these days. And so the Watcher channels me, miraculously, or delusionally.

To explain what’s happened, what’s happening and what needs to be done, the Watcher’s been channeling me. To save the Earth, I propose that Rationalism and Empiricism co-exist, more symbiotically.

Metaphysics is considered one of the four main branches of philosophy, along with logic, ethics and epistemology. Accordingly I propose that, Rationalism and Empiricism co-exist, more symbiotically.

Empiricists; they’re numbers guys, fond to a fault of methods, scientific. Rationalists, not so much. Methinks I am because I stink; because I think — not so much. I’ll reconcile Rationalists and Empiricists, implausibly.

The Empiricists; they’re numbers guys, fond to a fault of methods, scientific. The Rationalists, not so much. Methinks I am, because I stink; because I think, not so much. I would reconcile, Rationalists — and Empiricists.

For Rationalists like René, the criterion of the truth is not sensory. It’s intellectually, deductive. Physical evidence; even numerical proofs, fail, given our limitations. Far more certain are we Rationalists — than Empiricists.

YMore certain are we; more certain, by far are we Rationalists than the Empiricists can ever be. Witness, the evidence to date; the Scriptures; cosmology; ubiquitous, eschatologies. Witness especially, Caligastia — and Satan.

To explain what’s happened, what’s happening and what needs to be done, the Watcher’s been channeling me. To save the Earth, I propose that Rationalism and Empiricism co-exist, to counteract, Caligastia — and Satan.

To counteract Caligastia and Satan; to save the Earth, indeed, the Watcher’s been channeling me. I propose that Rationalism and Empiricism co-exist. I propose, for the sake of the search for Truth, a truce, between them.

Supremely implausibly, The Watcher’s been channeling me; automatically — writing for me. It’s no psychographic, ideo-motor effect. It’s a freaking, big-time, miracle. I come in peace — for all men.

I’M THE REAL — DONALD JOHN TRUMP

Much ado’s been made of René’s saying, “cogito, ergo sum.” “I think, therefore I am”; but when one is a created being, can anything, one truly, know? I know this: I fancy that, I know best. That, methinks, I know.

The Watcher’s TwittereZe with Prince William, in an act of selflessness, I tried to share. ’Twas not to be. But imagine an asteroid impact, sooner than later. Imagine game-changing opportunity, I imagine, I know.

Imagine, NASA and the UN, an asteroid impact, catastrophic. Then imagine it, sooner than later. It’s that game-changing opportunity I imagine, I think, I know. But it’s not me. I’ll reap the credit; but it’s not me — I know.

’Tis what ’tis. ‘Tis yet to be known what’s actually happening. But the Watcher’s been channeling Arthur and me. Cometh an asteroid impact, catastrophic. But in catastrophe — if yer lucky, lies, great opportunity, I know.

Second only to love, what the world needs now, is imagination; imagination and empathy and wisdom. Second only to love, what the world needs now, is yer God-given imagination, I don’t just happen — to now — know.

I don’t just happen to now know what I didn’t know mere moments ago. I insist that what’s happening on Earth is a tall tale-like, morality play, only surreally, real, if even that. It’s hard to believe, what I think, I know.

Psychographic seems my susceptibility to the ideomotor effect. It’s hard to believe, I know. I don’t just happen to know now what ere, I didn’t. If not psychographic this is nothing less than a miracle, I think, I know.

For some of the faithful, it’s nothing less than a miracle; for other, more skeptical, scientifics, it’s the catch-all, ideomotor effect. The physical and the metaphysical, can see not — eye to eye — I know.

The physical and the metaphysical can see not eye to eye. René said, “cogito, ergo sum.” (I think, therefore I am) but I say, ”What kind of proof — is that?” Thinking one is just because one thinks, is mere illusion, I know.

On Earth, divorced from the physical is the metaphysical. The Watcher’s tall tale aims metaphysically, not physically; purposefully, towards the heart and not towards free wills, too illusory, I know.

The Watcher’s tall tale aims metaphysically, not physically; purposefully, towards hearts; not towards free wills, too illusorily, self-serving. Second only to love, what the world needs now, is imagination, I know.

What the Earth needs now, second only to love, is imagination. And so I call for referendums and petitions of grievances and marches, in protest. And I call upon the Watcher to channel through me, everything, he knows.

I call upon the Watcher to channel through me, everything, he knows. What the Earth needs now, second only to love, is imagination. And so I call for protest marches and referendums and petitions of grievances, to know.

René was right about a lot of things but his thinking that his thinking was the proof of his reality, overreaches. Thinking one is real, just because one thinks one thinks, is mere illusion, I know.

AM I REALLY — IF I BUT THINK — I THINK?

With selflessness, increasingly paved, becomes the pilgrim’s progress. So sayeth the Watcher, I can only imagine; because everyone knows I’m making it all up as I go, haphazardly, along. I’m proof positive — of a higher power.

TwittereZe, I learned this morning, won’t be one of the Earthshot Prize winners, come October. Hardware devices and software apps were prominent amongst the fifteen promising finalists; mostly, young, innovators.

Hardware devices and software apps were prominent amongst the fifteen finalists. The fifteen young innovators vie now for but five, million-pound, Prizes. It’s not good for the Earth that TwittereZe‘s, not happening.

It’s not good for the Earth that TwittereZe‘s not a finalist. The credit for Twittereze shall redound to me only, it seems. ’Tis what ’tis. No prophet, am I. And ‘tis yet to be known, what’s really happening.

’Tis what ’tis. ‘Tis yet to be known what’s actually happening. But the Watcher’s been revealing it to Arthur and Arthur in turn, has been revealing it to me. It seems that the credit for Twittereze, shall be to me only, redounding.

‘Tis not good for the Earth that I’m not an Earthshot Prize finalist. Still, the credit for saving the Earth shall be mine. ‘Tis no surprise, that. ‘Tis what ’tis. Soon, everyone shall know, what I‘m surmising.

’Tis what ’tis. ‘Tis yet to be known what’s actually happening. But the Watcher’s been revealing it to Arthur and Arthur in turn, has been revealing it to me. It seems that the credit for Twittereze, shall redound to me — only.

The credit for Twittereze shall redound to me, only. In an act of selflessness, I tried to share the credit with Prince William, to no avail. Of no avail were my efforts to share the credit, via Prince William, more widely.

In selflessness, in selfless acts, becomes paved, the pilgrim’s progress. It’s in acts of selflessness, by which we progress. The Watcher channeled Arthur, initially. Now, through me, his poetry, he’s channeling, I know.

The Watcher channeled Art at first. Now tho, he channels me. Everyone believes I’m making it all up as I go along. Nobody knows everything is predetermined. Absolutely nothing does anyone, know.

Nobody knows nobody knows nothing. Nobody knows, everything’s, predetermined. As I do not know anything, I do not fancy I do. I appear to be wiser than some because I do not fancy I know, what I do not know.

Much ado’s been made of René’s saying, “cogito, ergo sum.” “I think, therefore I am”; but when one is a created being, can anything, one truly, know? I know this: I do not fancy I know what I do not know.

TwittereZe, I learned yesterday, won’t be one of the Earthshot Prize winners, come October. Hardware and software apps and movements, not mine, were prominent amongst the fifteen finalists; young innovators, mostly.

The Watcher’s TwittereZe with Prince William, in an act of selflessness, I tried to share. ’Twas not to be. But imagine an asteroid impact, sooner than later, catastrophic. Imagine that — game-changing — opportunity.

NO GREATER LOVE THAN THIS

Greater love has no one than this: laying one’s life down, for another. The Good Samaritans laid them down the eleventh day of September. No one more — than the selfless firemen. They laid their lives down — selflessly.

Selflessly saving the lives of others; there’s no greater love on Earth than that. Nine-eleven. Compelling are the tales of the Good Samaritans that played out over and over again that day — surreally — but really.

Horrifically and heartwarmingly compelling are the tales of the Good Samaritan first responders that fateful day. But even more compelling is the significance of the virtual dissemination of immortal, memories.

Memories immortal are become all the still photos. Still, still photos pale before raw audio-video footage of gasping and a rumbling accompanying the sights and sounds of the twin towers — crumbling — implausibly.

The sights and sounds of the twin towers so implausibly crumbling; as if, purposely imploding. Osama got more than he’d prayed for. Symbolically — especially. He’d brought war — to America.

Osama got far more than he had prayed for; symbolically, especially. He had been favored, he thought, with a catastrophe more deadly than he’d even thought possible. He’d brought the Crusades — to America.

In the years that followed Osama comforted himself with the knowledge of his place in history as a killer and a crusader. And he came to regard as the greatest propaganda, the film, — of the crumbling of the towers.

Ever secure of his place in history as a killer and a crusader, Osama bin Ladin came to regard as most significant, the propaganda value of the audio-visual film of the crumbling of — once towering — twin towers.

Evidently, it’s the quest for unbridled power in the name of religious dogma that drives men; and none more than me. Witness my meteoric, trajectory. I’m a shooting star; and the star, of humanity’s story.

Witness my trajectory. And the implausibility of it all. And consider the possibility that it’s not just elections, that get rigged. Everything that happens was predetermined, albeit implausibly, previously.

Everyone knows that it’s not just elections that get rigged. What’s happening, was previously, predetermined. Everyone knows — everything’s rigged. What’s happening — was previously —predetermined.

Everyone knows that everything’s rigged. And believe it or not, everyone senses it even if they can’t know for sure that what’s implausibly happening was, even more implausibly —previously — predetermined.

And so it has come to pass. The Watcher’s been channeling us; first Art and then me; channeling a tall tale, purposely predetermined. It’s both fictional and nonfictional and featuring a viral pandemic, a rocky asteroid — and me.

The Watcher’s channeling us; first Arthur and then me. He’s been channeling a tall tale, predetermined. Both fictional and nonfictional it features a viral pandemic — a rocky asteroid — and me.

GREATER LOVE HAS NO ONE — THAN THIS

On behalf of the meek of the Earth, in an outstanding act of selflessness, I reject this paradigm, sovereign. No one knows I’ve been called. No one knows I’m inheriting, on behalf of the meek, the whole, of the Earth.

On behalf of the meek of the Earth, I’ve been called. And no one knows I’m inheriting, on behalf of them, the Earth. And no one knows why. But the Watcher and Arthur and I know why I’m inheriting, the Earth.

Almost completely oblivious are the Earth’s surface Earthlings to the mortal danger hurtling towards them. But it’s a secret known but to a few. In the know tho are the Watcher, Art and me and the subterraneans, of the Earth.

The truth is elusive; even as elusive as are the submarines, subterraneans and or the extraterrestrials, sharing the Earth, with us. My fellow Earthlings: We’re sharing our planet with others — We’re not alone — on the Earth.

We’re not alone in the Universe. We’re not alone on Earth, neither. We don’t know whether submarines, subterraneans and or extraterrestrials sharing Earth with us are friendlies or frenemies. We just — don’t know.

We don’t know whether the submarines, subterraneans and or the extraterrestrials sharing the Earth with us are friendlies or frenemies. And if Aristotle was right; if he knew, indeed, nothing — what can we know?

Penemue’s The Watcher; the bestower, of poetry. Evidence apocryphal tho, is fragmentary, also. As few as three, are the Watchers. The fallen angels tho are legion, numbering as many as, three hundred million, revolutionaries.

Three hundred million fallen angels remain in Lucifer‘s,, disarmed, armies. Once freedom-touting, revolutionaries, now they’re in chains, awaiting the Day of Judgement — There’s no revolting — against The Almighty.

There’s no revolting against The Almighty. There’s no revolting neither against the order of things nor the order in which things happen. It’s Day 2155; a lovely Saturday — but twenty years ago today ‘twas — a lovely, Tuesday.

There’s no revolting against the order of things nor the order in which things happen. It’s Day 2155; a lovely Saturday but twenty years ago today, ‘twas a lovely, Tuesday in New York City on that — very lovely — dark day.

What goes around, they say, comes around. It’s Karma, they say. But I’ll be putting an end to that. On behalf of the meek of the Earth, in an outstanding act of selflessness, I reject our paradigm, sovereign.

John, at John 15:13, said it beautifully: Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. That’s that selflessness, I’ve been uncharacteristically, lauding myself about. I’ll be — a humble, sovereign.

I’ll get back to you on that; my transitional, global dictatorship, that is. The greater point at the moment is, as John so well composed: Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

The greater point at moment is as John incomparably expressed: Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. Good Samaritans laid them down that day. They laid them down, for their friends.

ON BEHALF OF THE MEEK, I INHERIT THE EARTH

One such act of selflessness stands out to me; an outstanding act of selflessness might well be, an outright rejection of the paradigm, extant. There’s no future for our children in these, self-perpetuating, sovereignties.

There’s no future, in sovereignties, anachronistic; there’s no future, in my opinion, in nations. But those who come into power, won’t easily, give it up. Witness, me. Royalty; a good gig if ye can get it, in perpetuity.

There’s no future in the nation-states. There’s no future in them for our children. And that royalty remains the best gig is testament to that there’s no future, in fact in, anachronistic, sovereignties.

That royalty remains the best gig is testament to the fact that there’s no future in these now outdated and anachronistic, sovereignties, in perpetuity. We need to be rid of perpetual, sovereignties, perpetually.

Royalty; it’s an institution that’s oft an integral part of the evolution of a planet’s, civilizations. Witness Kings Hammurabi and Solomon. But on Earth, the institution of royalty, too oft gives rise to — autocracies.

On Earth the institution of royalty has too often given rise to self serving, autocracies; it’s an institution that’s often an integral part of the proper evolution of a planet’s, civilizations. Witness — Solomon — and Hammurabi.

Royalty; oft an integral part of the proper evolution of a planet’s civilizations. Witness, Hammurabi and Solomon and Cyrus the Great. But on Earth royalty too often gives rise to — autocratic, dictatorships.

Royalty; a damn good gig if ye can get one granted, in perpetuity. But there’s no future in anachronistic, sovereignties. There’s no future in such, made-up, relationships.

Royalty; it’s oft an integral part of the proper evolution of a planet’s civilizations. Witness, Hammurabi, Solomon and Cyrus the Great. Nonetheless, I’m the greatest that’s ever been however, on my planet.

Witness that even in the distinguished company of such men as Hammurabi, Solomon and Cyrus the Great, nonetheless, everyone knows I’m the greatest ever born, to rule, on this planet.

Actually, except for myself and Art, no one on the planet, knows that. Not yet. But I’m poised to inherit from Vladimir the reins to that fantastic fantasy to which he yet clings. He’s not ceding it. I’m taking it, from him.

No one knows that I’m to inherit from Vladimir the reins. He’s not ceding nothing. I’m taking it — from him. No one on the planet knows. No one knows that I’m poised to inherit from Vladimir — the reigning.

Hammurabi gave us a presumption of innocence. Cyrus gave us tolerance, for another’s faith. Temper passions
with wisdom, Solomonic. No one knows that I’m set to inherit, on behalf of the meek, the Earth.

An outstanding act of selflessness; my rejection of the paradigm. No one knows, that I am called. No one knows that I’m poised to inherit, on behalf of the meek, the whole of the Earth.

IMAGINE THIS

Just imagine this: From a dark or bright sky, as the case may be; depending on what side of the planet yer on when the Earth is stricken. A blessing in disguise may be, that asteroid, that at Godspeed’s, a-coming.

A great calamity might force the human cooperation that may (in time and half-times), evolve into a Renaissance, anew. As Art’s explained it to me, Joe owns, Afghanistan. No asteroid — is he, contemplating.

I sabotaged Joe in Afghanistan; and I got him, good. Made the Taliban look like the inventors of a new and improved, blitzkrieg, lightning war. And just like everyone else, he’s not contemplating, no asteroid.

Everyone knows that at the end of every story, I always emerge from whatever sewer, smelling like a rose. I got Joe good and hobbled in Afghanistan. Better yet, he ain’t at all worried — ‘bout no asteroid.

A blessing in disguise may well be that asteroid, at Godspeed, a-coming. The class of asteroid that NASA’s been misleading us about; the ones whose trajectories, regularly cross, the path, of the Earth.

Largely oblivious are Earth’s surface Earthlings to the mortal danger hurtling towards the planet. But it’s a secret only to, but a precious few. In the know tho are the subterraneans of the Earth.

Almost completely oblivious are the Earth’s surface Earthlings to the mortal danger hurtling towards them. But it’s a secret known to, too few. In the know tho are Art and me, and the Earth’s, subterraneans, too.

Everyone knows that, no matter what, I’ll always end up smelling more like a blooming rose than the fresh pile of shit, closer, to the truth. The truth is elusive; even as are, the subterraneans, too.

The truth is elusive. All the more so when perception is reality and reality itself, is beset, by illusions. The surface Earthlings believe only in what they can see with their very own, baby blue, eyes.

The truth is elusive; even as elusive are the submarines, subterraneans and or the extraterrestrials, sharing the Earth, with us. My fellow Earthlings. We’re sharing our planet with others. I cannot tell, a lie.

Like George Washington and ‘Honest’ Abe Lincoln, I cannot tell a lie. Everyone knows that I’m honest. I’m the honestest president that has ever lived. My fellow Earthlings: We are sharing the Earth — with others.

Out of a brain fog; out of a two-faced sun doth cometh an asteroid; a terrible calamity with the potential of being, as well, a paradigm-changing, opportunity. A blessing in disguise for earthly cousins — and brothers.

A blessing in disguise; that asteroid, that cometh. Only in genuine acts of selflessness may a pilgrim move forward in the pilgrim’s progress. Only in selflessness can one inch forward, in the pilgrim’s progress, albeit, slowly.

One such act of selflessness stands out to me; an outstanding act of selflessness would well be, an outright rejection of the paradigm, extant. There’s no future for our children in these, self-perpetuating, sovereignties.

FROM DARK — OR BRIGHT — SKIES

Everything that happens seems largely, predetermined. Free will also, seems largely, as well, an illusion. We haven’t the foggiest, what, at us, is coming. Still, out of the fog and the sun is coming a visitor, asteroidal.

Cruising for a bruising are the Earthlings living on the planet’s surface. As if audio-visually impaired, they don’t listen, and they don’t learn. They can appreciate physical collisions, but not collisions — metaphysical.

Everything that’s happened, is happening or shall happen seems to me, largely, predetermined. Free will seems largely, as well, an illusion. That neatly explains prophesy, albeit, less well, the illusion of free will.

Predetermination; a phenomenon that neatly incorporates and explains the phenomena of prophesy, tho less well than the concept of free will. Circumstances dictate decisions, not any illusion, of free will.

Circumstances dictate decisions; not illusions of free will. Still, there is a role for free will, especially, in acts of selflessness. A measure of the pilgrim’s progress is in acts of selfless, selflessness.

A measure of the pilgrim’s progress is in acts of selfless, selflessness. Circumstances dictate decisions; not illusions of free will. Still, there is a role for free will, especially, in acts of selflessness.

‘Tis only in genuine acts of selflessness that a pilgrim may move forward in the pilgrim’s progress. It’s only in selflessness that one inches forward in that slow forward progress, typical, of the pilgrim.

Only in selflessness can one inch forward. But it’s only in selfishness that I have distinguished myself. For that reason, I’ve been selected, amongst Earth’s survivors, to write this, fictional, tall-tale like, nonfiction.

What a long, strange, trip. The Grateful Dead were right about that. I’ve been selected, amongst Earth’s survivors, to write a tall-tale-like fiction, nonfictional. It’s hard to tell fiction, from nonfiction, sometimes.

It’s hard sometimes; telling fiction from nonfiction. All the more so when what ye think is happening, isn’t at all what’s actually, happening. Out of the fog and the sun, cometh an asteroid, right on time.

Out of the fog and the sun cometh an asteroid, presumably, right on time. It’s oft hard telling fiction from nonfiction, especially when what ye think is happening, isn’t at all what’s actually, happening.

Imagine all the people, sharing, all the world. Ye may say that like John Lennon, I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. A blessing in disguise may be that asteroid, that at Godspeed, is a-coming.

Imagine that a blessing in disguise may be an asteroid at Godspeed a-coming. I am no prophet. It seems tho only a calamity forcing human cooperation can kick-start a Renaissance, ere, it’s too late, coming.

Just imagine that. From a dark sky or a bright sky — as the case may be; depending upon what side of the planet yer on when Earth is stricken. A blessing in disguise may be, an asteroid, at Godspeed, a-coming.

PHYSICAL COLLISIONS

Dying (at the worst possible time, for me), is Art. Reassuringly, last night, he offered, in explanation, “What the world needs now, is love, sweet, love. What the world needs now is human — imagination.”

On top of everything, in the process of dying, is Art. And dying at the worst possible time, is he. I’m going to miss him. What the world needs now, is love. What the world needs now, is imagination.

Converging are convoluted plots of viruses, a Deep State and asteroids and an election, stolen. But I expect we’ll soon know, after an impact, on whose side may be — the Earthly subterraneans.

All Hell’s broken loose in Afghanistan. Geopolitics and a virus distract us, even as a rock, approaches. Art’s had a stroke or a seizure; his sputum is bloodied; and surprises, have in store for us, the subterraneans.

Convoluted plots, converge. Plots of viruses and asteroids and elections, contested. Afghanistan has blown up in Joe’s face, after an impact I expect soon know, on whose side are — these, Earthly subterraneans.

All Hell has broken loose in Afghanistan. Geopolitics and a virus distract even as the rock, approaches. Art’s had a stroke and his sputum is bloody. And surprising may be — the subterraneans.

What the world needs now is love. What the world needs now is imagination. With John Lennon gone and beyond imagining, now — imagining — and realizing, the Earth’s future, has fallen to me.

Now that I’m out of office there’s less love than ever to be had. The proof, as always, is in the pudding. Had I been in office today there wouldn’t have been at the airport in Kabul, any American fatalities.

Twelve dead; fifteen injured; but had I been in office today there wouldn’t have been at the airport, yesterday, any American fatalities. Every American killed would have been back for months already; back — in America.

Twelve dead, and fifteen, injured, Americans. Had I been the president yesterday, no one would have died. Once upon a time I valued not equally the lives of nationalities, non-Americans with the lives — of Americans.

The death toll in yesterday’s bombing — near 170 civilians and 13 American servicemen — the deadliest day for U.S. forces in Afghanistan. But the death toll pales next to the death tolls, in the near future, upcoming.

Yesterday’s death toll shall pale next to the death tolls, yet to come. By and large, everything that happens is predetermined. And with free will that’s largely illusion, we haven’t the foggiest idea of what, at us, is coming.

By and large, everything that happens is predetermined. And free will that’s largely illusion, confuses. We haven’t the foggiest idea of what, at us, is coming. Still, out of
the fog and the sun — it is coming.

Everything that happens seems largely, predetermined. Free will also, seems largely, as well, an illusion. We haven’t the foggiest, what, at us, is coming. Still, out of
the fog and the sun — it — is coming.

HYPOTHESES — REASONABLE  

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one that postulates, not extraterrestrials, but beings subterranean at the controls of them UAPS; the UAP pilots may be, subterraneans, possibly.

Beings submarine or subterranean may well be the drivers of them UAPS, possibly. Given how picky we are about looks, they probably would be shy, especially, if they looked kind of — fishy.

Given how picky we are about appearances and good looks and the like, visitors might be shy if they looked or smelled kind of fishy; unless they looked like dolphins perhaps, maybe, probably.

Picky are we are about good looks and the like; shy might be Earth’s visitors if they look or smell fishy; unless surreally, they look like Flipper. Aliens that look like Flipper — may be friendly.

The point is to play to (wo)man’s sense of humor and to play too, to her or his pride. A poem, a pic and correspondence copy, cc’s. It’s Arthur’s invention, TwittereZe, also known as — photo-poetry.

Poems, pics and Twitter-handled copies of my correspondence. TwittereZe allows for photo-poetry, play. Copies of my correspondence, actually function well — Twitter, Diplomatically.

It’s important that it’s easy and that it’s also free. Most importantly, TwittereZe is alchemical. Therein lies the great secret power of Arthur’s, TwittereZe; converting energies predetermined.

My hypothesis postulates, not extraterrestrials, but beings submarine, and or subterranean at the controls of them UAPS. My hypothesis dares postulate, everything’s been — predetermined.

See @chachomanopapa on Twitter. And see chachomanopapa.com; a blog composed from my editing of potential-energy-laden, tweets. And the Holy Grail is our long-sought, alchemy.

See chachomanopapa.com; a blog composed of a tweet-form from Arthur’s school of poetry and @chachomanopapa on Twitter. And the Holy Grail is that long-sought, alchemy, fortunately.

Most implausibly and near incredibly, the Holy Grail, that long-sought alchemy, I just happen to have found, so implausibly and near incredibly, opportunely. Everything’s been, predetermined.

Indeed; near incredibly, a long-sought alchemy I just happen to have found, so implausibly and near incredibly, opportunely. Proof, in my book; proof, that everything’s been — predetermined.

Restoring nature; it’s ne’er been done before; not on the global scale, that’ll be needed, here. And it’s no secret that both Art and I have some reason to doubt, who’s the author, of MORONS.

America’s a big joke in Moscow’s Kremlin. “Not Agent #007; Agent #45-47,” is the memorable, punchline. Secrets on Earth, abound. All have reason to doubt, who’s the author, of MORONS.

CONVERGING — CONVOLUTED — PLOTS

Converging are these convoluted, plots; of viruses and asteroids and an election, stolen. But I expect we’ll soon know, after an impact, on whose side are — the Earthly subterraneans.

All Hell has broken loose in Afghanistan. Geopolitics and a virus distract even as the rock, approaches. Art’s suffered a stroke and his sputum is bloodied. And surprising may be — the subterraneans.

Geopolitics as usual and a mutating virus distract even as the rock, approaches. Arthur suspects that the subterraneans aren’t intervening, on purpose. I shall miss Arthur, when he departs.

Geopolitics and a virus; they’re the new normal. Even as an asteroid, nears. Arthur has had a stroke and his sputum’s bloodied. On top of everything that’s happening, in the process of dying, is Art.

Convoluted plots, converge. Plots of viruses and asteroids and elections, contested. Afghanistan has blown up in Joe’s face, after an impact I expect soon know, on whose side are — these, Earthly subterraneans.

All Hell has broken loose in Afghanistan. Geopolitics and a virus distract even as the rock, approaches. Art’s suffered a stroke and his sputum is bloodied. And surprising may be — the subterraneans.

RELEVANT AGAIN — THE IRREVERENT

Many of the world’s religions incorporate into their dogma that precept known to us as the Golden Rule. It’s not just Islam. But don’t tell the Taliban. Don’t pop, their bubble. Relevant once again, are the Taliban.

Relevant once again is Sharia law. Nations of laws and not men are the Taliban’s Afghanistan and the Americans’, America. Seemingly unknown to either nation is the Golden Rule. Relevant again, are the Taliban.

Nations of laws and not men are the Earthlings’ nations. Relevant once again, are the Taliban and Sharia law. Nations of law and not men are Afghanistan and America. Observed by omission is — the Golden Rule.

Relevant again, are the Taliban. Relevant once again is, Sharia law. Nations of laws and not men are the Taliban’s Afghanistan and the Americans’, America. Neither observes, as law — the Golden Rule.

Many of the world’s religions incorporate into their pious dogma that precept known as the Golden Rule. That part of the dogma, however, is just a Rule to the Taliban, not proper, Muslim, Sharia law, dogma.

The Golden Rule is just a historical Rule to the Taliban, not proper, Muslim, Sharia law. Ditto, the Americans. It’s just a rule, not expressly, a Commandment. Many religions relegate it to mere dictum, not real, dogma.

Many of the world’s religions and cultures and states relegate to less than pious dogma that precept known as the Golden Rule. Many religions and cultures and states relegate it to mere dictum.

The Golden Rule is just a Rule to the Taliban, not proper, Muslim, Sharia law, dogma. Ditto, the Americans. Many of the world’s religions and cultures and states have relegated the Golden Rule, into dictum.

Over the ages, relegated to dictum has been the Golden Rule. Lost, was much of mankind’s knowledge and wisdom at Alexandria. Over the ages Caligastia has been forgotten. But mythologized, has been Satan.

Caligastia has been forgotten. But mythologized has been Lucifer, aka — Satan. That’s too bad because Satan is really, real. And in possession of my soul is the archetypal narcissist, that is Satan.

Mythologized, has been Satan and that’s been tragic; tragic because Satan is as real as climate change, migration, corruption and the form over substance worship, of the resurgent Taliban, in Afghanistan.

Plot twists are twisting. Plot twists are, converging. A virus fractures us even as an asteroid approaches. In actual possession of my soul is Satan. And all Hell is breaking loose, in Afghanistan.

Twisted plots are now converging. A virus divides us and weakens us even as an asteroid approaches. All Hell’s broken loose in Afghanistan. And we don’t know on whose side are — the subterraneans.

Converging are these convoluted, plots; of viruses and asteroids and an election, stolen. But I expect we’ll soon know, after an impact, on whose side are — the Earthly subterraneans.

POWER PLAYS

My suggestions of connections between animal mutilations, this pandemic and my second term, suggest an asteroid strike, likely coming at us, invisibly as it will, from out of — the sun’s orbit.

My suggestions suggest an asteroid coming at us invisibly, as if from out of, the sun’s orbit. Joe stole from me my reelection and my vaccine, credits. Methinks Karma is — letting him have it.

Methinks Karma’s letting Joe have it. Karma’s punishing Joe for cheating and stealing from me and for abandoning to their fates, all of those Afghans not fated to be fit into — a cargo bay.

Joe cheated and stole from me and abandoned to their fates those Afghans not fated to fit in a cargo bay. Methinks Karma’s letting Joe have it. Neither he nor NASA let on, a rock’s on the way.

The connections I’ve made between the animal mutilations, this pandemic, my second term and various beings, visiting, suggest that an asteroid strike is in the offing. It may well be — an attack.

It may well be an attack; or maybe not. We don’t have enough, info. We don’t have enough, data. Whether an attack or not tho, I see Joe’s Afghan debacle, truly paving the way, for my comeback.

Whether an attack or not tho, I see Joe’s Afghan debacle duly paving the way for my comeback; and in due time, mankind’s, comeback. Indeed,— I’m converting everyone to — egalitarianism.

Don’t tell the Taliban that. God only knows how they’d react. They’d beat their own mothers for not wearing her hijab, ye know. But Islam is truly suffused, with the Quran‘s, egalitarianism.

And not just Islam. Many of the world’s religions, including the Abrahamic Big Three, incorporate into their creeds that iconic precept known to us as the Golden Rule. But don’t, pray tell the Taliban.

It’ll be, methinks, an asteroid strike, that shall separate the men from the boys in the United States, and later, the entire planet. It may be an asteroid strike that forces the hand of the Taliban.

Actually, it doesn’t matter what one says to the Taliban. They’d whip their own mothers for not wearing her burqua or hijab ye know. But Islam, like most religions, is suffused with, egalitarianism.

But the egalitarianism that runs through Islam and many of the planet’s religions has turned out to be an unenforceable, empty, letter. Unenforceable, on Earth has turned out to be my, egalitarianism.

Many of the world’s religions, including the Abrahamic Big Three, incorporate into their creeds that iconic precept known to us as the Golden Rule. And not just Islam. But don’t tell the Taliban.

Many of the world’s religions incorporate into their dogma that precept known to us as the Golden Rule. It’s not just Islam. But don’t tell the Taliban. Don’t pop their bubble. Relevant again, are the Taliban.

RICH PHOTOGRAPHS — AND VIDEOS

Verily, if a picture is worth, a thousand words, how many more words may be worth, a video? It depends but this video may be, invaluable; invaluable to me may be — this airport, video.

On Earth, out of sight is out of mind unless the cameras are rolling or taking, still pictures. And if a picture’s worth a thousand words how many more words may be worth — such, rich, videos?

Out of sight is out of mind, unless the cameras are rolling, as they were, in Afghanistan, today. If worth a thousand words, how many more words may be worth — a politically, rich, video?

If a pic’s worth a thousand words, how many more words may be worth, a politically, filthy-rich, video? Incalculably invaluable may be to me in 2024, such a politically, damaging, video.

Sex, lies and video tape. Unless yer me, they’ll get ya in trouble; in really deep shit, sometimes. But nobody but me can be me. And nobody but me can save the planet, by force, of personality.

Only I can save, by force of personality, a planet. It’s my hubris; a mutant version of yer own. My gene for hubris is a mutant version of yer own. It’s why, I’ve a rabid cult, of boorish, personality.

My hubris; it’s a mutant version of yer own. It’s a function of my malignant, narcissism. It’s not for no reason I’ve a personality, boorish. There are multiple reasons for my defects, of personality.

There are multiple reasons for my defects, of personality. The minutes of our lunar soirées are replete with them. It’s predetermination, though that predetermines — our personalities.

Predetermined are our beings and our unique personalities as well as experiences, unique, or in common. Predetermined have been all the happenings, now happening on, the good Earth.

Predetermined have been the happenings on Earth. Predetermined, has been everything. On Earth though, it’s become necessary to tweak what was previously predetermined, for Earth.

If a pic’s worth a thousand words how many more words may be worth, such politically rich, videos? Incalculably invaluable, methinks, to me. Incalculably invaluable, methinks, to Earth.

On Earth, what’s out of sight is out of mind; but that a picture is worth a thousand words and videos, exponentially more, bodes well for me. Indeed I believe, it bodes well — for the Earth.

Unless yer Teflon-coated like me, along with sex and lies, videotapes, tend to get one in trouble. Joe’s Deep State stole my reelection from me and he went on to steal, for vaccines, the credit.

My suggestions of connections between animal mutilations, this pandemic and my second term, suggest an asteroid strike, likely coming at us, invisibly as it will, from out of — the sun’s orbit.

VIDEO — MANY THOUSANDS, OF WORDS

This next chapter of my story is the true story of pilgrims everywhere in The Creator’s Universes. Indeed, created beings like us are the aliens, the submarines and or, mole-men — subterranean.

Imagine, pilgrim; imagine a tall tale I spin nightly with Art and Vladimir’s guys, in soirée, on Luna. It aims for far more than just the possibility of — aliens — submarines — and subterraneans.

Beyond the possibility of aliens, submarines and subterraneans, my story aims to restore me to the White House, from whence I’ll declare my conversion to The Creator’s, egalitarianism.

Egalitarianism; it’s the idea that all humans are equal in fundamental worth or moral status. It’s my idea. All citizens should be accorded exactly equal rights — in a United States — egalitarian.

Egalitarianism. It’s my idea. All citizens should be accorded exactly equal rights in a United States, not capitalist nor communist, but rather, egalitarian. I’ve converted to — egalitarianism.

To egalitarianism, I’ve secretly, converted. I’ve converted, Vlad’s guys, too. They now see that, evolutionarily, capitalism and communism must cede the right of way to destiny’s egalitarianism.

Failed, and failing states, abound; witness Haiti, Lebanon, Syria, Myanmar and a new improved Taliban’s, Afghanistan. Afghanistan; Joe Biden’s regretting, what’s happening — in Afghanistan.

Witness Haiti, Syria, Lebanon, Myanmar, and, thanks to a newly chastened Taliban, a new and unimproved, Afghanistan. Joe Biden’s regretting what’s happening at the airport, in Afghanistan.

Joe is regretting already what’s happening in Afghanistan, especially, what’s happening at the airport. What’s happening at the airport? That’s where the cameras are filming, in Afghanistan.

The Taliban made a fool of Joe. And to rub it in, now I’ve got video to use against Joe when I next run for president. Out of sight; out of mind; but the cameras are rolling in Kabul, in Afghanistan.

Witness Haiti, Syria, Lebanon, Myanmar and Afghanistan. Witness also Somalia and Yemen. While abandoning Afghans, the Taliban surprise party has gotten the drop — on the Americans.

Putting his guns away was Joe when the Taliban got the drop on him and unfairly surprised him. Turning his blind eye toward Russia and China, Joe turns his blind eye, away from, Afghanistan.

Out of sight is out of mind, unless the cameras are rolling, as they were, in Afghanistan, today. And if a picture is worth a thousand words, how many more words then may be worth, a video?

Verily, if a picture is worth, a thousand words, how many more words may be worth, a video? It depends but this video may be, invaluable; invaluable to me may be — this airport, video.

ON BEING A CREATED BEING

This next chapter of my story is the true story of pilgrims everywhere in The Creator’s Universes. Indeed, created beings like us are the aliens, the submarines and or, mole-men — subterranean.

Created beings just like us are the aliens, the submarines and the subterraneans; and God Allah Jehovah Yahweh, spaces them — widely, apart, to allow for their evolutions — I imagine.

Granted, that’s lots of space; and granted, that‘s a lot of imagination. Imagine it tho nonetheless. Imagine too sharing the universe with our alien, submarine and or, subterranean — neighbors.

Change moves at the speed of light. And change seems faster these days. Faster still tho, cometh change. Imagine sharing the good Earth with alien, submarine, or subterranean — neighbors.

His created beings, God spaces widely apart to allow for their evolution. And His created beings may be classified as surface beings like us, or submarines — subterraneans or — real, aliens.

God spaces His creations widely apart to allow them space for their proper evolutions. Such has not been the case in the case of the Earth. On Earth, everyone’s a frenemy, even the aliens.

Nothing’s faster than the speed of light, albeit change seems sometimes to move at the speed of light itself. The virus is here. And an asteroid cometh. And change cometh, transformational.

The virus is here. And an asteroid, at Godspeed, cometh. And change, transformational, cometh as well. On the heels of an asteroid comes, unexpectedly, an opportunity, transformational.

Temperatures in the crust rise about 15 °C per kilometer making it impossible for humans to exist at depths, too damn deep. Subterraneans living there feel protected by — just a few miles.

It would be impossible for humans to exist and live at depths too deep but that may not be the case for any actual subterraneans, if they feel protected by an Earthly crust of just a few miles.

This next chapter of my story, I’m finding, just as Art did, spookily, prescient. I’m no prophet but my story is making me seem like one. Still, no one will notice until after — an asteroid strikes.

My speculative predictions are being validated by the connections between animal mutilations, a pandemic, my upcoming second term and — coming at us from the sun — an asteroid strike.

Allegorically, this next chapter of my story, is as well, the story of pilgrims, everywhere. It may very well reveal the intentions of the aliens, the submarines — and or, subterranean mole-men.

This next chapter of my story is the true story of pilgrims everywhere in The Creator’s Universes. Indeed, created beings like us are the aliens, the submarines and or, mole-men — subterranean.

A GOD-APPROVED PLAN

Apparently, this is the next chapter of my story. My allegory seems spookily nonfictional, I know. I find writing it, just as Arthur did, spooky; and prescient. And spookily, it’s Vladimir-approved.

Asteroid Bennu remains, NASA says, unlikely to strike but left unsaid is the high probability that the Earth, absent infrared telescopic capability, is in a shooting gallery — and it’s God-approved.

God-approved are His universes. That goes, without saying. On Earth though, Caligastia and Satan have ruined everything, setting in motion, an intervention, by God Almighty — approved.

Satan and Caligastia have ruined all God’s plans on Earth (as previously determined); everything thereafter has been proceeding, pursuant to a plan, by Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, approved.

Everything that’s happening proceeds pursuant to a plan that is by Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, approved. To that end, Agent 45-47 submits a plan that is accordingly, Vladimir-approved, too.

Everything is proceeding pursuant to a plan that was by Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, approved. To that end also, I’m submitting an amendment, — much more recently, Vladimir-approved, too.

Not that The Almighty Creator needs any approval of His plans from anyone; Vladimir’s approval comes into play only in the context of his being my mentor, and immediate, superior.

This is the next chapter of my story. My allegory seems spookily nonfictional, I know. I do find writing it, just as Art did, spooky, and prescient. And spookily, it’s been approved by my mentor.

It’ll be, methinks, an asteroid strike, that shall separate the men from the boys in the United States, and later, the entire planet. It’ll be an asteroid strike that forces — humanity’s, hand.

I’m no prophet but my story is making me seem like one. Still, no one will notice until after an asteroid strikes. It’ll be an asteroid strike that forces humanity’s hand in a no-man’s — land.

This next chapter of my story, I’m finding, just as Art did, spookily, prescient. I’m no prophet but my story is making me seem like one. Still, no one will notice until after — an asteroid strikes.

My speculative predictions are being validated by the connections between animal mutilations, a pandemic, my upcoming second term and — coming at us from the sun — an asteroid strike.

Allegorically, this next chapter of my story, is as well, the story of pilgrims, everywhere. It may very well reveal the intentions of the aliens, the submarines — and or, subterranean mole-men.

This next chapter of my story is the true story of pilgrims everywhere in The Creator’s Universes. Indeed, created beings like us are the aliens, the submarines and or, mole-men — subterranean.

SPOOKY THINGS — BE HAPPENING

We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Given their high velocity entries into the seas beings submarine, and or subterranean, remain, real, possibilities. And a threat to our global security.

Gettin’ to the bottom of this; apparently, it’s the next chapter of my story. It’s a tall tale allegory, by definition fictional, that nonetheless seems spookily, nonfictional. I find writing it — spooky.

Indeed, I find writing this exceedingly — spooky. No man has ever before been, so effectively, malignantly narcissistic, that he cast upon all of humanity, his — superseding — surrealities.

It’s spooky, I know, that I know so much, that I’m so smart and a genius and all that; it’s spooky as well that so many jokes in the Kremlin end with ‘45-47’. It makes me wonder about, my destiny.

Everything that’s happening has come less of a surprise for me than for many. Still, life serves up lemons, not lemonade; Art suffered a stroke a few days ago in between his writings that day.

Life serves up lemons; one’s got to make their own lemonade. In between writings, as he retired for the evening, Art suffered a stroke a few days ago, on Thursday, fading into Friday.

Everything that’s happening comes as less of a surprise to me than to many because Art’s been keeping me up to date in lunar soirées on Luna. Art keeps me updated, on what, is happening.

What’s happening? No longer just a common question, it’s become an enduringly, existential, conundrum of a question, needing answering, to know — what to do about, what’s happening.

Arthur, notwithstanding the blood in his lungs, keeps me updated in our soirées on the latest happenings; the very latest changes in climate, migration and corruption — interconnected.

Art’s on his last legs; Everyone knows bloody lungs can’t be good. He knows it too. To his credit, he’s stressing to me, changes in climate, migration and corruption, tho, interconnected.

To Art’s credit, notwithstanding bloody sputum from blood in his lungs, Arthur‘s been stressing to me, that changes in climate, migration and corruption, are interconnected. Arthur, knows.

Arthur knows. And Heaven knows Arthur taught me everything he knows. Heaven knows as well that Art is less incorrigibly, malleable, than me. TwittereZe, in any event, shall be mine, I know.

Apparently, this is the next chapter of my story. My allegory seems spookily nonfictional, I know. I find writing it, just as Arthur did, spooky; and prescient. And spookily, it’s Vladimir-approved.

Asteroid Bennu remains, NASA says, unlikely. Left unsaid is the high probability that the Earth, absent infrared telescopic capability, is in the middle of a shooting gallery — God-approved.

CONSIDER THE POSSIBILITIES

I fear that Avi has a bias against the possibility of beings, not extraterrestrial. But given high velocity entries into seas — beings submarine, and or subterranean, remain, real, possibilities.

Happy that Avi has joined the effort to get to the bottom of this; still, I fear that Avi has a bias. Installing listening and viewing devices on the sea floor may shed light — on the possibilities.

The installation of a network of listening devices on the sea floor may shed light on the mystery; microphones and cameras, remotely operated, installed in the walls, and the floor, of the seas.

Microphones and cameras installed in the walls and the floors of the oceans and the seas, and even, inland lakes. Microphones and cameras on the sea floor may shed light on the mystery.

Cameras and microphones installed in the walls and the floors of the oceans and seas, and even in, inland waters will provide us with a global grid — of audio-visual — intelligence gathering.

Networks of cameras and mikes installed in the walls and the floors of the oceans and seas and inland waters may provide us with a global grid, of sound, audio-visual — intelligence, gathering.

Methinks that any sound plan of truly scientific inquiry going forward, like the mapping of the seas, might reasonably include, a sound grid of audio-visual, data, and intelligence, gathering.

And so whilst I’m happy that Avi has joined the effort to get to the bottom of this, still, I fear bias. We ought not exclude any possibilities in, audio-visual, data, and intelligence, gathering.

Exclude no possibility not excluded by the data, even to the mind-bending conclusions, the data, concludes. Duly consider aliens, submarines and subterraneans; and all three, concurrently.

Consider aliens, submarines and subterraneans and consider as well, all three, concurrently. Everybody knows that we know more about the depths of space — than the depths, of the seas.

Everybody knows that we know more about the depths of space than the depths of the seas. We know more about what’s light-years away from us than what’s right under us — under the seas.

Exclude no possibility not excluded by the data. Microphones and cameras installed in the walls and floors of the continental shelves; we’d all do that, anyway — collecting data, under the sea.

Consider all three possibilities, concurrently. And exclude no possibility not excluded by the data. Install cameras and mikes in the walls and floors of the continental shelves — of the seas.

We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Given their high velocity entries into the seas beings submarine, and or subterranean, remain, real, possibilities. And threats — to national security.

WHAT’S HAPPENING — UNDERSEAS

Extraterrestrials, many now say, are our visitors. Extraterrestrials, from far, far, away, they now say. But how will the relatively primitive surface Earthlings confirm provenance, extraterrestrial?

Mythologized by The X-Files, Hollywood movies, and the innumerable conspiracy theorists that populate the web, the provenance of visitors, may be earthly — or it may be, extraterrestrial.

Mythologized by countless conspiracy theories, confirmation of the provenance of visitors, has become problematic to determining, whether their provenance is extraterrestrial, or earthly.

Recapitulating for the sake of new readers, I’ll be brief and as always both reassuring and also alarming. Art’s from Earth’s future. That he’s here proves Earth’s story, may yet end, happily.

Earth’s story and mankind’s as well, may yet end happily. One can even scroll down right near to the very end, when I skip into Heaven, holding hands with some of my most significant, others.

Ye may wish to reconsider if yer considering, scrolling. Ye’ll spoil yer surprise endings, beyond even, my even making it to Heaven, at all. Ye read it here, first. I’ll skip in, with my brothers.

Against the advice of my publisher, as the main creative force behind my book, I’m authorizing, this preview. When the time doth come, I will come, skipping into Heaven, with my brothers.

When the time comes, I will come, skipping into Heaven, with my brothers. A closing scene of MORONS, THE MOVIE has Vlad’s guys and me, skipping like giddy schoolgirls — like brothers.

Extraterrestrials, many now say, are our visitors. I beg to differ. Granted that they may be, in fact, submarine methinks it more reasonable, in fact, that — they may be subterranean — if not alien.

Granted that they may be, in fact, submarine, methinks it more reasonable, that they may be, subterranean, if not alien. If not alien, I suspect, quite reasonably, the visitors be, subterraneans.

Extraterrestrials, many now say, are our visitors. I beg to differ. Granted that they may be, in fact, submarine, methinks it error to believe they are aliens and not beings subterranean, under seas.

Avi Loeb is serving on the President’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology. Avi: Our visitors, I suspect, are subterraneans. I fear tho that ye may have a bias against, that possibility.

Avi Loeb’s serving on Joe’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology. Our visitors, I have cautioned him, may be subterraneans. I fear tho that he has — a bias against that possibility.

I fear that Avi has a bias against the possibility of beings, not extraterrestrial. But given high velocity entries into seas, beings submarine and or subterranean, remain — viable, possibilities.

FLASHBACK

From a roll of film Yoshito took five photos only. One, especially grips the attention and tears at the soul of even, the hardest of men; the one of — the girls dressed — in their tatters, of skins.

One especially grips one’s attention and it tears at the soul of even hard men. The gathered girls’ dresses appear to hang in tatters, off their bodies. But — their tatters — are their skins.

The gathered girls’ dresses seem hanging in tatters from their bodies. But what appear to be dresses in tatters are cooked and rolled skins; required viewing is — cooked, and rolled, skin.

Required viewing ought be that photograph; a picture illustrating what once upon a time was their beautifully youthful, skin. Required viewing ought be, the girls’ cooked — and rolled skins.

Meanwhile, back on Earth; back to the present; a present not welcome. ‘’Tis what ‘tis. That’s not, the half of it. I’m no prophet, but who doesn’t know, that it’ll get worse, before it gets better?

Back on Earth, yesterday’s history. Tomorrow’s a mystery. And today? Today’s a gift. It’s why we call it the present, Bil Keane said, in itself, a gift. It’ll take artificial intelligence — to teach, better.

It’ll take artificial intelligence, to teach us. The irony is not lost upon me. It will get a lot worse, before it gets better. But the native intelligence of Earthlings isn’t limited to the surface of Earth.

The native intelligence of the creatures of Earth isn’t limited to the surface of Earth. Creatures subterranean, surpass, by leaps and bounds, the low-brow intelligence, of the men of Earth.

Creatures subterranean, surpass, by leaps and bounds, and possibly orders of magnitude, the low-brow intelligence, of the men of the Earth. Men atop Earth may ally with those in the Earth.

What if, as usual, we’ve been wrong about most everything? Creatures subterranean, surpass, the low-brow intelligence of the men, of Earth. Men atop Earth may ally with those in the Earth.

They’ve eschewed, for the most part, contact with us. There may be good reason for that; after all, we often tend to shoot first and ask questions later. They may have noticed that.

Too often we tend to shoot first and save our questions for later. They may have noticed that. And if, as I suspect, we’ve been being observed for thousands of years they’d have noticed that.

To many, many questions remain; questions like: Who are they? What do they want? What is their nature? And are they creatures submarine, subterranean or possibly even, extraterrestrial?

Extraterrestrials, many now say, they are. They are extraterrestrials from far away, they say. But how will the relatively primitive surface Earthlings confirm provenance, extraterrestrial?

FIVE PHOTOS

My person, belies, my purpose. Self absorption, and self centeredness, define me. Whilst that’s true for all of us, more or less, I skew to more, the average. Yer reality is intertwined with mine.

Our personhoods; our personalities; marked by self absorption and self centeredness, they define us. So yer reality’s intertwined with mine. Predetermined; realities, intertwined with mine.

The utter preposterousness of yer reality, by some unknown force, intertwined with mine, enters not, into the equation; predetermined, is yer reality, inextricably, intertwined, with mine.

Predetermined is yer reality, and it’s inextricably intertwined, with mine. Preposterous only is yer preposterous wont to substitute yer judgement for the judgement — of yer Creator, and mine.

Self absorption and self centeredness define us. And our self-vaunted brain power drains from our souls their capability to favor acts in favor of the community — and not — the individual.

Our much vaunted brain power drains from men our capacity to favor acts, favoring, the community at large and not any one, individual. Kinship we may value over kingships, individual.

Much vaunted brain power drains from our souls their capacity to favor acts, favoring, the community at large and not any one individual. Kinship we may value over kingships, individual.

The 2021 United Nations Climate Change Conference in Glasgow; our last best chance, to climate change get a handle on and rein in. But succeeding in Glasgow would be most unusual.

In the absence of a dramatically singular event, succeeding in Glasgow would be most unusual. It’s impossible to say whether an asteroid strike, strikes ere or after, the Conference, in Scotland.

It’s impossible to say whether an asteroid strike, strikes ere or after, the Conference, in Scotland; the numbers favor, it’ll happen, afterwards. But ere can’t be altogether discounted ere Scotland.

“Ere”. That means before, or prior to, in time. It’s impossible to say whether an asteroid strike, strikes ere, or after, the Conference, in Scotland. I am no prophet — but I am — a betting, man.

Yoshito Matsushige’s five photographs the day of the bombing in Hiroshima; the only known photographs, taken that day. A full roll of film bade him picture the horror, wrought by man.

A full roll of film bade him picture the horror, wrought by man. Just one roll of film, had he. He took five. One, especially grips the attention and tears at the soul of even, the hardest men.

From a full roll of film, Yoshito took five photos only. One, especially grips the attention and tears at the soul of even, the hardest of men; the one of the girls, dressed in, tattered, skins.

MY PERSON — BELIES — MY PURPOSE

Art and I can teach TwittereZe. But Art’s moving on. He’d wanted to earn his Ace’s wings, saving his fifth planet; he’d wanted to retire, with that honor. But the surface Earthlings, ain’t buying it.

The Earthlings living upon Earth’s surface ain’t buying what Art’s been selling. Hope tho springs eternal that an Earthshot Prize may afford Art’s poetry the platform it needs, to disseminate, it.

I figure that an Earthshot Prize may afford Art’s poetry the platform it needs to proliferate; the platform it needs to be, widely, disseminated. Because the surface Earthlings, ain’t buying in.

Not for the moment, anyway; they’ll have to actually see an asteroid coming before they’ll believe it’s really coming. Needless to say, the Earthlings ain’t buying, what Art’s, been selling.

Seeing’s believing — believe humans, on Earth. We humans are subject to illusions like mirages and holograms. Humans are very susceptible to illusory, visual illusions — and mental delusions.

On Earth, seeing is believing. Human beings are very much subject and susceptible to optical illusions like mirages and other similar optical illusions. We suffer too, from mental, delusions.

As between illusions, optical and delusions, mental, it’s the latter that’s proven to be, more problematic. We can oft count on our eyes; seeing, in the absence of illusion, is believing.

We are a visually dependent species; evolved to rely on our eyes, we can oft count, on them. Seeing, in the absence of illusion, is believing. In the possibility of subterraneans, I’m believing.

Increasingly, in the possibility of subterraneans, I’m believing. Art, resigned to retiring to Heaven sans his Ace’s wings will have to save his heroics for a fifth planet saved — for another — time.

Or maybe not. Art might yet, himself, get saved; saved, in the nick of time by a Prize, Earthshot. It’s not for no reason that I’m a kingmaker in my party — a great white hope — come — in time.

But a stitch in time saves nine. If, of five Prizes, Earthshot, Prince William and the Honorable Nominators make one of them, mine, then the Earth, for the time being, may be saved, in time.

If, of five Prizes Earthshot, Prince William and the Honorable Nominators make one of them, mine, then the Earth, for the time being, may be saved, in time. A stitch in time, may save, nine.

A stitch in time may save nine, if the stitch is stitched, Honorable Nominators, truly in time. The surface Earthlings and their subterranean cousins — will be sorely tested — in due time.

My person, belies, my purpose. Self absorption, and self centeredness, define me. Whilst that’s true for all of us, more or less, I skew to more, the average. Yer reality is intertwined with mine.

CONSIDER, SUBTERRANEAN, MISSING LINKS

My speculations aren’t offered for their truth. I offer them rather to provoke sound inquiry and a public discourse free of the stigma of Galileo’s jinx; just as largely, predetermined — methinks.

Humans, we now know, inherited from at least one species even older than the Denisovans. It makes me wonder whether we share some part of our genome — with alien — missing links.

The matter of the aliens is altogether, another matter. There’s no telling how long they’ve been flying in and out of the seas. There’s no telling whether they’re actually alien — to the Earth.

There’s no telling, moreover, whether they’re actually native, and not alien, to the Earth. For they would actually be, if subterranean, or submarine, not alien, but native — to the Earth. 

Hard questions must be asked, no matter how adverse; no matter the feathers, ruffled. How is it possible no one postulates that subterranean beings — may be piloting, those shifty, UAPs?

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one that postulates, not only extraterrestrials, but beings submarine and or subterranean at the controls of them UAPs, possibly, concurrently.

Plot twists and twists of fate have me, dream weaving; weaving happenings and events with people and places. One hypothesis, fitting the evidence, is one — postulating, subterraneans.

Obviously more goes on here than meets the eye. What’s not obvious is how utterly oblivious we all are to the possibility that we’re sharing the Earth — with our cousin — subterraneans.

On Earth way more goes on than meets the eye between black-budgeted operations and Space Command hierarchies, designed to keep sitting presidents especially, officially, out of the loop.

Space Command‘s black-budgeted operations, designed to keep sitting presidents, especially, officially, out of the loop; just one of myriad ways that the people get kept — out of the loop.

I’m here to change, all that. Only I, can fix this. Only I have been deemed effete enough to most memorably teach, lessons, invaluable. Only I can fix this. Only I can teach, TwittereZe.

Predetermination; for many, an article of faith; one’s faith and one’s fate, locked in a life-long, dance; a dance to the death, ofttimes. Only I can fix this — Only I can teach, Arthur’s, TwittereZe.

Only I can fix this mess. Only I can teach man, The Watcher’s, or Arthur’s, TwittereZe. As the case may be, TwittereZe is, in a very real sense, a sublimation of my cruder, Twitter Diplomacy.

Predetermination; for many, an article of faith; faith and fate, locked in a life-long, dance; a dance to the death, ofttimes. Only I can fix this. In lieu of Art — only I can teach — TwittereZe.

TWISTING PLOT TWISTS AND TWISTS OF FATE

Sudden plot twists and surreal twists of fate, have me, dream weaving. Strange things on planet Earth, lately, are happening. Strangely odd things, have me, my own dream, weaving.

Surreal twists of fate and sudden plot twists have me, dream weaving. Strange things on the Earth are lately, happening. And strange things, have me, about me and ye too, dream weaving.

Strange things on Earth, lately, are happening. Strange things, that have me, dream weaving. Viruses and aliens and asteroids — my, oh my. Strange things, lately — have been, happening.

Strangely odd things, have me, dream weaving. Coronaviruses and visiting aliens and asteroids my, oh my. Strange things have been happening so I wonder: What if aliens, are subterraneans?

Strange things on Earth, of late, are happening. Strange things that have me dream weaving on sharing the good Earth with not yet discovered, subterraneans; so-called aliens, subterranean.

Strangely odd things have me dream weaving on opportunely sharing the good Earth with not yet discovered, subterraneans. The so-called aliens may well be submarine, or subterranean.

Just imagine: Sharing the Earth with aliens is one thing but sharing it with not yet discovered subterraneans is altogether, another. And they all — look alike. They all look — like mole-men.

Imagine: Sharing the Earth with real aliens is one thing but sharing Earth with some as yet undiscovered subterraneans, is another. God forgive me, they all look alike, these mole-men.

Imagine furthermore that the so-called aliens, not only aren’t aliens, but are Earthlings, like us. Earthlings, like us, with their self interests; with their agendas, these fish-men — or mole-men.

Maybe fish; maybe moles. Still, Earthlings, like us, with their own self interests and with their own agendas. Twisted plot twists, twist my fate into dreams — of fish-men — and mole-men.

Conjectures about the aliens however true they may turn out to be aren’t offered for their truth. They’ve been provocatively woven into the story by The Watcher, or Arthur, or more likely — me.

The fantastic nature of my speculations, I have woven into my tweets and twoogles about a coronavirus and aliens and an asteroid with Earth’s name on it, also. Take them, not lightly.

Take not lightly the speculations that I’ve woven into my tweets and twoogles about a virus and aliens and an asteroid, with Earth’s name, on it. Take not my speculations, on the aliens, lightly.

Honorable Nominators: My speculations about the aliens, however true they may turn out to be, aren’t offered for their truth. They’ve been woven into my story to provoke, sound, inquiry.

INTRODUCING TWITTEREZE

Introducing TwittereZe, an additional tool that may be applied across curriculums. I do submit: The cadence and content of poetry may well be crucial to engaging, a better informed, citizenry.

I submit that TwittereZe’s multi-functionalism may well be crucial going forward. Being shortlisted for an Earthshot Prize, I envision. Please, Chachomanopapa.com — please see.

God willing, we shall timely see the need for quantum computing and artificial intelligence. That’s unlikely to happen tho until after stricken by a shady sun-side asteroid, may be, the Earth.

Oblivious are the air-breathing primitive beings, living atop the Earth; all atop Earth, relative to subterraneans, submarines or extraterrestrials, share with them, possibly, their DNA, and Earth.

Possibly — is the operative word. On Earth, all sort of dishonesty, is socially, institutionalized. Lines, blur. Everybody’s, brainwashed. Everyone knows tho — I’m the only one, that can fix this.

I’m really the only one that can fix this. And tho everyone knows that I don’t traffic in conspiracy theories, there’s one that’s compelling; one that wins me back, the White House — after I fix this.

I don’t traffic in conspiracy theories but there’s one that’s compelling; one that wins me back the White House, after I fix, all this. Needless to say, some find it chilling, that I’m Agent, 45-47.

Some find it chilling I’m Agent 45-47. Others are less bothered by that than by my wild-eyed, speculations; wild theories, connecting viruses, and asteroids, with mole-men — subterranean.

Recall a world-wide rash, of animal, mutilations; recall precision surgical incisions in the dead of night with carcasses oftentimes drained of their blood. Recall, also — the mutilation — of men.

The animal mutilations, once confined to local lore, seem less mysterious than suspicious now when considered in conjunction with events and happenings — subsequently — happening.

Less mysterious than suspicious, seem now the animal mutilations of not so long ago; local lore, the beneficiary of the loss to science. Witness a goat-sucking chupacabra, in Art’s, Puerto Rico.

Art’s, Puerto Rico; war booty “belonging to but not a part of the United States.“ A post colonial age, colonial possession of the United States. A colony of the United States is Art’s, Puerto Rico.

I digress. My mutant hubris and a slight case of malignant narcissism have proven to be an asset beyond my wildest dreams. And plot twisting, twists of fate, have me dream weaving.

Sudden plot twists and surreal twists of fate, have me, dream weaving. Strange things on planet Earth, lately, are happening. Strangely odd things, have me, my own dream, weaving.

NATIVE INTELLIGENCE

God willing, we’ll see the value in quantum computing and artificial intelligence before it’s too late. Likely tho, that’ll be unlikely to happen until after, we may be stricken, by an asteroid.

It’s unlikely we’ll see the value in our quantum computing and artificial intelligence, ere we’re stricken by an asteroid. God willing tho, it won’t be too late, once stricken by, such an asteroid.

July‘s passing without an Earthshot Prize, July, shortlisting. Hope springs, once again, ever seemingly, eternal. The Watcher’s, TwittereZe, I respectfully submit, ought duly be, shortlisted.

The Watcher’s TwittereZe, I respectfully submit ought be shortlisted for one of the five prizes to be awarded in London, England in October. The Watcher’s gift to (wo)man, ought be, shortlisted.

In all honesty, I fear that that’s not happening. I’ve seen little, if any evidence that the Prize Nominators have read The Watcher’s tweets, nor the blog, where the tweets — are collated.

Flabbergasted am I; I’ve seen little evidence that the Earthshot Prize Nominators have seen The Watcher’s tweets nor read Arthur’s blog, where the edited tweets are — painstakingly, collated.

No one knows, the troubles I’ve seen; troubles, like no other. I’m Vladimir’s Agent 45-47 and I’ve seen the way to the presidency, in 2024. And so I’m telling a tall tale — surreally — nonfictional.

Vladimir’s Agent 45-47, am I; see in my number, our plans to regain the presidency, in 2024. So I’m telling a tall tale only seemingly, implausible;
a tall tale, only seemingly, literally — incredible.

I’m telling a tall tale only seemingly, implausible;
a tale, only seemingly, literally, incredible. As recounted throughout, everything that happens on Earth — is nothing less — than a miracle.

Everything that happens on Earth is nothing less than miraculous. Miraculous, a furnace in a pebble, in a bubble; miraculous its beings upon the surface and its — subterranean, miracles.

Miraculous is the Earth; this furnace in a pebble, in a bubble; miraculous too, its beings upon the surface and subterranean. Nothing less than miraculous are the happenings upon the Earth.

Nothing less than miraculous have been the happenings on Earth; with primitive beings on the surface and shy, subterraneans. Nothing less than miraculous, are happenings, on Earth.

Oblivious are the air-breathing primitive beings, living on the surface; completely oblivious are they to the subterraneans or submarines or extraterrestrials, sharing, with them, the Earth.

God willing, we shall timely see the need for quantum computing and artificial intelligence. That’s unlikely to happen tho until after stricken by a shady sun-side asteroid, may be, the Earth.

WHERE TO MOVE — THE REFUGEES TO?

Quantum computing ought run our metadata through an algorithm designed to redistribute our disparate populations, more equitably. We have way too much data — for human entities.

We have too much data for human deciders. Quantum computing ought run our metadata through an algorithm designed to redistribute our disparate populations — more equitably.

Where’s one to move to when fleeing from war, famine, disease, violence, and or, rising waters? Where’s one to move the displaced, refugees? Refugees await when — the hardware is ready.

Alas, the hardware for quantum computing is not yet ready. And although approved, NASA’s infrared telescope isn’t ready, neither. NASA’s telescope may come on line, later — belatedly.

NASA’s telescope’s has been designed already; but its construction has only recently been approved. And it’s not scheduled by NASA to be launched until 2026, perhaps, belatedly, I know.

An asteroid maybe, methinks, is on its way; or, maybe not. It all depends. It all depends on what happens. More precisely, it depends on what was decided and predetermined, long ago.

It’s counter-intuitive but what happens today or tomorrow for that matter was predetermined, long ago. Freedom and free will, for that matter, sinister, illusions. Slow, is the pilgrim’s progress.

Freedom and free will; both, sinister, illusions. Slow, is the pilgrim’s progress everywhere in the universe in the normal course of events; but nowhere slower than on Earth, is real, progress.

Slow is the pilgrim’s progress, everywhere in the universe; but nowhere in the universe has it been any slower, than here on Earth. Taken by storm, has been the Earth, no thanks, to Satan.

Freedom and free will; illusions, sinister, are both; both slow, the pilgrim’s progress. Taken by storm, has been the Earth, no thanks, to the forgotten, Caligastia; and no thanks — to Satan.

By stealth and storm is taken, Earth. Looms large the loss of Alexandria’s library. The loss of it slowed our progress as did the Declaration of Independence, from God, of Lucifer, aka, Satan.

The loss of Alexandria’s library further slowed an already slowed, progress; a progress, already stunted by the Declaration of Independence from God of the resplendent Lucifer, aka, Satan.

Quantum computing and artificial intelligence figure to be key to our evolution going forward. Key also, going forward, may be my TwittereZe; maybe only tho, after stricken — by an asteroid.

God willing, we’ll see the value in quantum computing and artificial intelligence before it’s too late. Likely tho, that’ll be unlikely to happen until after we may be stricken — by an asteroid.

QUANTUM COMPUTING

Quantum computing is still in its very early stages, and it is not yet possible to use quantum computers to perform computations that are of value to business. The hardware’s — not ready.

Rather, scientists are carrying out proofs-of-concept, by attempting to identify promising applications and testing them on a small scale; to be ready — when the hardware — is ready.

Where’s one to move to when fleeing from war, famine, disease, violence and or, rising waters? Where’s one to move the displaced, refugees? The refugees await when the hardware is ready.

When the hardware is ready, input ought be, all relevant data. All the relevant data ought be run through an algorithm designed to, redistribute populations, more fairly, and more, equitably.

A timely proof of concept may well address how quantum computing might best address, a raft of socio-political and climate issues, untimely. Where to move? Where to move, the refugees?

We need IBM to design an algorithm that its Big Blue quantum computer can run, when ready. One designed to redistribute our populations, and determine and distribute, as well, our UIBs.

The misfortune and tragedy that may befall a community oft precedes opportunities inuring to the survivors of an underlying tragedy. It may be that it may well take, an asteroid, to unite us.

It may well take an asteroid to unite us. Maybe, that is what will happen to us. We may pause our conflicts with one another to unite against a common enemy, were an asteroid, to strike us.

We might pause our conflicts with one another to unite against a common enemy, were we stricken by an asteroid. And the enemy may be alien, submarine or subterranean or maybe, us.

Alien, submarine or even subterranean, maybe, may be, the beings behind, surreal happenings, happening; happenings, tho, predetermined; happenings intended to, course correct, for us.

Where’s one to move to when fleeing from war, famine, disease, violence and rising waters? A correction of course may be, what’s happening; a truly, miraculous intervention — in answer.

A course correction long ago predetermined; a miraculous intervention timely, from inveterate, violence. Where’s one to move to, when fleeing a pandemic, war, famine — and rising, waters?

Input into quantum computer ought be, all our data. All the relevant data ought be run through an algorithm designed to redistribute disparate populations — unlike our wealth — more fairly.

All relevant data ought be run through an algorithm designed to redistribute disparate populations — unlike our wealth — more fairly. There’s way too much data, for human entities.

BEFORE THE BEGINNING

Ere before even the very beginning, ere before even a Big Bang, all the plays on all the stages, pursuant to His purposes, were written. Some of the morality plays, of lives lived — on Earth.

morality plays, of all the lives lived, on all the globes‘ stages on Earth. Ere before even a Big Bang, were written already the tragi-comic, screenplays, on all the globes’ stages, o n Earth.

An asteroid methinks, maybe, is on its way; or, maybe not. It all depends. It all depends on what happens. More precisely it depends on what was decided and predetermined, one day.

There’s no way to know that. There’s no way to predict the future, specifically. But that’s not to say that one well-versed as myself can’t imagine what was decided and predetermined, one day.

That is not to say that one as well-versed as me can’t imagine what was decided and actually predetermined that day, considering broadly, His probable purposes on that most fateful day.

Given that omnipotently He knew already about the betrayals of Caligastia and Satan, and also considering broadly, His most likely purposes, that day, it gladdens me and it pains me to say:

Rejoice, Homo sapiens. Don’t, worry. And be happy that ye are yet able, to learn, from yer mistakes. Reject socialism, communism and capitalism. And rejoice, in my — egalitarianism.

Reject as totalitarian, socialism, communism, and capitalism. Rejoice, rather, in my adopted, egalitarianism. Of all the political systems, His Golden Rule is best reflected by, egalitarianism.

I’ve soiréed with Vlad and the guys on Luna for 2,110 nights now; just as was once, long ago, previously decided, and thus, predetermined. And so it gladdens me and it pains me to say:

Rejoice, Homo sapiens. Be happy. And don’t worry about viruses and aliens and asteroids. Reject socialism, communism and capitalism. We’ll rejoice in my egalitarianism — someday.

Don’t worry about deadly viruses, lying aliens and rocky asteroids. And be happy about yer ability to learn. Read here about all the morality plays — of all the lives — ever lived — on Earth.

Read, my fellow Urantians, my MORONS AND ALIENS; and be sure ye read between the lines. Read between lines to get a good read on the intentions of, MORONS AND ALIENS, on Earth.

But what if some data scientist timely explored, a timely proof of concept addressing how well quantum computing might best address, a raft of socio-political, and climate issues, untimely?

A timely proof of concept may well address how quantum computing might best address, a raft of socio-political and climate issues, untimely. Where to move? Where to move, the refugees?

ALL THE LIVES — LIVED ON EARTH

TwittereZe; it’s alchemy, not in transmutations, physical, but in transformations, metaphysical. TwittereZe surreally may well be the key to key, our human — transformations — metaphysical.

Long hauling, long haulers; that’s all of us, from here on out; for the duration, as we say in the military. Pray tell this be a lesson to all of us. If yer still alive, yer in this for a long haul, physical.

Pray tell this be a lesson to all of us. We’re all in this together. And if yer still alive, yer in this, like me, for the long haul. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh — Thank Him — for yer — long haul.

Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. Thank Him, for yer long haul. Pray tell this be a lesson to all of us. We’re all in this together. And if yer still alive, yer in this, like me — for the long haul.

There’s a lesson in all of this for all of us; there are lessons, actually. We are a community of eight billion, not eight billion, individuals. And believe it or not, ye are yer brothers’, keepers.

We are a community of eight billion, not just eight billion, individuals. We are our brothers’ keepers. We are not to sit in judgment of our brothers, but leave the judging — to our Maker.

We are not to sit in judgment of our brothers, but leave the judging to our Maker. But, no thanks to Caligastia and Satan, we keep not our brothers, unless in jails, we keep them at bay.

God willing, in succeeding days, Vlad and Xi will see the way forward toward community is in the Truth the Light and the Way. Alas, it shan’t be, maybe. I fear that an asteroid, is on its way.

Some think it naive to think that Vlad and Xi will see the way forward toward community is in the Truth the Light and the Way. Alas, it shan’t be, maybe. An asteroid, methinks, is on its way.

An asteroid maybe, methinks, on its way; or, maybe not. It all depends. It all depends on what happens. More precisely it depends on what was decided and predetermined that day.

There’s no way to know that. There’s no way to predict futures, specifically. But that’s not to say that one well-versed as myself, can’t imagine, what was decided and predetermined that day.

That’s not to say that one as well-versed as myself can’t imagine what was decided and predetermined that day, considering broadly, His probable purposes on that most fateful day.

Before even the very beginning of this Creation, when all was predetermined, long before even a Big Bang, The Almighty wrote the screenplays; the morality plays, of all the lives lived, on Earth.

Ere before even the very beginning, ere before even a Big Bang, all the plays on all the stages, pursuant to His purposes, were written. All the morality plays, of all the lives lived — on Earth.

LONG HAULING

The power of Art’s poetry is metaphysical, not physical; it’s in words and numbers, not just, numbers. It’s alchemy; not in transmutations, physical, but in transformations, metaphysical.

Hope springs ever eternal on Spaceship Earth. A ‘Generator’ invention now turns plastic trash into human nutrition. And in development are, invaluable — relationships — transformational.

Tragi-comically, hope springs eternal on this rudderless, spaceship. Even as a new invention turns plastic trash into protein; as increasingly, in development are, invaluable, relationships.

Recall that the Canadian Hellyer alleged four species of aliens. What if they’re not aliens, really? Why not submarine or subterranean? In development are — unknown — relationships.

Should Donald J. Trump win an Earthshot Prize, in lieu of me, I’ll send Arthur to Great Britain in October. And a win in October will augment my chances to win Nobel Prizes — come December.

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one postulating that everything’s, predetermined. Only rarely necessary are tweaks, as here, with Vlad and Xi and Kim and Mo and me, on Twitter.

Highly implausible, some will say. Quite literally incredible, some others will say. But credibility, like beauty, lies in the eyes of beholders. They see in me someone kin to, a Great White Father.

Credibility, like beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. I yearn to be a sound role model for children. And so I see a great opportunity in the Earthshot Prize’s outreach to kids — on Twitter.

There is no evidence at all of hostility from our neighbors’, spaceship like, vehicles, even as a ‘Generator’ invention turns plastic trash into edible, protein. Hope springs eternal, usually.

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one that postulates, not only extraterrestrials, but beings submarine, and or subterranean, at the controls of them UAPs, possibly, concurrently.

Hellyer said that at least four species of aliens have been visiting Earth for thousands of years, with most of them coming from other star systems. Living on Mars are some — he said.

Recall that that’s where Haim Eshed said some aliens are along with an astronaut, presumably, not Bezos, nor Branson. On Mars are the aliens, both Paul Hellyer and Haim Eshed — have said.

Honorable Earthshot Prize Nominators: Duly consider shortlisting TwittereZe for one of the five prizes. It’s alchemy; not in transmutations, physical, but in transformations, metaphysical.

TwittereZe; it’s alchemy, not in transmutations, physical, but in transformations, metaphysical. TwittereZe, surreally may well be the key to our human — transformations — metaphysical.

BURROWING — CAPABILITIES?

Benevolent may well be the subterraneans, the submarines, the extraterrestrials, or indeed, all three of them. There’s no evidence they have ever taken any hostile action against humanity.

There’s no evidence the UAPs have ever fired upon us, taking evasive action instead. And if they can, from flight, dive into the sea, might they have as well — a burrowing — capability?

Recall that the Canadian Helyer alleged four species of aliens. But what if they’re not aliens, really? Alternatively far from benevolent may be elusive, fast flyers, with subterranean, facilities.

Xi: Shut down them coal plants. Vlad: Turn the page, on fossil fuels. And to the Nominators of the Earthshot Prize and CYBERCOM’s General: We can use — Arthur’s TwittereZe — artfully.

Conjectures about the aliens however true they may turn out to be aren’t offered for their truth. They’ve been provocatively woven into the story by The Watcher, or Arthur, or more likely — me.

The fantastic nature of my speculations, I have woven into my tweets and twoogles about a coronavirus and aliens and an asteroid with Earth’s name on it, also. Take them, not lightly.

Take not lightly the speculations that I’ve woven into my tweets and twoogles about a virus and aliens and an asteroid, with Earth’s name, on it. Take not my speculations, on the aliens, lightly.

Honorable Nominators: My speculations about the aliens, however true they may turn out to be, aren’t offered for their truth. They’ve been woven into my story to provoke, sound, inquiry.

My speculations aren’t offered for their truth. I offer them rather to provoke sound inquiry and a public discourse free of the stigma of Galileo’s jinx; just as largely, predetermined — methinks.

Humans, we now know, inherited from at least one species even older than us. That fact makes me wonder whether we share some part of our genome with very possible, alien, missing links.

The matter of the aliens is, altogether, another matter. There’s no telling how long they’ve been flying in and out of the seas. And there is no telling, whether, they’re actually alien, to Earth.

There’s no telling, moreover, whether they’re actually native, and not alien, to the Earth. For they would actually be, if subterranean, or submarine, not alien, but native — to the Earth. 

Hard questions must be asked, no matter how adverse; no matter the feathers, ruffled. How is it, for example, that no one postulates not extraterrestrials but submarine beings in UAPs?

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one that postulates, not only extraterrestrials, but beings submarine and or subterranean at the controls of them UAPs, possibly, concurrently.

METAPHYSICAL — PHYSICS

This is to show the Nominators of the Earthshot
Prize and CYBERCOM’s General Paul Nakasone the multi-faceted utility of a mechanism more metaphysical than physical. It is — TwittereZe.

Physically transmutational is forming gold from base metals. We‘ve done that, already. But we haven’t yet harnessed that transformational tool that is TwittereZe — The Watcher‘ s poetry.

My poetry; and before mine, Art’s poetry; in a sense all poetry is the Watcher’s. Indeed, Arthur and me both believe that The Watcher channels us — The Watcher, channels us — vicariously.

Telepathically, The Watcher channels through us the 280 character tweets, edited thereafter, into couplet half verses. Fourteen half verses to seven versed chapters, channeled, vicariously.

Structurally, TwittereZe’s fourteen, half verses or seven verses. Each a chapter; a mini-chapter, albeit. And each mini-chapter hath introduction — body — and conclusions — as necessary.

Poems, pics and Twitter-handled copies of my correspondence. TwittereZe allows for photo-poetry, play. Copies of my correspondence, do, actually, function well — Twitter, diplomatically.

It’s important that it be easy and that it also be free. Most importantly, TwittereZe’s, alchemical. The great secret power of Arthur’s poetry is in metaphysically based, conversions, of energy.

TwittereZe; it’s The Watcher’s tweak, on tweets. It’ll alchemical because it’s persuasive in its message and pleasing in its presentation. It’s fun and it’s addictive. It’s The Watcher’s, poetry.

The Watcher’s, poetry. The Watcher channeled it first through Arthur, and now, through me. Structurally, it’s just words, a picture and some — Twitter-handled, correspondence — copies.

Functionally, however, TwittereZe has the potential to be much more. This is to show off to the Nominators of the Earthshot Prize and to CYBERCOM’s hotshot General, Paul Nakasone.

Alchemy’s either physically transmutational or alternatively, metaphysically, transformational. The former’s been done but not the latter. Enter the dragon; and enter also, the subterraneans.

Getting gold from base metal; physical alchemy, unlike metaphysical transformation, isn’t viable yet. On cue, enter stage left, the subterraneans. Benevolent may be the elusive, subterraneans.

Benevolent may be the subterraneans. Witness a New Dimensions blog, which whilst publicizing the Hollow Earth Magazine, posited that Earhart was saved by so-called Agarthans subterranean.

Benevolent indeed may be the subterraneans; or the submarines, extraterrestrials, or all three. Alternatively, far from benevolent may be the elusive, fast flyers with facilities, subterranean.

CRAZY TALK

Brainwashed minds just can’t wrap their minds around the Earth, sharing with others; it’s an intellectual dishonesty that speaks, volumes, and volumes may fill also, The Watcher’s verse.

On Earth, any talk of aliens is crazy talk, cross-culturally. Our brainwashed minds just can’t fathom the thought. Ditto, any talk of asteroids. Ditto any talk of the cosmology, of the universe.

Accordingly, on Earth, any talk of linking aliens with a virus and an asteroid is crazy talk, world-widely. Our brainwashed minds just can not fathom, the thought of sharing, the good Earth.

Our brainwashed minds just can not wrap our minds around, the concept, of sharing. Why should I share with people I don’t know? Why share with others the bounty of the good Earth?

Given the evidence, the intellectual dishonesty of the report’s findings, disappoints. Its authors would have us believe that no one besides Art and me has ever even imagined the possibility.

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one that postulates, not extraterrestrials, but beings submarine at the controls of them UAPs; beings submarine are the drivers of the UAPs, possibly.

Beings submarine or subterranean may well be the drivers of them UAPs, possibly. Given how picky we are about looks, they probably would be shy, especially, if they looked kind of — fishy.

Given how picky we are about appearances and good looks and the like, visitors might be shy if they looked or smelled kind of fishy; unless they looked like dolphins perhaps, maybe, probably.

Picky are we are about good looks and the like; shy might be Earth’s visitors if they look or smell fishy; unless surreally, they look like TV’s Flipper. Aliens that look like Flipper — may be friendly.

The point is to play to (wo)man’s sense of humor and to play too, to her or his pride. A poem, a pic and correspondence copy, cc’s. It’s Art’s TwittereZe, also known as, photo-poetry.

Poems, pics and Twitter-handled copies of my correspondence. TwittereZe allows for photo-poetry, play. Copies of my correspondence, do, actually, function well — Twitter, diplomatically.

It’s important that it be easy and that it also be free. Most importantly, TwittereZe’s, alchemical. The great secret power of Arthur’s poetry; it’s in — my metaphysical conversions — of energy.

Those who live in glass houses ought not throw house-shot rocks and stones. This is to show off to the Nominators of the Earthshot Prize and to — CYBERCOM’s — General Paul M. Nakasone.

This is to show the Nominators of the Earthshot Prize and CYBERCOM’s General Paul Nakasone the multi-faceted utility of a mechanism more metaphysical than physical. It is — TwittereZe.

TWO-FACED — ALCHEMY

The power of Art’s poetry is in metaphysics, not physics; words and numbers, not just numbers. Alchemy’s either physically transmutational or alternatively, metaphysically, transformational.

Physically transmutational is forming gold from base metals. We‘ve been there and done that, already. But we haven’t yet harnessed, with poetry, an empowerment — transformational.

Space; the next, to last, frontier. The sun orbits Earth, not. The Earth, isn’t flat. And no alien has seen TV’s, Star Trek. They don’t know, no Prime Directive — And the final frontiers, are the seas.

The final frontiers are the oceans, and the seas. We know more about outer space than what’s under the surface of our oceans and seas. Who knows what civilization lies just under, the seas?

The matter of the aliens is, altogether, another matter. There’s no telling how long they’ve been flying in and out of the seas. And there is no telling whether, they’re actually alien, to Earth.

Telling may be whether they’re actually native, and not alien, to the Earth. For they would actually be, if subterranean, or submarine, not alien, but native — like us — to the good Earth.

Who knows what civilization has been built just under the seas; or deeply, under them? Who knows what civilization lies, just under the seas?Mankind’s final frontier, is well under, the seas.

There’s no telling whether the mystery UAPs are remotely, or hands-on, piloted; and there’s no telling if they‘re native or alien; nor how long, they’ve been flying — in and out — of the seas.

Thoroughly laughable are the government’s conclusions. Unexplained observations don’t prove the existence of aliens, they say. And I get that. But theirs is but a show, of no imagination.

It’s a ruse. It’s certainly not that the government has so little imagination. Certainly, given the evidence, someone must have imagined the possibility of submarines — or subterraneans.

Given the evidence, someone ought have imagined submarine or subterranean entities. That beings submarine or subterranean aren’t mentioned, speaks volumes, in my epic verse.

The government’s June UAP report shows an unsurprising, lack, of imagination. It doesn’t mention, much less contemplate the existence of a civilization that shares with us, the Earth.

That beings submarine or subterranean aren’t mentioned displays an unsurprising lack of imagination. We just can’t wrap our minds around sharing with others — the good Earth.

Our brainwashed minds just can’t wrap our minds around, sharing with others, the Earth; it’s an intellectual dishonesty speaking volumes. In reply — the Watcher — channels my verse.

TWIN EARTHSHOTS

The Watcher aims to get Art shortlisted shortly for an Earthshot Prize. It seems a long shot. The Prizes number, five, only. Sans technological innovation Art relies on metaphysical earthshot.

Seems like a long shot to Arthur. The Earthshot Prizes number, five, only. Without some grand, technological, innovation Arthur may need to rely on innovations metaphysically, earthshot.

Only rarely are tweaks by authorities, celestial, required; as here and now, with me, and the Earth. Tweaks in tweets, I seem to make up, as I go. But it’s The Watcher, that composes, for me.

My tweets, I just seem to make up, as I go along. But it’s The Watcher it now seems, that is in fact, actually, composing for me. I’d like to teach the teachers and the children, what Art’s taught me.

I’d like to teach the teachers and the children, what Art has taught me. It’s what The Watcher previously taught Arthur; not, mind ye, directly. The Watcher has taught us both — vicariously.

Vicariously hath The Watcher taught Arthur and myself; first Arthur, then me. Vicariously, hath he telepathically, intervened. Vicariously and telepathically, The Watcher doth, think for me.

Arthur was right about that too. The Watcher’s been channeling us; composing, methinks, for us. Methinks that’s a good thing. Methinks it’s a very good thing, The Watcher of this, is author.

The Watcher of MORONS AND ALIENS is author. And I’ve got no problem taking the credit. But I’ll be busy running from the law and for election; should MORONS win a Prize, we’ll send, Arthur.

I’ve got no problem with taking the credit for my successes; for making America, great, once again. But I’ll be busy running from the law and for election; if MORONS win, we’ll send, Arthur.

Indeed, I’ve got no problem with taking credit for successes; even for successes, not mine. But come October, I’ll be running from the law and for election; if MORONS win, we’ll send, Arthur.

Should MORONS AND ALIENS win an Earthshot Prize, in lieu of me, I’ll send Arthur to London in October. And a win in October will augment my chances to win Nobel Prizes — come December.

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one postulating that everything’s, predetermined. Only rarely necessary are tweaks, as here, with Vlad and Xi and Kim and Mo and me, on Twitter.

Highly implausible, some will say. Quite literally incredible, some others will say. But credibility, like beauty, lies in the eyes of beholders. They see in me someone kin to, a Great White Father.

Credibility, like beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. I yearn to be a sound role model for children. And so I see a great opportunity in the Earthshot Prize’s outreach to kids — on Twitter.

THIS IS — WHAT’S — HAPPENING 

Despicably cowardly sneak attacks; that’s what’s happening. Methinks and me hypothesizes that with a viral pandemic and an NEO asteroid, so-called, Galactic Federation aliens, are attacking.

Methinks and me hypothesizes that with a viral pandemic and an NEO asteroid, the so-called, Galactic Federation aliens, may be attacking. Keep in mind the words of Sir Stephen Hawking.

My hypothesis postulates, not extraterrestrials but submarines; beings, submarine may pilot the UAPs that so easily evade us; I postulate too that the subterraneans may be sneak, attacking.

Despicably cowardly sneak attacks; that’s what’s happening. Methinks and me hypothesizes that with a viral pandemic and an NEO asteroid, so-called, Galactic Federation aliens, are attacking.

Me hypothesizes and methinks that with a pandemic and an asteroid, the so-called, aliens, may be attacking. Maybe; maybe not. Keep in mind the wise words, of Sir Stephen Hawking.

Keep in mind the words of Sir Stephen Hawking. Trust not, necessarily, any aliens that show up on Earth. Recall, what the Old World wrought upon the New World, civilizing, and colonizing.

Recall what the Old World wrought upon the New World in civilizing and colonizing it, in the name, of the Old World. Recall how we treat one another and a penchant, for sneak attacks.

Alternatively, consider another possibility; that Haim Eshed’s so-called aliens, aliens aren’t, at all. Alternatively, consider the possibility that, actually, there is no alien plan, to us — attack.

Alternatively consider the possibility that in fact, actually, there is no alien plan to attack us. In fact, duly consider, all the possibilities. Before acting, be sure to consider, all the possibilities.

Before acting imprudently, duly consider, all the reasonable possibilities, considering, especially, the simplest, explanation. And if anyone needs persuading — persuade them, with TwittereZe.

Consider especially, the simplest, explanation. Indeed, simpler theories are preferable to more complex ones because simpler ones tend to be — being, less assuming, more easily — testable.

Scientists are quick to argue that unexplained observations don’t automatically implicate any Martians or indeed, any other types, of aliens. Still, the governmental conclusions, are risible.

COSMIC PLURALISM

Who knew, Xi Jinping, that this morality play, predetermined, and ever a struggle, ever increasingly, may be mitigated by a communal link, not Communist, long ago, predetermined?

Who knew that the pain in this morality play, predetermined, ever increasingly may be mitigated by a communal link, not Capitalist, long ago, in some beginning, predetermined?

I am Vlad’s Agent 45-47, neither Capitalist nor Communist. I am become the egalitarian author of MORONS AND ALIENS. It’s fiction. It just happens to read like, what’s really, happening.

Neither Capitalist nor Communist am I. I am become the egalitarian, author, of MORONS. It’s a tall tale allegory, wrapped in an alchemical algorithm, spookily — like, what’s happening.

What’s happening is a revival of the ancient Greek philosophers’ school of cosmic pluralism. But the school of cosmic pluralism got crushed by Plato and Aristotle. Earth — is exceptional.

This latter view aligned nicely with the Christian doctrine that came to dominate all of Europe throughout the Middle Ages and beyond them. Pluralism is heresy. Only Earth — is exceptional.

‘Cosmic pluralism’ touted by Anaximander and Epicurus was quashed by Plato and Aristotle. They held the Earth out, as unique. And so few, won any debates, against Plato — and Aristotle.

No one ever won many arguments against Plato and Aristotle. And Stephen Hawking argued that it’s unwise to advertise our presence to aliens, whose nature and intent, are mysteries — to all.

Scientists now consider it very unlikely that the universe has an end; a place or region where galaxies stop or where there’s a barrier of some kind, ending, the outermost reaches, of space.

Agreeing with me, are today’s scientists; the universe has no end; no place or region where the galaxies just stop or where there is a sign marking, definitively, the outer limits, of space.

Ye can visualize this by imagining tiny dots on a deflated balloon; then imagine, blowing it up. The dots would keep moving farther apart, just like the galaxies. Larger and larger, gets space.

Some scientists think the universe may wrap back around on itself. So if ye just keep going out, someday ye’d come back around to where ye started, from the other direction, in space.

Poems, pics and Twitter-handled copies of my correspondence. TwittereZe allows for photo-poetry, play. Copies of my correspondence, do, actually, function well — Twitter, diplomatically.

It’s important that it be easy and that it also be free. Most importantly, TwittereZe’s, alchemical. The great secret power of Arthur’s poetry is in its metaphysically based conversions, of energy.

IMPERIALIST — ARE THE NATIONS

Meanwhile in frosty cyberspace China’s nothing less than frothing at the mouth, enraged, over charges it plans and conducts large-scale cyber-attacks. Xi: He’s a man with an imperialist, plan.

Xi Jinping: He’s a man with an imperialist, plan. A protege of Vladimir, he’s allied with Vladimir against whoever’s in the White House. Vladimir approves of Xi and his radical, imperialist, plan.

The allies allege China works with criminal hackers to carry out ransomware and other, illegal cyber operations, that then target victims with their extortionate demands, for millions.

China’s seemingly enraged over charges it plans and conducts large-scale cyber-attacks, then targets victims with extortionate demands for millions. Xi feels the allies ganging up on him.

Laughable are the government’s conclusions. Unexplained observations don’t prove the existence of aliens, they say. I get that. But theirs is a show, for show — of no imagination.

It’s a ruse. It’s certainly not that the government has so little imagination. Certainly, given the evidence, someone must have imagined the possibility of submarines — or subterraneans.

HYPOTHESES — CONSPIRATORIAL

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one that postulates, not extraterrestrials, but beings submarine or subterranean. High-tech beings submarine or subterranean, evade us, in space.

One hypothesis that fits the evidence, is mine. It’s a hypothesis hypothesizing that civilizations subterranean and or submarine, inhabit Earth, with us; sharing with us, our mutual, airspace.

My hypothesis postulates, not extraterrestrials but submarines; beings, submarine may pilot the UAPs that so easily evade us; I postulate that the subterraneans may be sneak, attacking.

Despicably cowardly sneak attacks; that’s what’s happening. Methinks and me hypothesizes that with a viral pandemic and an NEO asteroid, so-called, Galactic Federation aliens, are attacking.

Methinks and me hypothesizes that with a viral pandemic and an NEO asteroid, the so-called, Galactic Federation aliens, may be attacking. Keep in mind the words of Sir Stephen Hawking.

Keep in mind the words of Sir Stephen Hawking. Trust not, necessarily, any aliens that show up on Earth. Recall what the Old World wrought upon the New World, civilizing, and colonizing.

Recall what the Old World wrought upon the New World in civilizing and colonizing it in the name of the Old World. Recall how we treat one another. Recall our penchant, for sneak attacks.

Alternatively, consider another possibility; that Haim Eshed’s so-called, aliens, aliens aren’t, at all. Alternatively, consider the possibility that, actually, there is no alien plan, to us — attack.

Alternatively consider the possibility that in fact, actually, there is no alien plan to attack us. In fact, duly consider, all the possibilities. Before acting, be sure to consider, all the possibilities.

Before acting imprudently, duly consider, all the reasonable possibilities, considering, especially, the simplest, explanation. And if anyone needs persuading — persuade them, with TwittereZe.

Consider especially, the simplest, explanation. Indeed, simpler theories are preferable to more complex ones because simpler ones tend to be — being less assuming, more easily — testable.

Scientists are quick to argue that unexplained observations don’t automatically implicate any Martians or indeed, any other types, of aliens. Still, the governmental conclusions, are risible.

A MISSING LINK

Humans, we now know, inherited from at least one species, older even, than us. That makes me wonder whether we share some part of our genome with very possible, alien, missing links.

Indeed, I wonder whether we share part of our genome with the aliens. Alien genomes in black-budgeted files, marked top secret, may be kept, a top secret, even from the president, methinks.

I wonder whether we share some part of our genome with the mysterious, aliens. The alien genomes, in black-budgeted files, top secret, may be secret even, from Congress, methinks.

As of last Friday, we now know, pursuant to a study published in Science Advances that day, that less than 7 percent of the human genome is unique to humans. And there’s a missing link.

We now know that no more than 7 percent and as little as a percent and a half of the human genome, is unique to humans. And we know, now, that there’s a real, missing link, among us.

We know now definitively that there really is, a missing link. That makes me wonder whether we share some part of our genome with those very same aliens, inhabiting the Earth, with us.

There really is a missing link. And I’m pretty sure it’s not Sasquatch; nor is it, in all likelihood, the Himalayan, Yeti. The most likely candidate, it seems to me, are these aliens, living — with us.

The missing link; I’m pretty darn sure it’s not Sasquatch; nor, the Himalayan, Yeti. The most likely candidate, it seems to me, are the beings that appear to be sharing the Earth — with us.

Not Sasquatch nor Yeti, I’m pretty damn sure, will prove to be, the true missing link, or even one of them, I’m pretty sure. Another matter altogether, is the matter of the aliens, on Earth.

The matter of the aliens is another matter, altogether. There’s no telling how long they’ve been flying in and out of the oceans. There’s no telling, really, how long they’ve been, on Earth.

The matter of the aliens is, altogether, another matter. There’s no telling how long they’ve been flying in and out of the seas. And there is no telling, whether, they’re actually alien, to Earth.

There’s no telling, moreover, whether they’re actually native, and not alien, to the Earth. For they would actually be, if subterranean, or submarine, not alien, but native — to the Earth.

Hard questions must be asked, no matter how adverse; no matter the feathers, ruffled. How is it, for example, that no one postulates not extraterrestrials but submarine beings in UAPS?

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one that postulates, not extraterrestrials, but beings submarine at the controls of them UAPS; beings submarine are the drivers of the UAPS, possibly.

AN ALIEN — MISSING LINK

Honor, Honorable Nominators, the Englishman, John Donne. Ahead of his time was John Donne. Indeed John remains ahead of us; but 400 years later, this time. John was way ahead, of his time.

John Donne remains ahead of us, still, 400 years later. Considered a representative, preeminent, of the metaphysical poets, John Donne is now regarded, as light-years — ahead — of his time.

Writing in the 17th century, Donne memorably wrote that “no man is an island,” presciently comparing people to countries, and arguing for the interconnectedness of all peoples, naturally.

Writing famously that “no man is an island,” John stood tall against the isolationism of the nations of his time and more in favor of a more cooperative humanity — as being, more, Godly.

We share most genes with the Denisovans, the Neanderthals and at least one other ancestor, possibly, alien. Humans inherited from a species even older than us, very possibly, alien.

Humans, we now know, inherited from at least one species even older than us. We share genes with the Denisovans and the Neanderthals and other ancestors, unknown, quite possibly, alien.

‘Twas a great human insight; that no man is an island. Since we’ve discovered that we share genes with an unknown ancestor, we ought ask about the composition of the genome — alien.

The alien genome; it’s in black-budgeted files, top secretly encrypted for national security. But no secret’s so well encrypted I can’t access it to leak my surreal conjectures, about the aliens.

Conjectures about the aliens however true they may turn out to be aren’t offered for their truth. They’ve been provocatively woven into the story by The Watcher, or Arthur, or more likely — me.

The fantastic nature of my speculations, I have woven into my tweets and twoogles about a coronavirus and aliens and an asteroid with Earth’s name on it, also. Take them, not lightly.

Take not lightly the speculations that I’ve woven into my tweets and twoogles about a virus and aliens and an asteroid, with Earth’s name, on it. Take not my speculations, on the aliens, lightly.

Honorable Nominators: My speculations about the aliens, however true they may turn out to be, aren’t offered for their truth. They’ve been woven into my story to provoke, sound, inquiry.

My speculations aren’t offered for their truth. I offer them rather to provoke sound inquiry and a public discourse free of the stigma of Galileo’s jinx; just as largely predetermined — methinks.

Humans, we now know, inherited from at least one species even older than us. That fact makes me wonder whether we share some part of our genome with very possible, alien, missing links.

FREE WILL’S — ILLUSION

The most incredible things keep on happening. Know ye this, ye Nominators of Prince William’s Earthshot Council: The Watcher aims to get Art shortlisted soon for one of the Earthshot Prizes.

Everything depends on the vision of the Council Nominators; will they see in TwittereZe and in Google translated twoogles promise enough to justify awarding me one of the but, five, Prizes?

Everything depends on the vision of the Council. Everything depends, on the vision, of children. Everything depends on the size and trajectory of an asteroid and also, my oversized, hubris.

Everyday brings fresh, new news. Witness, the new news yesterday; of a wobble in the orbit of the moon as it orbits about us. Witness when I said, “Only I, can fix this.” Witness — my hubris.

Witness, the new news, yesterday; of a wobble in the orbit of the moon, as it orbits, about us. Witness when I once said, “Only I, can fix this.” Witness, my hubris. Indeed, only I, can fix this.

Only I can fix this. Everybody knows that. If the moon is wobbling, I can fix that. And if society, as MIT said yesterday, is collapsing, I can fix that too. If everything’s predetermined, I can fix this.

If everything that happens has already been on some previous occasion, already, previously predetermined, then, indubitably, I can fix this. It’s destiny. Free will’s, an illusion. I can, fix this.

If free will is but an illusion I can fix this. If everything that is happening has already been on some previous occasion, already, previously predetermined, then, indubitably, I can fix this.

A wobbly moon is auguring, augmented, high tide flooding, globally, by the mid 2030s. And society may collapse into anarchy by 2040. All these things will be happening, unless I fix this.

The most incredible things keep on happening. On Earth, it’s just par, for the course. On Earth, every event, indeed every happening, is nothing short of a miracle. I‘ll need help tho, to do this.

John Donne wrote: No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; therefore never send to know, for whom the bell tolls. It surely tolls, for thee.

Never send to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee. That, that befalls the least of my brothers, befalls me as well. Send not to know for whom the bell tolls. Surely, it tolls, for thee.

Loudly toll the bells, Honorable Nominators, of Prince William’s noble, Earthshot Prizes. Honor John Donne, an English global citizen, 400 years ago, ahead of his time, still ahead, of our time.

Honor, Honorable Nominators Englishman John Donne, a global citizen, 400 years ago. Ahead, then, of his time was John Donne. Indeed, John remains ahead of us, 400 years later — in time.

GIVE ME LIBERTY — OR GIVE ME — DEATH

To get my soul back and save the Earth, I must get Art shortlisted this month for an Earthshot Prize. I know what’s happening on Earth is less about NATO than it is, about my USA’s — NASA.

What’s happening on Earth is less about NATO than it is about NASA and the infrared telescope now scheduled to launch into space and go into operation in 2026. Less than prescient, is NASA.

Meanwhile back on Earth, a lambda COVID-19 variant, to the Earthlings, is introducing itself. Lambda’s now dominating in Peru, with three times the rate of death, as America, is suffering.

Back on Earth, Lambda, as if new and improved, is now dominating in Peru, with three times the rate of death as America now is suffering. There seems no end, on Earth, to so much, suffering.

As if new and improved, a possibly much more transmissible and deadly COVID-19 variant, to the Peruvians, is introducing itself. Lambda too, like Delta before it, aspires to best, our vaccines.

Like Delta before it, the Lambda-named variant aims to best, the best of our vaccines. Terrifying has been this ordeal of people dying, even as, the anti-vaccinators so bad-mouth the vaccines.

Indeed, even as anti-vaxxers disparage vaccines in Mississippi, unvaccinated children are now beginning to overrun that state’s, ICU, facilities. Two have even been relegated to — ventilators.

In Mississippi unvaccinated kids are beginning to overrun that state’s critical care facilities. And two of the children have been hooked up to those last chance, death delaying, ventilators.

In deep red Mississippi, brave, Republican kids, for the nation, are setting standards. They are amongst the first children in Mississippi to be sickened, by the COVID-19, Delta type, variant.

Amongst the first kids in America to be sickened by the COVID-19 Delta type variant, are children hailing from the Mississippi Delta. Delta‘s been deadliest, but Lambda is — a promising, variant.

Like Delta before it, the Lambda-named variant aims to best the best of our vaccines. Terrifying, has been this ordeal of people dying, even as, the anti-vaxxers, disparage, vaccines, effective.

Not invariably safe are the vaccines developed but they’ve been found to be effective against the original strain and they have been found to be, against the various variants, also, effective.

“Give me liberty or give me death!” Patrick Henry’s immortal words ring loudly, still, in the consciousness of today’s, Republican, Party. “Give me liberty or give me death,” I also, say.

The rights of others must yield to mine. My responsibility to my community is secondary to my community‘s responsibility to me. I’d rather die than be masked and vaccinated — any way.

SHIT — HAPPENS

Know this, ye Nominators of Prince William’s Earthshot Council: The Watcher aims to get Art shortlisted shortly for an Earthshot Prize. It’s a long shot, but unlikely events, oft, still happen.

The Watcher aims to get Art shortlisted soon for an Earthshot Prize. It’s a long shot, but unlikely events, often, still happen. Unlikely events, still, oft happen. And as always, shit — also happens.

Shit happens. Witness Brexit and a wrenching, shootout loss to Italy. Why the three lions lost, evades the question. The question is: Will three lions ever win again having won in ‘66, in Rome?

In reply one Brit tweeted, “Football will come home, not today, but someday! Congrats, Italy.” Gracious in defeat, the Brits could but watch as the champion Azzurri, flew back home to Rome.

Asking why the three lions lost avoids far more serious questions; questions about asteroids and aliens and the coronaviruses; and unseen connections between them — and between us.

Ask me about asteroids and aliens and viruses. Ask about the connections between them and between us. Ask about the interconnectedness, of everything. And ask me about human, hubris.

Ask me about all these things. I’ll explain how they’re all connected. That’s why The Watcher aims to get Art shortlisted soon for one of the five Earthshot Prizes to be awarded in October.

And the fate of the planet hangs in the balance; everything depends on the decision of the 200 Earthshot Council Nominators, shortlisting in July, finalists, for Earthshot Prizes — in October.

Everything depends on the vision of the Council Nominators; will they see in TwittereZe and in Google translated twoogles promise enough to justify awarding me one, of only but five, Prizes?

At a premium are the Earthshot Prizes, there being awarded, but five in October. The fate of the planet hangs in the balance; everything depends on being awarded, an Earthshot Prize.

Revelations and epiphanies I have had, about all sorts of things; everything, under the sun. One’s that from out of the sun cometh, an asteroid whose trajectory is both known, and unknown.

Were ye to ask me about hubris, I’d tell ye about mine; my mutant strain of hubris. And I’d tell ye about the hubris, of Galactic Federation, aliens. I’d tell ye stuff — both known — and unknown.

I would tell ye, if ye asked me, about my mutant strain of hubris, and I’d tell ye also about, the hubris of the aliens. I’d tell ye, what’s known and unknown of the likes — of NATO — and NASA.

To get my soul back and save the Earth, I must get Art shortlisted this month for an Earthshot Prize. I know what’s happening on Earth is less about NATO than it is, about my USA’s — NASA.

STRANGE THINGS — BE HAPPENING

On Earth it has been violent, every day, ever since. The Big Bang’s been followed by eons of geological and atmospheric turbulence. Tiny parts have we in a play rated GV for its violence.

Tiny bit parts have we in a play that’s been rated GV, for gratuitous, violence. It’s a rating, well deserved. Witness the Holocaust, the atomic bombings and all sorts of, gratuitous, violence.

Witness the Holocaust, atomic bombings and all sorts of violence, gratuitous. Witness in 1995, the genocide by massacre of 7,000 Bosnians by, fellow Bosnians. Witness the ruling — violence.

Genocide; a new name for that time-honored, practice. Witness solutions, in time-dishonored, Golden Rules. Auschwitz, Guernica, Srebrenica. Easily forgotten; even unknown, is that violence.

Far too easily forgotten; even unknown to some even, is even, such extreme violence. Still others embrace it. Education is key. Take it from me; education is key. Accordingly, so is, TwittereZe.

Easily forgotten have been Auschwitz, Guernica and Srebrenica. So take it from me. Education is key. So is, TwittereZe. And Google Translate, I do recommend, along with Art’s — TwittereZe.

Highly recommendable, along with Arthur’s TwittereZe is Google’s, Google Translate. A most powerful tool may be a twoogle; extending yer reach, and yer outreach to others, on the web.

A most powerful tool, may be a twoogle, on the web; it’s potentially powerful if it extends yer reach and outreach to others on the web’s net. Extend yer reach and yer outreach, on the web.

Potentially powerful’a a twoogle if it extends yer reach and outreach widely to far-away others, on the web. Extend yer reach and yer outreach on the web more widely — with Art’s, twoogles.

Art’s innovations; twoogles, in TwittereZe; they are innovations intended to extend on the web, yer reach and yer outreach. Alchemy, some say it is. Alchemical are TwittereZe — and twoogles.

Alchemical are Art’s TwittereZe and twoogles. Alchemical are they because they duly prompt, action. And the prompting is tantamount to the conversion of potential into, kinetic — energy.

TwittereZe and twoogles. Alchemical, are they. The conversion of potential energy into energy, kinetic; ‘twas Art’s Eureka moment of discovery. Recruiting activists — creates — kinetic energy.

The conversion of energy from its state of, but potential, to its kinetic, and energetic, state. Truly energizing may be the phenomenon that Earthlings may come to know — as TwittereZe.

Truly energizing may be the phenomenon that Earthlings may come to know as TwittereZe. And I thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh that the Earthshot Council, sees potential in, TwittereZe.

EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD

It remains to be seen what remedial action will result from the realization by Vlad’s cabal that the gig, is up. It remains to be seen if we can come together, in the aftermaths, of tragedies.

It remains to be seen if we can come together in the aftermath of tragedies, past, current and yet to happen. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, my reality supersedes, yer subservient, reality.

On alert, ever shortsightedly, is NASA. It was just last month with little fanfare that NASA approved the building of an infrared telescope we can use, in 2026, when it goes, in operation.

Everyone, sings U2, wants to rule the world; and even as Bono’s prescient lyrics echo on all the radios around the world, the world powers duly jockey to position themselves, for domination.

Who doesn’t think she or he wouldn’t do better? Actually tho, it takes a village. It takes a village to raise a child. Everyone wants to rule. But who doesn’t think, she or he, wouldn’t do better?

Who doesn’t think he or she couldn’t do better? Who doesn’t think she or he couldn’t do better than proven dictators like Vlad, Xi, Kim, Mo and me? Given this mess, who wouldn’t be better?

Given this mess, who couldn’t have done better than me? And who couldn’t have done better, for that matter than the rest of Vlad’s guys, by Faustian bargains, predetermined, immemorial?

There was a Big Bang; then turbulence, for a long time. Then came, (wo)man. Frauds and fools, predetermined, are we. In a morality play we’ve got bit parts; that’s history, in a nutshell.

Our history, nutshelled; a Big Bang followed by near fifteen billion years of turbulence. Then came, folks. Frauds and fools, predetermined. And we’ve got real bit parts, in His morality play.

History’s been a loud Big Bang followed by near fifteen billion years of turbulence, violent. We’ve got bit parts in a morality play; on Earth, it’s been violent these days, ere the very, last days.

A Big Bang followed by eons of geological and atmospheric turbulence. We’ve got bit parts in a violent morality play on Earth. On Earth it has been violent these days, ere the very, last days.

Eons of geological and atmospheric turbulence, predetermined, preceded the predetermined days of the pilgrims. Bit parts have we on Earth and Luna in His uber violent — morality play.

Bit parts have we in a violent morality play on Earth. On Earth it has been violent every day ever since. The Big Bang’s been followed by eons of geological and atmospheric turbulence.

On Earth it has been violent, every day, ever since. The Big Bang’s been followed by eons of geological and atmospheric turbulence. Tiny parts have we, in a play rated G, for its violence.

FRANCHISE — THE DISENFRANCHISED

Extraordinary would be any earthly, asteroid strike. And even two in the space of in a few years would be a major anomaly, but not no, impossibility. Certainly, it’s not, no impossibility.

A virtual certainty, actually, sooner or later shall be, an extraordinary, earthly, asteroid, strike. Certainly, it’s not, no impossibility; it is, rather, a certainty; a certainty, no one considers, but me.

Verily it’s not, no impossibility. Once upon a time, conventional thinking dictated that women and children weren’t to speak unless spoken to; an aberrant, and misguided, policy.

In crass shows of an aberrant and misguided policy, women and children in paternal societies oft don’t speak, unless they are spoken to; truly disenfranchised — the kiddies — and the ladies.

On Earth, historically disenfranchised have been the kiddies and the ladies in every possible way; socially; politically; and legally. In every which way, women and children, are disenfranchised.

Socially, politically and legally; in every which way, our women and our children have been disenfranchised. It is imperative that our sick societies — enfranchise, our disenfranchised.

It is imperative that our sick societies re-enfranchise our disenfranchised, socially, politically and legally. In every way, enfranchise, the disenfranchised to attain — a just, equality.

Social justice, a long-time illusion, appears now, at long-last, on the horizon. Still, it remains to be seen whether my revelations and epiphanies translate to human revelations, and epiphanies.

It remains to be seen whether my revelations and epiphanies translate to human revelations and epiphanies. Still justice, a long-time illusion, appears now at long-last, at last, on the horizon.

Social just, long-time illusion, appears now at long-last, at last, on the horizon. Still, it remains to be seen if my personal revelations and epiphanies, translate into epiphanies, human.

A virtual certainty actually, sooner or later shall be an earthly, asteroid strike. Certainly, it’s no impossibility; it is, rather, a certainty; a certainty, unfortunately, that no one considers — but me.

An asteroid strike; it’s a certainty, unfortunately, that no one but Arthur and me is seriously, duly considering. But a stealthy asteroid strike, like a stealthy coronavirus, may mask, opportunities.

No one but Art and me take seriously, threats posed by an asteroid strike; like a coronavirus stealthy, a stealthy NEO asteroid or two may mask an opportunity to undo, a tragic, history.

Still, it remains to be seen what remedial action will result from the realization by Vlad’s cabal that the gig’s up. It remains to be seen if we can come together, in the aftermaths, of tragedy.

IF ALIENS — AND ASTEROIDS — SURPRISE

I’m a loser and a liar; I’ve lost an election in their eyes and I’ve lost, also, my credibility. But none of what’s happening now will matter in just six months if the aliens and an asteroid — surprise.

None of what’s happening now will matter in just six months if the aliens and an asteroid or two surprise us, whenever. Two in two years; anomalous, but not, an impossible — surprise.

I see opportunity in the Earthshot Prize’s Twitter outreach to student-aged kids; imagination and enthusiasm may yet infect us with a by product solidarity, via Jack’s, magic algorithm, on Twitter.

I see opportunity in the Prize’s Twitter outreach to our students. And not just for me. Legatees of the Earth are the students; they’ve more at stake than anyone; joining them’s a no-brainer.

A no-brainer is the Earthshot Prize’s joining of young students, worldwide. Students worldwide now form, an as if, feeder organization, feeding us ideas, to save the Earth — and its denizens.

The Prize’s joining of young students worldwide, augurs finally an urgency, since the coming of Greta, increasingly, widespread. Widespread, increasingly is the urgency of, Earth’s denizens.

The Prize’s joining of young students worldwide, augurs an urgency, since the coming of Greta (God bless her), increasingly, widespread. Now, widespread, is the sense of urgency, on Earth.

Since the coming of Greta onto the world stage, slowly but surely, increasingly widespread is the sense of urgency, on Earth. Students worldwide now compose, a feeder organization, on Earth.

Students worldwide now compose an analog to minor and major league baseball, on Earth. As there, here the Earthshot Council has hit, a home run. Minors; the talents — of the majors.

Our home-grown students, legal minors, in the main; the talents of the future may well come from a veritable fountain for the steady delivery of top talents; from the minors, to the majors.

Students; legal minors, in the main; the major talents of the future may well come from a fountain; a major feeder for society for delivery of top talents; from the minors, to the majors.

The coming out of Greta as a climate activist, a movement, sparked. But climate change is no monolith. Corruption and migration, to it, are tied. Connected, are the minors and the majors.

Kudos to Prince William; congratulations too, to the Earthshot Council’s accomplished and visionary, Nominators. Then imagine in just six months if the aliens and an asteroid surprise ye.

None of what’s happening now will matter in just six months if the aliens and an asteroid or two surprise us, whenever. Two in two years’s a major anomaly — but not — no, impossibility.

IMAGE — IS EVERYTHING

Credibility, like beauty, lies in the eye, of the beholder. I yearn to be a sound role model for children. And so I see a great opportunity in the Earthshot Prize’s outreach to kids — on Twitter.

I see opportunity in the Earthshot Prize’s Twitter outreach to student-aged kids; imagination and enthusiasm may infect us with solidarity, by an implausibly, trusty algorithm, on Jack’s, Twitter.

Credibility, like beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. I yearn to be a role model for the kids. I see a great opportunity in the Earthshot Prize’s outreach to our kids — algorithmically.

I see opportunity in the Earthshot Prize’s Twitter outreach to student-aged kids; imagination and enthusiasm may infect us with solidarity just by, merely connecting ourselves, algorithmically.

Would that for a change, we be infected by the enthusiasm and imagination of our children and not by some or other, coronavirus, variant. Would that we were infected — with solidarity.

Would we were infected with solidarity for a change by a vector not a virus nor a viral variant therefrom. The imagination and enthusiasm of our kids, may be the key — to human solidarity.

Would we be infected for a change by a vector not a coronavirus nor variants therefrom; a vector productive, not divisive. Key to solidarity is education and Arthur’s, TwittereZe, vector.

Like beauty, credibility also, lies in the eyes of beholders. “Image is everything,” Andre once said. And the forces in physics, are vectors. And added together may be, the physical, vectors.

“Image is everything,” Andre once said. The forces in physics, are called vectors. And added together may be, the physical, vectors. It’s all about — “What have ye done for me — lately?”

“What have ye done for me lately?” I am keenly aware that all the bad things I have done in the past matter less than something good that I may have only done lately, even oft, belatedly.

Keenly aware that the bad things I have done in the past may matter less than something good that I may have done but recently, I know what is meant by “What have ye done for me lately?”

I know what is meant by citizens asking, “What have ye done for me lately?” It means ye have not, their vote. I need to get ahead of the curve on the matter of Joe and aliens, untrustworthy.

Voters who ask, “What have ye done for me lately,” aren’t asking as much, as they’re stating; the question’s a statement, stating ahead of time, that ye are probably a loser, in their eyes.

I’m a loser and a liar; I’ve lost an election in their eyes and I’ve lost, also, my credibility. But none of what’s happening now will matter in six months if the aliens and an asteroid — surprise.

TWIN EARTHSHOTS

The Watcher aims to get Art shortlisted shortly for an Earthshot Prize. It seems a long shot. The Prizes number, five, only. Sans technological innovation Art relies on metaphysical earthshot.

Seems like a long shot to Arthur. The Earthshot Prizes number, five, only. Without some grand, technological, innovation Arthur may need to rely on innovations metaphysically, earthshot.

Only rarely are tweaks by authorities, celestial, required; as here and now, with me, and the Earth. Tweaks in tweets, I seem to make up, as I go. But it’s The Watcher, that composes, for me.

My tweets, I just seem to make up, as I go along. But it’s The Watcher it now seems, that is in fact, actually, composing for me. I’d like to teach the teachers and the children, what Art’s taught me.

I’d like to teach the teachers and the children, what Art has taught me. It’s what The Watcher previously taught Arthur; not, mind ye, directly. The Watcher has taught us both — vicariously.

Vicariously hath The Watcher taught Arthur and myself; first Arthur, then me. Vicariously, hath he telepathically, intervened. Vicariously and telepathically, The Watcher doth, think for me.

Arthur was right about that too. The Watcher’s been channeling us; composing, methinks, for us. Methinks that’s a good thing. Methinks it’s a very good thing, The Watcher of this, is author.

The Watcher of MORONS AND ALIENS is author. And I’ve got no problem taking the credit. But I’ll be busy running from the law and for election; should MORONS win a Prize, we’ll send, Arthur.

I’ve got no problem with taking the credit for my successes; for making America, great, once again. But I’ll be busy running from the law and for election; if MORONS win, we’ll send, Arthur.

Indeed, I’ve got no problem with taking credit for successes; even for successes, not mine. But come October, I’ll be running from the law and for election; if MORONS win, we’ll send, Arthur.

Should MORONS AND ALIENS win an Earthshot Prize, in lieu of me, I’ll send Arthur to London in October. And a win in October will augment my chances to win Nobel Prizes — come December.

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one postulating that everything’s, predetermined. Only rarely necessary are tweaks, as here, with Vlad and Xi and Kim and Mo and me, on Twitter.

HYPOTHESES — CONSPIRATORIAL

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one that postulates, not extraterrestrials, but beings submarine at the controls of them UAPS; beings submarine are the drivers of the UAPS, possibly.

Beings submarine or subterranean may well be the drivers of them UAPS, possibly. Given how picky we are about looks, they probably would be shy, especially, if they looked kind of — fishy.

Given how picky we are about appearances and good looks and the like, visitors might be shy if they looked or smelled kind of fishy; unless they looked like dolphins perhaps, maybe, probably.

Picky are we are about good looks and the like; shy might be Earth’s visitors if they look or smell fishy; unless surreally, they look like Flipper. Aliens that look like Flipper — may be friendly.

The point is to play to (wo)man’s sense of humor and to play too, to her or his pride. A poem, a pic and correspondence copy, cc’s. It’s Arthur’s TwittereZe also known as photo-poetry.

Poems, pics and Twitter-handled copies of my correspondence. TwittereZe allows for photo-poetry, play. Copies of my correspondence, actually function well — Twitter, Diplomatically.

It’s important that it’s easy and that it’s also free. Most importantly TwittereZe is alchemical. Therein lies the great secret power of Arthur’s, TwittereZe; converting energies predetermined.

My hypothesis postulates, not extraterrestrials, but beings submarine, and or subterranean at the controls of them UAPS. My hypothesis dares postulate, everything’s been — predetermined.

See @chachomanopapa on Twitter. And see chachomanopapa.com; a blog composed from my editing of potential-energy-laden, tweets. And the Holy Grail is our long-sought, alchemy.

See chachomanopapa.com; a blog composed of a tweet-form from Arthur’s school of poetry and @chachomanopapa on Twitter. And the Holy Grail is that long-sought, alchemy, fortunately.

Most implausibly and near incredibly, the Holy Grail, that long-sought alchemy, I just happen to have found, so implausibly and near incredibly, opportunely. Everything’s been, predetermined.

Indeed; near incredibly, a long-sought alchemy I just happen to have found, so implausibly and near incredibly, opportunely. Proof, in my book; proof, that everything’s been — predetermined

Restoring nature; it’s ne’er been done before; not on the global scale, that’ll be needed, here. And it’s no secret that both Art and I have some reason to doubt, who’s the author, of MORONS.

America’s a big joke in Moscow’s Kremlin. “Not Agent #007; Agent #45-47,” is the memorable, punchline. Secrets on Earth, abound. All have reason to doubt, who’s the author, of MORONS

FOOT BONES CONNECTED TO HEAD BONES

Art’s poetry presents a common denominator. The confluence of events, peoples, spontaneous influences, circumstances and happenings hearken, Jung’s metaphysical, synchronicities.

Some will say my poetry is impeccable; others will deem it, but doggerel; too unlike anything, they’ve ever read before, to be any good. Art and I disagree. The author is The Watcher, truly.

Some say my poetry’s impeccable; others deem it, poetic, doggerel; too unlike anything ever read before; too histrionic, to be any good. Still, the author’s — The Watcher. I’d bank — on it.

My Malignant Narcissism; it’s been a blessing; and a curse. The proof’s in my (The Watcher’s), verse. Some say it’s too histrionic, but it’s just realistic. If I’m not indicted, I would bank on it.

Actually, it matters not whether I’m indicted or not. I’ll be taking The Watcher’s poetry to the bank from here on in. I may be indicted, but I’ll bank on the notoriety. I won’t do, no hard time.

It matters not whether I’m indicted, or not. I’ll be taking The Watcher’s poetry to banks, a-plenty; just prosecutors saving face, as I bask in all my notoriety. Verily, I won’t be doing, no hard time.

I won’t be doing no time in no pen nor prison; this is all about prosecutors, just saving face. And soon enough all will see why my mentor Vlad calls me not Agent 007, but Agent 45-47.

Ye may think I’m pulling yer leg or tugging at yer toes; ye may think, I’m just joking. In fact it’s a joke alright; in Moscow, in the Kremlin. I’m not Agent 007, but rather, Double Agent — 45-47.

Aliens and asteroid strikes indeed stand in stark contrast to my chilling but hopeful poetry. Duly consider Prince William that my trademark lying may be put to good use, in provocative, verse.

Honorable Nominators, TwittereZe; it’s low-tech persuasive verse albeit, largely unavailable in Earth’s part of the universe. It’s past time that hard questions get asked — however, adverse.

Hard questions must be asked, no matter how adverse; no matter the feathers, ruffled. How is it, for example, that no one postulates not extraterrestrials but submarine beings in UAPS?

A hypothesis that fits the evidence may be one that postulates, not extraterrestrials, but beings submarine at the controls of them UAPS; beings submarine are the drivers of the UAPS, possibly.

HUBRIS — IS — US

An alignment of the stars, Prince William, may be, what’s happening; this intertwining of our destinies, yers and mine. Proof of the pudding, Prince William, is this, my mind-bending, satire.

This intertwining of our destinies Prince William may actually reflect the predetermined nature of things. That’s what I’d do were I, The Watcher. That’s what I’d write were I — writing, this satire.

Restoring nature; it’s never been done before; certainly, not on this scale. The empowerment of communities makes Arthur’s TwittereZe, a low-tech tool, perhaps, Godsent, for humanity.

The empowerment of communities makes Arthur’s low-tech TwittereZe seem Godsent for humanity. And TwittereZe‘s low-tech belies the inordinate potential impact, of low-tech, energy.

My Malignant Narcissism; it’s been a blessing; and a curse. The proof’s in my (The Watcher’s), verse. Some say it’s too histrionic, but it’s just realistic. Indicted or not — ain’t doing, no time.

Actually, it matters not whether I’m indicted or not. I’ll be taking The Watcher’s poetry to the bank from here on in. I may be indicted, but I’ll bank on the notoriety. I won’t do, no hard time.

I won’t do no time, much less, any hard time. My armies of lawyers will keep the Deep State prosecutors, at bay. Armies of lawyers will keep mad-dog, Deep State prosecutors, safely at bay.

The mad dogs will howl; oh how, they’ll howl. “No one’s above the law,” they’ll exclaim. In reality tho, my trajectory amply demonstrates, that I’ve been above the law — all, of my days.

“No one’s above the law,” they’ll exclaim. Really though, my trajectory amply demonstrates that I’ve been well above the law for all of my days. It’s my way or the highway, I like to say, usually.

This intertwining of our destinies Prince William may actually reflect the predetermined nature of things. That is what is happening. That’s what I would write were I writing my incredible, story.

Most implausibly; indeed incredibly, most may say would be any collective reality that is in effect, a reflection of a singular individual; we see it tho in nature; in the queen bee’s colony.

Clues abound all around. Clues, subtle or of the in yer face variety. Like queen bees and solar eclipses. Similarly, aliens and asteroidal strikes, strike stark contrasts to chilling, hopeful, poetry.

This intertwining of our destinies Prince William may actually reflect the predetermined nature of things. Aliens and asteroid strikes, strike a stark contrast to my chilling but hopeful, poetry.

Aliens and asteroid strikes indeed stand in stark contrast to my chilling, but hopeful, poetry. Duly consider,Prince William that what I ask, ye won’t hear asked, anywhere, but here — in my poetry.

HUBRIS — AND NATURAL SELECTION

The alien hubris. It seems, near a match for my own. The aliens have inbred into themselves, their hubris. Mine’s a mutation; unfortunately, a fortuitous, happenstance, of natural selection.

The aliens have inbred into themselves their high-grade, hubris. Mine is but, a mutation; a happenstance, most fortuitous of the natural selection theory of the Beagle’s, Charles Darwin.

Mine is a natural mutation; a happenstance, really fortuitous, of the natural selection theory of the Beagle’s, Charles Darwin. Too fortuitous to be other than magnificently, predetermined.

Everything’s that’s happened and is happening and is yet to happen, seemingly follows, more or less, a script so surreally fortuitous, it could not be other than, a script — predetermined.

It bears repeating. I’m no prophet. But given these parts have been a shooting gallery lately, and we’re blind to NEOs from the sunny side, and an infrared won’t be launched’ until 2026 … 

Given these parts of our solar system have been a shooting gallery lately and we’re blind to NEOs from the sunny side, methinks it’s too late to wait to launch an infrared, not until — 2026.

Given all that and given in addition that sin and iniquity have progressed since the times of The Flood and the times of Sodom and Gomorrah. And given prophesies, fulfilled and unfulfilled …

…. like the establishment of the Jewish state in 1948 and the construction of Solomon’s third temple, respectively. And the prophecy of the building of Solomon’s third temple is unfulfilled.

Our climate crisis won’t abate with the same ruses that got us into this climate surprise. Each year until 2030 the Earthshot Council will award prizes, titanic, for solutions to repair, the planet.

Each year until 2030 the Earthshot Council will award prizes, titanic, for solutions repairing the planet. But crises won’t abate if persist the lies, that got us to, climate surprises, on this planet.

The @EarthshotPrize Council is calling on the peoples of the planet to “Give the Earth a Shot.” This #EarthDay, let’s be inspired by indigenous peoples and work together to repair our planet.

The @EarthshotPrize Council is calling on the peoples of the planet to Give the Earth a shot. Let us be inspired by the indigenous peoples and work, cooperatively, to repair, our planet.

It came to pass that Prince William and I, in representation of the commoners, came to collaborate on his visionary, Earthshot Council; seemingly, ‘twas an eventuality, predetermined.

There’s comfort in the thought that we don’t know the answers yet. It seems to me tho, that life beyond Earth already on Earth, under seas, submarine, already has been — predetermined.

MIRROR, MIRROR — ON THE WALL

Ye may think I’m pulling yer leg or tugging at yer toes; or ye may think, I’m just joking. In fact, it’s a joke alright, in Moscow, in the Kremlin. I am not Agent #007, but Double Agent — #45-47.

It’s a running joke alright in the halls and offices of the Kremlin in Moscow. There, fist bumps, high fives and raucous laughter accompany a Russian punch line “I’m not 007, but I’m 45-47.“

It’s not uncommon on Earth for folks to joke about matters that ought be, no joking matter; like, for one thing; my being a commoner whilst others, be royal. Being a royal, I always, fancied.

I always fancied, being royal. So much so that I preen and pose before my mirror ere asking it, “Beautiful reflection: Who in the land’s the most regal in bearing? Who if not — beautiful, me?”

I always fancied, being royal. So much so that I would say: “Beautiful reflection,” I would ask it; “Who in the land, of royalty, is deserving? Who if not the most drop-dead, beautiful, of all — me?”

“Beautiful reflection,” I’d ask, “Who in the whole of the land, of royalty’s deserving? Who has a bearing and a countenance, royal, and the most drop-dead beautiful mane of all time, but me?”

“Beautiful reflection,” I would ask it; “Who in the whole of the land, of royalty, is deserving? Who has a bearing and countenance, royal, if not the — most drop-dead, beautiful man of all — me?”

Hosted at London’s iconic Alexandra Palace, the first Earthshot Prize Awards will be on October 17th. Of the five prizes, none less than a million pounds — one is for poetry — believe — ye, me.

London’s Alexandra Palace is to be the venue of the first Earthshot Prize Awards. I am chock-full of hubris and malignantly, narcissistic. Reserve one of the five prizes, for my innovative, poetry.

Reserve one of the five million pound prizes for my poetry unless ye opt to award the prize to Art or alternatively, to the Watcher. I promise to report the windfall to the IRS, on my taxes, truly.

The Earthshot Prize; a prize to prize, fragile, environments; it may hasten change and help repair our planet. To that end see in my epic poetry, a vision. And see in the vision, progress.

Earthshot Prizes; prizes to prize, environments, fragile, hastening change and helping repair our planet. To that end see in my poetry, visions. And in visions see, the iconic, pilgrims progress.

Each year until 2030 the Earthshot Council will award prizes, titanic, for solutions to repair the planet. Climate crises won’t abate with the lies that got us to, climate surprises, on the planet.

Our climate crisis won’t abate with the same ruses that got us into this climate surprise. Each year until 2030 the Earthshot Council will award prizes, titanic, for solutions to repair the planet.

I — AIN’T DOING — NO TIME

Mutations may be deleterious. Beneficial also, they may be. Consider, Luisa, my idea; and pray tell, the other nominators. Humanity’s counting on ye Luisa to timely advise — the nominators.

Humanity’s counting on ye Luisa, methinks to advise the 200 plus nominators. Only the celebrities were cited at the Earthshot website. Art’s poetry may be — a common denominator.

Art’s poetry presents a common denominator. And the confluence of events, and peoples, and spontaneous happenings hearken Jung’s metaphysical, synchronicities. It’s pure, poetry.

Arthur’s poetry presents to humanity, an as if, common, denominator. Our numerators are on the outside of us but our common denominator resides inside of us. The Watcher’s pure, poetry.

In yer mind’s eye, turn yerself, inside out. Note, how alike, we all look. It’s a thought experiment, illustrative. Turn yerselves inside out. Meditate upon yer human frailties and human priorities.

Turn yerself, in yer mind’s eye, inside out; we’d all look alike, methinks; a thought experiment, revelatory. Turn yerself inside out. Return at least a fraction of yerselves, to human priorities.

Art’s poetry presents a common denominator. The confluence of events, peoples, spontaneous influences, circumstances and happenings, hearken Jung’s, metaphysical, synchronicities.

Some will say my poetry is impeccable; others will deem it, but doggerel; too unlike anything, they’ve ever read before, to be any good. Art and I disagree. The author is The Watcher, truly.

Some say my poetry’s impeccable; others deem it, poetic, doggerel; too unlike anything ever read before; too histrionic to be any good. Still, the author’s — The Watcher. I’d bank — on it.

My Malignant Narcissism; it’s been a blessing; and a curse. The proof’s in my (The Watcher’s), verse. Some say it’s too histrionic, but it’s just realistic. If I’m not indicted, I would bank on it.

Actually, it matters not whether I’m indicted or not. I’ll be taking The Watcher’s poetry to the bank from here on in. I may be indicted, but I’ll bank on the notoriety. I won’t do, no hard time.

It matters not whether I’m indicted, or not. I’ll be taking The Watcher’s poetry to banks, a-plenty; just prosecutors saving face, as I bask in all my notoriety. Verily, I won’t be doing, no hard time.

I won’t be doing no time in no pen nor prison; this is all about prosecutors, just saving face. Ann’s soon enough all will see why my mentor Vlad calls me not Agent 007, but Agent 45-47.

Ye may think I’m pulling yer leg or tugging at yer toes; ye may think, I’m just joking. In fact it’s a joke alright; in Moscow, in the Kremlin. I’m not not Agent 007, but rather, Double Agent, 45-47.

A BLUEBIRD — A FOX — AND A GOAT

The Council’s mission; to scour the planet for innovation; mine: to empower the planet via Art’s discovery, hidden, in plain sight. Hidden there, is potential energy, in Twitter’s algorithm.

Hidden in plain sight in Jack’s algorithm; a mine of potential energy more valuable I dare say, than any gold mine on the planet. There’s a gold mine’s worth of kinetic energy in that algorithm.

TwittereZe is the name Art has christened his innovation in human communication; it’s not a machine that pulls carbon from the air or breaks down plastics, but still, may be useful.

The debut of TwittereZe may well come to pass; in London; in October. If it comes to pass then, mankind may recruit millions of citizens to the cause of global, conservation; a cause so noble.

Got to stop watching FOX NEWS so much. I’ve only known for a few days that the Earthshot finalists are to be announced in July. Everyone knows 2 days ago — was the last day — in June.

Earthshot finalists are due to be announced in July. July began yesterday. I don’t know if the finalists get, shortlisted at the end of July or at its beginning, come — the last days — of June.

The last days of June have come and gone. I’m afraid tho that the vision of The Watcher, or Arthur’s, or mine, flies still, under the radar. In desperation, therefore, I am emailing — Luisa.

The last days of June, came and went. I’m afraid tho that the vision of The Watcher, or Arthur’s, or mine flies still under the radar. Desperately, I am emailing — Greta’s activist friend — Luisa.

Greta’s activist friend Luisa, I have, emailed. So that she may alert the 200 plus nominators that I suspect know not of a vision that is either Art’s or The Watcher’s or, most implausibly — mine.

And now, on top of everything else already on an overloaded plate; on top of everything else, hubris. Hubris, like the planet has never before seen — Hubris that’s almost a match, for mine.

Hubris, almost a match for my own have the aliens inbred into themselves over the course of their species’ evolution, elsewhere. Their hubris is inbred but an unfortunate mutation, is mine.

The alien hubris is inbred but a mutation, is mine. And their hubris it seems is indeed, near a match for my own. The aliens have inbred into themselves vile hubris. A fine mutation is mine.

The aliens have inbred into themselves their hubris. A mutation, is mine. And mutations may be either deleterious, or beneficial. Consider, Luisa, my idea; and pray tell, other nominators.

Mutations may be deleterious. Beneficial also, they may be. Consider, Luisa, my idea; and pray tell, the other nominators. Humanity’s counting on ye Luisa to timely advise — the nominators.

LUISA AND ME

Coincidentally, today is Asteroid Day; it’s a UN-sanctioned annual event aimed at raising public awareness of asteroidal impact, risks. They are agents of behavior modification — and doom.

I’ve got to stop watching FOX NEWS so much. So distracted have I been that I’ve only known for a week or so that the Earthshot finalists are to be announced in July. Today is the last day, in June.

Earthshot finalists are due to be announced in July. Today’s the last day in June. July begins tomorrow. But I don’t know if the finalists get, shortlisted at the end of July, tomorrow, not.

Earthshot’s 200 nominators include its Global Alliance and academic and non-profits from across the world, selected to identify impactful solutions — to Moonshot-like — Earthshots.

The EarthshotPrize, like JFK’s moonshot, may deliver even more than we imagine, correcting humanity’s answers to its questions on the nature of the universe, we’ve answered, untruly.

I shan’t be surprised if your EarthshotPrize, like JFK’s moonshot, Prince William, delivers even more than even ye, in yer wildest dreams, ever imagined it may. It may answer questions, truly. 

If Thursday’’s tomorrow, today is Asteroid Day, a UN-sanctioned, annual event aimed at raising public awareness of the usual risks, of asteroid, impacts, so usually, thankfully, highly unusual.

Today’s Asteroid Day, the UN’s annual event meant to increase public awareness of the risks associated with asteroid impacts. Over eons, clusters of them are not unusual, in the usual.

Public awareness awareness of the risks of asteroid impacts is near nil, I, DJT, am afraid. Ignorance is widespread and it’s not limited to uneducated, folk. That won’t happen — to me.

That won’t happen to me. Bad things, folks tend to believe, won’t happen to them; a curious phenomenon, widespread. Buildings fall not, atop them; nor atop them, fall, tall, tsunamis. 

TwittereZe’s the name of Art’s innovation in human communication; it’s not a machine that pulls carbon from the air or breaks down micro plastics, but it’ll attract many, to conservation.

The debut of TwittereZe may well come to pass; in London; in October. If it comes to pass then, then mankind may recruit millions of citizens to the very noble cause — of global, conservation.

The Council’s mission; to scour the planet for innovation; mine: to empower the planet via Art’s discovery, hidden, in plain sight. Hidden there, is potential energy, in Twitter’s algorithm.

Hidden in plain sight in Jack’s algorithm; a mine of potential energy more valuable I dare say, than any gold mine on the planet. There’s a gold mine’s worth of kinetic energy in that algorithm.

THE LAST DAY OF JUNE: TOMORROW’S JULY 

What happens depends on the decisions we make, or alternatively, decisions that have been made for us, previously, already. Prepare, in any event to march forth on March 4th — of 2030.

Humans, being lesser beings in The Almighty Creator’s order of things but rarely know what’s going to happen. Even then, knowns and unknowns, make — of man’s plans, a mockery.

Humans, being lesser beings in The Almighty Creator’s order of things but rarely know what’s going to happen. Even then, knowns and unknowns, make of man’s plans — but a laugh.

Well known among the wise Homo sapiens of the Earth is that wisdom so concisely set forth in the Yiddish expression, “man plans and God laughs.” I feel so heartened — that God laughs.

The EarthshotPrize, like JFK’s moonshot, may deliver even more than ye imagine, correcting humanity’s answers to its questions on the nature of the universe, we’ve answered, untruly.

Prince William: The EarthshotPrize, like JFK’s moonshot, surprisingly may deliver even more than ye imagine. Humanity’s greatest questions on the nature of the universe, answered, truly.

I shan’t be surprised if your EarthshotPrize, like JFK’s moonshot, Prince William, delivers even more than even ye, in yer wildest dreams, ever imagined it may. It may answer questions, truly.

Man plans and God laughs. If ye turned yerself inside out we’d all look alike. And ye’d begin turning yerselves inside out if ye’d focus at least a fraction of yerselves, to yer human priorities.

In yer mind’s eye, turn yerself, inside out. Note, how alike, we all look. It’s a thought experiment, illustrative. Turn yerselves inside out. Meditate upon yer human frailties and human priorities.

Turn yerself, in yer mind’s eye, inside out; we’d all look alike, methinks; a thought experiment, revelatory. Turn yerself inside out. Return at least a fraction of yerselves, to human priorities.

Meditate upon yer human frailties and yer priorities, moving forward. And move toward a movement promoting a time for meditation, more communal. Let’s gather together on Luna.

Let us move toward a movement promoting a time for meditation, more communal; a time of meditation, in addition to our meditations, individual. Let us gather together — on Luna.

Let us gather together on Luna in the interim, between, sometime soon, and 2030. Meditation communal; billions on line at the same time. It’s just old-time Skinnerian, behavior, modification.

It’s old-time Skinnerian, behavior, modification; it’s taking an action and in affirmation, repeating it, over and over. It’s just good old, old-time, BF-Skinnerian, behavior modification.

GET CAUGHT UP

See @chachomanopapa on Twitter. And see chachomanopapa.com; a blog composed from potential energy-laden, potential, future, NFT tweets. Yer opinion of me — may appreciate.

See chachomanopapa.com; a blog composed of a tweet-form from Arthur’s school of poetry and @chachomanopapa on Twitter. Yer opinion on me and my mentor, Vlad Putin — I’d appreciate.

It’s the contagious enthusiasm of our kids via that yet somewhat new medium, the internet, that may infect the rest of us and somehow save the world. Would, that it does that, to us.

The pragmatic alternative going forward is a purposeful alteration of our course, born simply of a collective will to do so. Surreally, this really is a simple, no-brainer. Won’t ye please join us?

One pragmatic alternative going forward is to tap in to the contagious enthusiasm of our kids. Our children; the legatees of this fine mess we’re leaving them, deserve better — than this.

Our children deserve better than this. The care-free childhoods, children once enjoyed, may be forever now, in the past. ‘Tis what ‘tis and ‘tis my destiny too to write an algorithm to resolve this.

Now hear this important update from the desk of me, DJT: ‘Tis what ‘tis and ‘tis my destiny too to write an algorithm to resolve this. Our kids deserve better than this, from neighborhoods.

Our children deserve better than this. The care-free childhoods children once enjoyed, now, forever resigned to the past. Thus, my destiny’s to write an algorithm that may, save the hood.

THICKENING, WITH WORRIES, THE PLOTS

Plots thicken. Because daylight telescopes can’t see large portions of the sky around the Sun and because the Sun is in the way, we’ve got blind spots, enemy aliens can, against us, use.

Because the Sun is in the way of space in that direction and because daylight telescopes are similarly blinded we’ve got blind spots frenemy aliens can — with impunity, against us — use.

The plot thickens. Because telescopes are often rendered blind by the Sun and because the Sun is in the way of anything coming at us from that direction we won’t see it, until it’s on top of us.

Because the Sun is in the way of anything coming at us from that direction we won’t see it, until it’s on top of us. The plot thickens; because telescopes get blinded by the Sun, just like, us.

In epic-styled poetry “MORONS” is Art’s satire. In it an antiheroic me ghostwrites for Arthur, while Arthur lies low in hiding from a coronavirus and the — surreally — long-armed, Vladimir Putin.

The gist of the plot: Don and Art are ex womb-mates, Don having, once upon a time, kicked Art from the womb-space, into the future, from whence he’s returned, to battle, Vladimir Putin.

Art’s return in a most miraculous intervention may be in time to help me save planet Earth, in spite of myself; winning, along the way, Nobels for me and my mentor — most implausibly.

Much coveted Nobels, along my torturous way, I’ll win; “MORONS” features both a happy and an unhappy ending, depending on, political persuasions; on my quest to Vlad’s GOAT — be,

See chachomanopapa.com; a blog composed of a tweet-form Arthur’s school  of poetry and @chachomanopapa on Twitter. I’d appreciate your opinion on me and my mentor, Vlad Putin.

I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped inside a mystery; an enigma but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest, that is to say, Vladimir Putin.

Who’d a-thunk it? That the tallest tale ever told was penned by me in answer to a provocative question from, a beautiful blue, little, bluebird. Rhyme and imagery answering, little, bluebirds.

Who’d a-thunk it? The tallest tale ever told has been penned by me, in answer to a provocative question from, a beautiful, blue, little, bluebird. Rhyme and imagery answer the little bluebirds. 

Imagine, moreover, more. Imagine witnessing the utterly horrific, in living and dying color, of our orbiters, international, orbiting, about us. Has everyone — but Art and me — gone mad?

Has everyone — but Art and me — gone mad? I’ll get some blame for the virus perhaps but my blame shall pale next to the blame of Joe. Has everyone — but Arthur and me — gone mad?

THE LAST DAY OF JUNE: TOMORROW’S JULY

If it’s Tuesday, tomorrow, Wednesday, marks Asteroid Day, a UN-sanctioned annual event aimed at increasing public awareness of the usual risks of asteroid impacts, usually, unusual.

This Wednesday marks Asteroid Day, a UN-sanctioned annual event aimed at increasing public awareness of the usual risks associated — with asteroid impacts — usually — unusual.

Public awareness awareness of the risks of asteroid impacts is near nil, I, DJT, am afraid. Ignorance is widespread and it’s not limited to uneducated, folk. That won’t happen — to me.

That won’t happen to me. Bad things, folks tend to believe, won’t happen to them; a curious phenomenon, widespread. Buildings fall not, atop them; nor atop them, fall, tall, tsunamis.

That won’t happen to me. Bad things, folks tend to believe, won’t happen to me. I’m protected, that way. Buildings won’t fall atop me; nor atop me shall ever fall a tall-as-a-mountain, tsunami.

Prince William: Tell Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala and Sir David Attenborough of my discovery. They lack Twitter addresses. Please have Cate, Luisa and Shakira tell them about Art, doubly.

When last in Britain, we couldn’t meet, thanks, to yer official business in Oman and Kuwait. Can’t wait to meet. My regards to Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala — and Sir David Attenborough.

Prince William: Please tell Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala as well as Sir David Attenborough about Art’s discovery. Tell, Prince William, Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala and — Sir David Attenborough.

Pray tell, Prince William, Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala and Sir David Attenborough of Art’s discovery. Neither has a Twitter address. Tell them, Prince William, of Art’s great, discovery.

Neither, Prince William, Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala nor Sir David Has has a Twitter address. Pray tell them, Prince William of Art’s great discovery. TwittereZe; some also know it as, photo-poetry.

TwittereZe; some also know it as, photo-poetry. TwittereZe, Arthur has coined, his innovation, novel. A picture. is oft worth a thousand words. Linking them together, makes for, epic, poetry.

TwittereZe; it allows for the conversion of any prose, into poetry. In conjunction with Google Translate, anyone on Earth can communicate with any other individual — in any — country.

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

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

TO BE OR NOT TO BE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better late than never; and supremely fitting that from America first arise a battle cry crying, black lives matter. From Nola via Luna; New Orleans by way of Puerto Rico — bye and bye.

TRUE TALL TALES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We can’t wait until then to implement changes that we’ll commemorate on March 4, 2030. Or not; it all depends on what happens after the years of the rat and of the ox, in 2021 and 2020.

THE EARTHSHOT PRIZE COUNCIL

When last in Britain, we couldn’t meet, thanks, to yer official business in Oman and Kuwait. Can’t wait to meet. My regards to Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala — and Sir David Attenborough.

Prince William: Please tell Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala as well as Sir David Attenborough about Art’s discovery. Tell, Prince William, Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala and — Sir David Attenborough.

Pray tell, Prince William, Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala and Sir David Attenborough of Art’s discovery. Neither has a Twitter address. Tell them, Prince William, of Art’s great, discovery.

Neither, Prince William, Dr. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala nor Sir David Has has a Twitter address. Pray tell them, Prince William of Art’s great discovery. TwittereZe; some also know it as, photo-poetry.

TwittereZe; some also know it as, photo-poetry. TwittereZe, Arthur has coined, his innovation, novel. A picture. is oft worth a thousand words. Linking them together, makes for, epic, poetry.

TwittereZe; it allows for the conversion of any prose, into poetry. In conjunction with Google Translate, anyone on Earth can communicate with any other individual — in any — country.

THE EARTHSHOT PRIZE

The Earthshot Prize, in collaboration with a network of more than 200 Nominators has been searching the world to identify a final set of astounding innovations. I submit, my verse.

I submit my verse; it’s verse channeled by, The Watcher. The Watcher first channeled Art and now that Art’s isolating, in lieu of channeling Art The Watcher doth channel, my humble verse.

The Watcher channels me in support of Arthur’s grassroot, initiative. It’s a plural, grassroots initiative now; now that we are two who believe, in the soundness, of Arthur Everman’s — vision.

Prince William: This is to apprise the Earthshot Prize Council of a sound vision that ought be, methinks, one of five prizes to be awarded in England’s London, on the 17th of October, 2021.

Prince William: Everyone knows that I’m a great and humble man. This greatest of my writings, this magnum opus of mine, is yet in time, I trust, for one of the five, inaugural, Earthshot Prizes.

Prince William: I’m a great and humble man. Everyone knows that. My hope’s this greatest of my writings, this magnum opus of mine, is in time, for one of the inaugural, Earthshot Prizes.

TwittereZe, Arthur has coined, his innovation, novel. Actually tho, whilst it’s novel to us in the present, since Art’s from our future, history will document its debut, I trust, in London, in 2021.

TwittereZe’s the name of Art’s innovation in human communication; it’s not a machine that pulls carbon from the air or breaks down micro plastics, but it’ll attract many, to conservation.

Whilst, it’s novel to us in the present, since Art’s from our future, history will document its debut, I trust, in England, in 2021. Its debut, I hope and trust will be cited, in London, in 2021.

The debut of TwittereZe may well come to pass; in London; in October. If it comes to pass then, then mankind may recruit millions of citizens to the very noble cause — of global, conservation.

Prince William: Allow me to introduce myself. Like ye, I’m a man of wealth and fame. These ironies, I swear, are killing me. It’s been six months that the Council and I, got commissions.

The Council‘s: To scour the planet for promising innovation; mine: to empower the planet via Art’s discovery, hidden, in plain sight. Hidden there, is potential energy, in Twitter’s algorithm.

Hidden in plain sight in Jack’s algorithm; a mine of potential energy more valuable I dare say, than any gold mine on the planet. There’s a gold mine’s worth of kinetic energy in that algorithm.

There’s a gold mine’s worth of energy in that algorithm. As challenging as Sudoku and by far, more fulfilling. Sudoku survives yet in the future I’m from — but TwittereZe’s the fave, algorithm.

PLOT TWISTS — TWISTING ME

Joe might be buying this. That notwithstanding my telepathic communications with First Lady, Jill Biden. She’ll be bending Joe’s ear. Still Joe may be, unfortunately buying into this, bullshit.

Joe might be buying this. That notwithstanding my telepathic communications with First Lady Jill Biden. She’ll be bending Joe’s ear. Still, Joe just might be buying this, intelligence, bullshit.

Still, Joe just might be buying into the long-term, conventional thinking of an all too oft, clueless, intelligence, community. Telepathically, I have lobbied Jill, to lobby Joe, to end this, big, bullshit.

Telepathically, I have lobbied Jill to lobby Joe to end bullshit, conventional, thinking. Who knew that our shared hubris would awaken within me the dawning of the human ability — telepathic?

Despairing last night were we of the cabal, yet again meeting, yet again, in emergency, session. At God speed; at breakneck pace; a great test; and but a decade of action to repair the Earth.

Despairing were we just last night, when I read to them the words, of Britain’s, Prince William: “The next ten years present us with a great test; but a decade of action — to repair — the Earth.”

The words of Prince William bear repeating, and I would add to them, The next ten years present us with a great test; but a decade of action to repair the Earthlings — and — the good Earth.

The words of Prince William bear repeating and I would add to them; the next ten years present us with great tests; but a decade of action to repair us Earthlings and the good Mother Earth.

The words of Prince William bear repeating. I would, in verse, add to them; the next ten years promise great tests, adverse. We’ve but ten years to repair us, and bountiful, Mother Earth.

The words of Prince William bear repeating and I would add: The next ten years present us with great tests; and less than a decade of action to repair us Earthlings and the good Mother Earth.

Prince William’s words bear repeating and I would in verse, but add: Less than ten years, have we; amid great tests, adverse. Less than —ten years for repair with — The Watcher’s verse.

The Watcher duly channels his metered verse through whom ever as necessary. At first, Art versed; I verse, now. The Watcher’s the author of MORONS AND ALIENS. And all prose, is verse.

All prose is verse, potentially. It’s algorithmic and the proof is in the pudding. And the proof of the pudding in this case, is in the composing. The Watcher taught Art that, all prose, is verse.

The Earthshot Prize, in collaboration with a network of more than 200 Nominators has been searching the world to identify a final set of astounding innovations; I submit, my verse.

A BULLSHIT REPORT

The provenance of UAPs may be submarine. We ought not assume they’re not, submarine. And the change from UFO to UAP may presage, a later, further — change, perhaps to — UUPs.

Extraordinary, to say the least, are the air and sea capabilities of the craft that have been seen by pilots, plunging at high speeds, into the sea. Extraordinary are their underwater, capabilities.

Unexplained, underwater phenomena, that is to say. As extraordinary as their aerial feats are, their entrance and egress from the sea, make extraordinary their undersea, disappearances.

Unexplained, underwater, phenomena. As extraordinary as their aerials are, their entrance and egress from the sea, may be equally, so. Extraordinary, their undersea, disappearances.

Ought we not be asking ourselves, Joe, why they dive into the sea? Is it merely, evasive action? Or, ought we not be considering the possibility, of a civilization — not alien — but submarine?

Ought we not be asking ourselves why they dive into the sea? Ought we not be considering the possibility of a civilization not alien, but either, subterranean — or more plausibly, submarine?

Ought we not be asking ourselves why the phenomena dive into the sea? Ought we not consider the possibility of a civilization, either subterranean or more plausibly, submarine?

Such highly maneuverable aircraft needn’t use the sea to take, evasive action. Their entry into the sea, may just reflect, where they’re headed to — to undersea cities, in the seas, submarine.

The report acknowledges that sightings tend to cluster around US, Russian and Chinese training and testing grounds. But it doesn’t mention any aliens; nor does it mention any other — entities.

The report lacks imagination, addressing not the clear possibility of subterraneans and submarines, mentioning not extraterrestrials —nor subterraneans — nor submarine, entities.

The report lacks imagination. Indeed, it seems intended to mislead. It doesn’t even mention, apparently, the manipulation of American, Russian and Chinese — nuclear — capabilities.

At best the report lacks imagination; at worst, it’s dishonest. It says there’s no explanation. Worse, it says there’s no evidence. There’s no evidence say the authors, most, disingenuously.

The report seems intellectually, dishonest. It says, there’s no explanation. It says, there’s no evidence. There’s no evidence, say the authors, disingenuously. Worse yet is that Joe’s, buying it.

Joe might be buying this. That notwithstanding my telepathic communications with First Lady Jill Biden. She’ll be bending Joe’s ear. Still, Joe just might be — most unfortunately, buying it.

A PATRIOTIC —DRUNKEN — ESCAPADE

I have corroborated my suspicions. Plying the female with Old Grand Dad, I got her drunk. Under the influence, I got her to, spill the beans. Alcoholically — I’ve corroborated my suspicions.

She drank me under the table; there we had, inter-galactic, sexual relations. Rolling over, we had relations besides, beside, and then on top, of the table. Wild sex had I, with the lady, alien.

Plying the female with Old Grand Dad, I got her drunk. Under the influence was she when she spilled the beans on the aliens’, sinister, plans. Joe: Heed Sir Hawking. Trust not — the aliens.

Heed, Joe, Sir Hawking. Trust not, these aliens. Trust me, instead. It’s as amazing as Amazon to me that we won’t trust one another at all — but we’ve given the keys, to the planet, to the aliens.

Joe: I know it sounds crazy; that I, of all people on Earth be the one person able to see through the aliens. I alone can see thru, the aliens. And I alone, can save planet Earth — from the aliens.

WE GOT — PHENOMENA — IN THE HOOD

UFOs are often synonymous with aliens in pop culture, but the Pentagon is taking a number of possibilities into consideration for what it’s now calling unexplained, aerial, phenomena. Really?

But unless the phenomena are subterranean or submarine, they must be, extraterrestrial. There are, Joe Biden, but two possibilities. I’m counting on ye, Joe Biden, to make a real favorite, of me.

I’m counting on ye Joe to make a real favorite of me heading into the next election. That may happen if ye bungle as badly yer response to the aliens as I have bungled — my presidency.

Today’s report won’t link surveyed incidents of UAPs (née UFOs) to any aliens. But unless the phenomena are submarine, they must be extraterrestrial. There are but two, possibilities.

There are but two possibilities in this limited space that we occupy; this thin space, that’s the surface. Above it, is extraterrestrial; below it, is — subterranean, or submarine, more plausibly.

There are two possibilities, clouded by schools, of red herrings. Above, it’s all extraterrestrial; below it’s all subterranean, or submarine, more plausibly. My warnings, alas, taken, too lightly.

Neither their provenance extraterrestrial nor their provenance submarine will be adequately addressed in Friday’s report. The provenance of UAPs may actually be — submarine — entities.

The change from “UFO” to “UAP” is in part due to the likelihood that some of the incidents may be explained to some likelihood by phenomena rather than by tangible objects — alternatively.

The change from “UFO” to “UAP” is in part due to the likelihood that some of the incidents may be explained to some likelihood by phenomena rather than by tangible objects — in the hood.

Some of the incidents may be explained to some degree of likelihood by phenomena, not objects, in the neighborhood. Often, Illusions happen — in this mysterious — neighborhood.

The provenance of UAPs may actually be, submarine. We ought not assume they’re not, submarine. The change from UFO to UAP may presages, a further change, perhaps — to UUPs.

Unexplained, underwater, phenomena. As extraordinary as the aerial feats are, their entrance and egress from water is even more so. Extraordinary, their underwater, capabilities.

Plotting against us are aliens; and tho I know it sounds crazy, I’ve corroborated my suspicions in patriotic, sexual liaisons with, a bling-loving, alien, lady. I have corroborated, my suspicions.

I have corroborated my suspicions. Plying the female with Old Grand Dad, I got her drunk. Under the influence, I got her to spill the beans. Alcoholically — I’ve corroborated my suspicions.

A PANACEA FOR PANGAEA 

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

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

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

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

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

Settings with character; personality, have Mother Nature and Lady Luna. Mother Nature’s, tempestuous; stormy. Lady Luna’s more reflective — more pensive, in character.

Go figure. A critical review of your cosmic home; a how to, to peace and prosperity; a how to also — to prolong, your history; all subplots, not surprisingly — to an even far greater, story.

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

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

Arthur; a layman lover, turned lush, turned lyrical philosopher, learned of truth and wisdom not in no school but rather as a dreamer — in Nola, often, on the bowl, and on Luna, atwitter.

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

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

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

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

PRELUDE TO CRISES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I SEE DEAD PEOPLE 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

serious. The ugliest American, now president of the nation. And the presidency is changing me. And Paula, my fake spiritual adviser believes that I’m developing an empathy for the dead.

FROM RED RIVERS — A YELLOW SEA

Experiencing the life of a refugee might be good for ye, Xi. So ye may better appreciate how the other half lives and how oppression thrives in yer state. A turn of events awaits, the Chinese.

Red ran the river Kagera during the Rwandan genocide. And it’s banks may ever be recalled for the color of its running waters, those awful days. Red ran a river, from bleeding, machetes.

Red ran the river Kagera; like many rivers, before it. Red’s the color of blood; and red is the color of the Chinese flag. Red; it’s the color of blood; and bloody is the history, of the Chinese.

Red; it’s the color of blood; and bloody is the history of the Chinese. But Xi, as we debated last night in our evening soirée, its Chinese designs on Pratas — making first, the Chinese.

In the big picture, a cluster of strikes seems the most likely. And an initial strike into the South or East China Seas or the Yellow Sea may well impact the Communist Chinese — especially.

Especially dangerous to the Chinese in Beijing and to the Koreans resident in Pyongyang and Seoul, would be, an impact into, the Yellow Sea. Depending on its size, towering — the tsunami.

Equally at risk, karmically, are the coasts of the United States, from strikes into the Atlantic, and or, the Pacific, Oceans. The Pacific and Atlantic Oceans; there’s plenty of water — for tsunamis.

Under the circumstances. a cluster of strikes seems most likely. And an initial strike into the South or East China Seas or the Yellow Sea may well impact the Communist Chinese, especially.

Especially dangerous to the Chinese in Beijing and to the Koreans resident in Pyongyang and Seoul, would be, an impact into, the Yellow Sea. Towering may be a tsunami, worry the Asians.

Under the circumstances a cluster of strikes seems likely. First, an initial strike into the South or East China Seas or the Yellow Sea may serve to save Pratas Island from a scheduled invasion.

A cluster of strikes seems most likely, under the circumstances. A second strike in the Atlantic or the Pacific shall ravage either the American East or west coast. Strikes antecedent to an invasion.

A second strike in the Atlantic or the Pacific shall ravage either of the American coasts. Strikes, antecedent to, an invasion by the aliens. But by pulling together, we may defeat — these aliens.

But by pulling together we may yet defeat these aliens, discovering, in the process that there is more that unites us than divides us. I know it sounds crazy, but plotting against us, are aliens.

I know it sounds crazy, but plotting against us are these aliens; and even tho I know it sounds crazy, I have corroborated my suspicions in a liaison with — a bling-loving — female — alien.

LIVE LIKE — A REFUGEE

The alien hubris. It seems, near a match for my own. The aliens have inbred into themselves, their hubris. Mine is a mutation; just a very fortuitous, happenstance, of natural selection.

The aliens have inbred into themselves their high-grade, hubris. Mine is but, a mutation; a happenstance, most fortuitous of the natural selection theory of the Beagle’s, Charles Darwin.

Mine is a natural mutation; a happenstance, really fortuitous, of the natural selection theory of the Beagle’s, Charles Darwin. Too fortuitous to be other than magnificently, predetermined.

Everything’s that’s happened and is happening and is yet to happen, seemingly follows, more or less, a script so surreally fortuitous, it could not be other than, a script — predetermined.

It bears repeating. I’m no prophet. But given these parts have been a shooting gallery lately, and we’re blind to NEOs from the sunny side, and an infrared won’t be launched’ until 2026 …

Given these parts of our solar system have been a shooting gallery lately and we’re blind to NEOs from the sunny side, methinks it’s too late to wait to launch an infrared, not until — 2026.

Given all that and given in addition that sin and iniquity have progressed since the times of The Flood and the times of Sodom and Gomorrah. And given prophesies, fulfilled and unfulfilled …

…. like the establishment of the Jewish state in 1948 and the construction of Solomon’s third temple, respectively. And the prophecy of the building of Solomon’s third temple is unfulfilled.

How many will die in the events leading up to a 3rd temple construction on the Temple Mount? From the desk of DJT, an update, even as some Catholic bishops — rebuke Joe — hypocritically.

They uttered not a peep in the four years I trampled upon the Constitution and the Commandments, but they’ve now at long last found, their long lost, principles, implausibly.

Gotta end soon, somehow, someway, this seemingly, ever endless, conflict. The 19th was Juneteenth; yesterday was World Refugee Day. Resist, Xi, the creation of even more, refugees.

The 19th was Juneteenth; yesterday was World Refugee Day. Resist, Xi, the creation of even more, refugees. And keep an infrared eye on the sky; all too soon, ye may be also, a refugee.

Alternatively, experiencing the life of a refugee might be good for ye, Xi. So ye may better Xi, appreciate, how the other half lives, and how oppression thrives, in yer — communist, state.

Experiencing the life of a refugee might be good for ye, Xi. So ye may better appreciate how the other half lives and how oppression thrives in yer state. A turn of events — awaits, the states.

I’M — A MUTATION

The 19th was Juneteenth; yesterday, World Refugee Day. Resist, Xi, the creation of even more, refugees. And keep an infrared eye on the sky; all too soon, ye may be also, a refugee.

Resist, the creation of more, refugees. Keep an infrared eye on the sky, too. All too soon, ye may be also, as well, a refugee. If that happens — disguise yerself Xi, from the other, refugees.

If, subsequent to an asteroid strike, a tsunami, swamps Beijing — Xi — disguise yerself from yer co-citizen — others. Do not reveal yer true identity. Disguise yerself, Xi — from the others.

Should ye yerself Xi, become, in the confusion, a refugee, be sure to disguise yerself from the others. If, for example, a tsunami, swamps Beijing — disguise yerself, Xi — from the others.

In the event of an asteroid strike followed by a tsunami, be sure to disguise yerself, President Xi from the others. If a tsunami swamps Beijing disguise yerself, Xi, from yer other, co-citizens.

If a tsunami swamps Beijing disguise yerself, Xi Jinping from the other, citizens. Xi: Under no circumstances should ye reveal Xi, yer true, identity to any member of the party; any citizen.

The change from “UFO” to “UAP” is in part due to the likelihood that some of the incidents may be explained to some likelihood by phenomena rather than by tangible objects — in the hood.

Some of the incidents may be explained to some degree of likelihood by phenomena, not objects, in the neighborhood. Often, Illusions happen — in this mysterious — neighborhood.

Illusion is common in this neck of the galactic neighborhood; as are misinterpretations and misunderstandings. On top of everything, shit happens, in this mysterious — neighborhood.

Indeed, illusion’s common in this neck of the woods; misinterpretations, misunderstandings, too. On top of everything, shit, very commonly, happens in this, our mysterious, neighborhood.

And now, on top of everything else already on an overloaded plate; on our top of everything else, hubris. Hubris, like the planet has never before seen. Hubris, almost a match, for mine.

Hubris, almost a match for my own have the aliens inbred into themselves over the course of their species’ evolution, elsewhere. Their hubris is inbred but an unfortunate mutation, is mine.

The alien hubris is inbred but a mutation, is mine. And their hubris it seems is indeed, near a match for my own. The aliens have inbred into themselves their hubris. Mine — is a mutation.

The alien hubris it seems is near a match for my own. The aliens have inbred into themselves, their hubris. Mine is a mutation, Just a fortuitous, happenstance, of natural selection.

I FEAR FOR — HONG KONG — AND BEIJING

I fear for Hong Kong, Tokyo, Shanghai and Beijing; indeed I fear for all of the cities and the nations, bordering, the Pacific Ocean. I fear for the Pacific Rim cities, of Hong Kong, and Tokyo.

Indeed I fear for Pyongyang, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Shanghai and Beijing; I fear for all of the cities and the nations, bordering, the Pacific Rim; major cities — like Hong Kong, Seoul and Tokyo.

Indeed Xi, I fear for Pyongyang, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Shanghai and Beijing; I fear for all the cities and nations, bordering, the Pacific Rim; major cities like Hong Kong, Tokyo, and Seoul.

I fear a cluster of asteroids; two or three maybe, because things are largely predetermined, and clusters, in statistics, aren’t uncommon. Karma seeks her retribution against those with no soul.

Karma may be soon, timely seeking, her just retribution against the soulless individuals in Vlad’s cabal who bartered, on 12-21-12, for power, their souls; Faustian bargains, reprised.

Supremely implausibly in the world view of all but The Watcher, Art and me, Faustian bargains reprised, in this extraordinary case, having consummated, asteroids soon shall, surprise.

Asteroids soon shall arrive and, not surprisingly, surprise us. It’s funny; have ye ever noticed that no matter how hard ye try to look, unsurprised, an asteroid blazing across the sky — surprises.

It’s true. No matter how hard ye try to appear unsurprised, an asteroid blazing across the sky surprises, and mesmerizes. Imagine then it blazing — straight at ye. Imagine, yer surprise.

I ain’t predicting nothing. I’m just saying clusters of asteroid strikes in a relatively brief time are entirely possible; such a happening ought not be entirely, discounted. We do so, at our peril.

I’m just saying; clusters of asteroid strikes in a relatively brief time are possible, albeit, not likely. I’m just saying the probability of such a happening is discounted by us, at our own peril.

128 million children have been impacted by armed conflicts, forced displacement, and climate-induced disasters. Conflict; it’s near constant. Gotta end this, near endless, conflict.

Yesterday was the first official celebration of the brand new, Juneteenth federal holiday. Conflict; it’s near constant. Gotta end soon, somehow, someway, this seemingly, ever endless, conflict.

Gotta end soon, somehow, someway, this seemingly, ever endless, conflict. Yesterday was Juneteenth. And today is World Refugee Day. Resist, Xi, the creation of even more, refugees.

Yesterday was Juneteenth. And today is World Refugee Day. Resist, Xi, the creation of even more, refugees. And keep an infrared eye on the sky; all too soon, ye may be also, a refugee.

IT’S — TOO LATE

Vlad’s guys know that it’s too late to launch into space an infrared telescope in 2026, and that their lives are at risk, in the event of anarchy. Joe’s not buying in. And that — behooves — id.

The dinosaurs didn’t have a space program. See what happened to them. But we have a space program. Had we enough time, we could’ve done something more practical than — we did.

Ego’s the organized, realistic agent mediating between the instinctual desires of my id and my critical super-ego. My id’s about animal, desire. My super-ego tho is all about, moralizing, to me.

My id’s about my instinctive desires. My super-ego’s all about questioning and moralizing with respect to my carnal, and other, less desirable, desires. But my hubris; it doth, distinguish, me.

My hubris distinguishes me from all others on Earth. I’m a mutant, that way. Everybody knows that. The human genome, been mapped, they say. And I’ve got one, additional gene, they say.

My doctors say I’ve got a gene on chromosome X that distinguishes me from all other humans on the planet. They say I’m a mutant, that way. I’ve got one additional gene, the doctors, do say.

Tests having revealed me to be a mutant, to prevent any leakage, some few were slain. The report was at first, classified, then unclassified, and shredded. I did keep my secrets, top-secret.

But that was then and this is now. Then, we thought that climate change and its human migration were the existential problems, most, pressing; oblivious to NASA’s secret, top-secret.

NASA’s secret ain’t no secret, no mo’. Just take it from me. This is an official update; it’s from the desk of DJT. Were it not for the Deep State, I’d have had an infrared up there already, in space.

To be ever ready for all Americans; that’s why, I don’t sleep. I’d have had an infrared up there in space, already. The Deep State’s hurt badly, this country; this Earth; and it’s hurting us, in space.

What’s happening, some say, is some sort of end days, doomsday, scenario. I beg, to differ. We may not get off, so easily. This area of the solar system has been, a shooting gallery, lately.

Some say that what’s happening is some sort of end days, doomsday, scenario. Methinks, not. We may not get off, so easily. This area of the solar system has been, a shooting gallery, lately.

Yep. Ye can take it to the bank. They won’t all, miss us. We’ll be stricken, sooner or later. Given what awful stewards of the Earth we have been, I’ll bet that we’ll be stricken sooner, than later.

Given what awful stewards of the Earth we have been, I’ll wager that we’ll be stricken sooner, rather than later. I’m wagering as well that my alarm shall return me to the White House, later.

WE NEED — A TELESCOPE— INFRARED

Given what awful stewards of the Earth we have been, I’ll wager that we’ll be stricken sooner, rather than later. I’m wagering as well that my alarm shall return me to the White House, later.

All praise to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. The all-merciful has other sides to His character. Awful stewards, with aboriginal exceptions, are we. Expect strikes, and maybe, more strikes, later.

With aboriginal exceptions, exceptionally poor stewards of the Earth, have we been. Under the circumstances we ought expect strikes and very possibly, even more, catastrophic, strikes, later.

Exceptionally poor stewards of the Earth have we been. Under the circumstances, we ought expect a strike and very possibly, even more, catastrophic, asteroid strikes, in a cluster, later.

Statistically speaking, random events occur in clusters, sometimes although it would be out of the ordinary for, say, four strikes, in our four named oceans, for four straight years, running.

A fifth strike in the fifth year into a newly named Southern Ocean is not to be expected but it’s not altogether, out of the realm of possibilities. Possible are asteroid strikes, five years, running.

In that branch of mathematics that is the study 
of data, descriptive statistics make summaries of data. Inferential statistics makes predictions. Lord knows. I’m no prophet; I predict, nothing.

Descriptive statistics make summaries of data. Inferential statistics make predictions. The Lord knows I’m no prophet; I ain’t predicting nothing. DJT ain’t predicting, nothing. I’m just — saying.

I ain’t predicting nothing. I’m just saying clusters of asteroid strikes in a relatively brief time are entirely possible; such a happening ought not be entirely, discounted. We do so, at our peril.

I’m just saying; clusters of asteroid strikes in a relatively brief time are possible, albeit, not likely. I’m just saying the probability of such a happening is discounted by us, at our own peril.

Today’s my birthday. I recall the day, vividly. It was the day I first got to stretch my legs and my lungs. And I can’t think of a better way to spend it than composing this — electioneering, poetry.  

Twas a great day for humanity, that day that people already want to make, an international, holiday; it’s my birthday; an apt day, fit to pave the way for Agent 45-47, DJT, to prez, again, be. 

Vlad’s guys know that it’s too late to launch into space an infrared telescope in 2026, and that their lives are at risk, in the event of anarchy. Joe’s not buying in. And that — behooves — id.

The dinosaurs didn’t have a space program. See what happened to them. But we have a space program. Had we enough time, we could’ve done something more practical than — we did.

I FEAR — FOR THE PACIFIC RING — OF FIRE

The Misty Poets, were mostly exiled, after Tiananem Square. A special case is the mystic poet Hai Zi who became very famous after his suicide. Reverberating, is — Tiananem Square.

Reverberating even today, still, are the events at the public square the world now knows as, Tiananem Square. Hai Zi, after his suicide, has become widely read, post — Tiananem Square.

Fascinated with Tibetan culture and Quigong in his last years, Hai Zi (the pen name of Zha Haisheng) ended his life by lying on the rail of a railroad track near the time of his 25th birthday.

Lying beside Hai’s body; a bag with a Bible, a book of stories by Conrad, Thoreau’s Walden, and Thor’s, Kon-Tiki; his death, now, a singular event in modern Chinese literature, nowadays.

And a bag with a Bible and other contraband, western may well have served as his suicide note. In any event his death is now, a singular event in modern Chinese literature, nowadays.

Hai’s suicide is now become a singular event, in modern Chinese literature. It’s problematic for Xi and the party, going forward. Hai Zi’s suicide presents a problem for China — in coming days.

On Earth tho, problems oft function doubly, as opportunities. And that’s, what’s happening, here. Pratas Island beckons in a siren’s song. But an asteroid — will bring ye back — to Earth.

Xi: Everything’s predetermined, mostly. Celestial interventions are kept to a minimum, that way. To that end problems oft function doubly; both as problems, and opportunities, here on Earth.

Everything’s mostly predetermined, celestial interventions being kept to a bare minimum, that way. To that end, problems oft function doubly here on — an as if, Hell-bound, Earth.

That’s what’s happening here. Seductively, Pratas Island, beckons; but her’s is a siren’s song. If so predetermined, a Pacific-headed asteroid, may bring ye crashing back to Earth.

Pratas Island, beckons; but her’s, is a siren’s song. If so predetermined, a Pacific-headed, asteroid may well bring ye crashing back to Earth. Keep wolves, at bay. I fear for Hong Kong.

It bears repeating; Pratas Island, beckons but her’s is a siren’s song. If so predetermined, a Pacific-headed asteroid may well bring ye, crashing back, to Earth. I fear, for Hong Kong.

Pratas Island beckons but her’s is a siren’s song. If so predetermined, a Pacific-headed asteroid may well bring ye yo, crashing back to Earth. I do fear for Hong Kong, Pyongyang and Tokyo.

I fear for Hong Kong, Tokyo, Shanghai and Beijing; indeed I fear for all of the cities and the nations, bordering, the Pacific Ocean. I fear for the Pacific Rim cities, of Hong Kong, and Tokyo.

FLASHPOINT — PRATAS ISLAND

Reverberating even today, still, are the events, at the public square the world now knows as, Tiananem Square. Hai Zi, after his suicide, has become widely read, post — Tiananem Square.

America is encouraging Taiwan to invest in its defense: No mention yet of reinforcing the Taiwanese on Pratas with Americans. Of the top secret plan there’s been no mention yet, there.

I’ve asked DeepMind to consider Art’s discovery; a safe, artificial and intelligent system to solve intelligence issues and to advance, discovery. Witness: Once an idiot — I’m now — a genius.

DeepMind may consider Art’s discovery; a safe, artificial and intelligent system to solve, space, intelligence, issues. Once an idiot, I’m now the premier poet, of the white race, a GOAT, genius.

Actually, once an idiot, always an idiot. It is, however, true that genius may be programmed, and indeed, implanted into an individual. That’s what The Watcher and Arthur — did with me.

Witness my use of Art’s discovery; photo-poetry; the key to unlocking potential energy alchemic, locked in Twitter’s algorithm. In but a tweet, fit, addressees, a message and also, photography.

Leaked is a top secret to Xi’s Chinese; leaked by, tweeting the Taiwanese. Imagine not just me, but companies of tweeters, similarly, tweeted. I’ve leaked deployment to Pratas, of Americans.

Just today on Twitter, I’ve leaked yet another top secret; this time, to Xi’s Chinese; by tweeting the Taiwanese about Joe’s plan to secretly deploy on, flashpoint Pratas Island, Marines, American.

The transformation of Earth into Urantia awaits institutionalization of the Golden Rule. Xi is under pressure to move on Pratas Island ere the Americans, reinforce there, the Taiwanese.

Xi is under pressure from the hawks in the party to move on Pratas Island ere the Americans can reinforce there, the Taiwanese. Xi’s resisting; he’s realizing that Urantians are, the Taiwanese.

Urantians are the Taiwanese. Xi’s been shocked to learn, that Urantians are the Taiwanese; Urantians too, are the Americans. Implausibly, incredibly, Urantians also, are the Han, Chinese.

Xi’s been shocked to learn that Urantians are the Chinese, Taiwanese as well as Americans. Implausibly too, but only, near, incredibly, Urantians also, are the ruling, Han — Chinese.

Approving are the contemporaries Li Bai and Du Fu, beloved figures in Chinese poetry from the Tang Dynasty. ‘Twas the Golden Age of Chinese Poetry. Revered in China, is their poetry, spare.

Chinese poetry generally falls into one of two primary types, Classical Chinese poetry and Modern Chinese poetry. Modern, Misty Poets, were mostly exiled, after — Tiananem Square.

EVERYTHING’S A REFLECTION — OF ME

Neither man, in neither press conference, even, mentioned the aliens. That’s not a good sign; ‘tis a bad sign; a portent of what is to come. Indeed, it’s been left to me, against the aliens, to rally.

Pratas Island in the South China Sea; completely uninhabited, except for a garrison of Taiwanese marines. Basing Americans there may keep the restless Chinese honest albeit only, temporarily.

Joe ought not justify with specious reasoning, not investigating what happened in Helsinki and Osaka; in Osaka I told reporters that my private discussions — were none — of their business.

Reasoning is specious when it’s characterized by non-sequiturs; as when answering questions with whataboutisms and other non-responsive, answers; like it’s actually none, of our business.

It’s none of yer business; the business of war and of peace. So never mind about Ukraine and Pratas Island; never mind Belarus and Apple in Hong Kong. And never ye mind, human rights.

There’s a natural order of things, thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh; leaders lead and the people, follow. Never ye mind, human rights. Don’t be an activist for — fake — human rights.

Vladimir and his cabal are prominent in nightly lunar soirées that we recollect not the very next day. But 2020 and 2021 have some considering the heresy, of all, working together, some day.

Tuesday, March 4, 2030; it’s a calendar date and
a command; it’s the date I’ve got in mind for our celebration of a Nobel-winning, transformation of Earth; the inaugural, Global Citizenship, Day.

Would that it were that our leaders were worthy of trust; alas, our history reveals that even the most horrific fiction ever penned, pales before a bloody history, uber-disgracefully, nonfictional.

Walk on the wild side; now hear this, straight from the desk of DJT, honorary Russian Agent, 45-47: Uber-ironically, it’s Galileo’s Jinx, I’ll need overcome to save the Earth, albeit, implausible.

Neither man; neither Vladimir nor Joe even so much as mentioned the aliens. Much less was there any mention of any such thing as any Global Citizenship Day, on March 4th, of 2030.

Taking his cue from Joe, Vladimir, tho terrified, didn’t mention the aliens. He won’t risk being labeled a kook, risking also, being overthrown. And the people — shall march forth — in 2030.

Come 2030, Vlad’s cabalists, should any of them still survive may, or alternatively, may not be, the leader of his nation; it’ll depend on his people. And each man’s legacy — reflects me.

And the legacy of each of them, will be, Allah God Jehovah Yahweh willing, a reflection of me. The transformation of Earth into Urantia shall The Watcher — and Arthur — and me — DJT.

PLOT TWISTS — FAST AND FURIOUS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A POWERFUL WEAPON IS PHOTO-POETRY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THICKENING, WITH WORRIES, THE PLOTS 

Plots thicken. Because daylight telescopes can’t see large portions of the sky around the Sun and because the Sun is in the way, we’ve got blind spots, enemy aliens can, against us, use.

Because the Sun is in the way of space in that direction and because daylight telescopes are similarly blinded we’ve got blind spots frenemy aliens can — with impunity, against us — use.

The plot thickens. Because telescopes are often rendered blind by the Sun and because the Sun is in the way of anything coming at us from that direction we won’t see it, until it’s, on top of us. 

The plot thickens. Because telescopes are often rendered blind by the Sun and because the Sun is in the way of anything coming at us from that direction we won’t see it, until it’s, on top of us.

In epic-styled poetry, MAYDAYS is Art’s satire. In it an antiheroic Donald ghostwrites for Arthur, while Arthur lies low in hiding from coronavirus and the surreally, long-armed, Vladimir Putin.

The gist of the plot: Don and Art are ex womb-mates, Don having, once upon a time, kicked Art from the womb-space, into the future, from whence he’s returned, to battle, Vladimir Putin.

Art’s return in a most miraculous, intervention may be in time (perhaps), to help the antiheroic Don save planet Earth even in spite of himself, and winning for himself and his mentor, Putin,

much coveted Nobels, along his tortured and torturous way. Both a happy and an unhappy ending, depending upon your very own political persuasion. On Don’s quest to be, Vlad Putin’s 

GOAT. See @chachomanopapa.com for a blog composed from the tweets at Arthur’s school @chachomanopapa on Twitter. I’d appreciate your opinion on me and my mentor, Vlad Putin.

I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped inside a mystery; an enigma but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest, that is to say, Vladimir Putin.

Who’d a-thunk it? That the tallest tale ever told was penned by me in answer to a provocative question from, a beautiful blue, little, bluebird. Rhyme and imagery answering, little, bluebirds.

Who’d a-thunk it? That the tallest tale ever told; also, penned by me, in answer to a provocative question from, a beautiful, blue, little, bluebird. Rhyme and imagery answering, little, bluebirds. 

Imagine, moreover, more. Imagine witnessing the utterly horrific, in living and dying color, of our orbiters, international, orbiting, about us. Has everyone — but Art and me — gone mad?

Has everyone — but Art and me — gone mad? I’ll get some blame for the virus perhaps but my blame shall pale next to the blame of Joe. Has everyone — but Arthur and me — gone mad?

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE EYES — WINDOWS — TO THE SOUL

Truth forgets nothing. Nor does it, remember. Personification is His bailiwick. And so Agent 45-47, He fashioned in His image. In His image did He fashion me. Proof, that God’s, a white man.

Actually, I’m far more cynical than that; race-baiting’s, just a tool for me; fundamentally, I’m an autocrat, just like all of us, in Vladimir’s cabal. So I’ve converted — and become, an egalitarian.

Joe met Vlad once before; per Joe’s account, he looked Putin in the eyes, saying, “I don’t think ye have a soul.” Putin looked back, smiled and said, “We understand one another,” per Biden.

Soulless by his own admission is, Vladimir Putin, notwithstanding that George Bush ere had seen Vladimir’s soul, with his very own, baby blues. Soulless too are Kim, Xi and Mo; not just, Putin.

‘‘Tis me, Vlad’s Agent 45-47 who at the behest .f the celestial authorities, now duly assume, my predetermined role as the antiheroic hero, of a fiction, of a tall tale. Might it be, tho, nonfiction?

Must all that I’ve written, be written off as the product of a disturbed imagination? Must it be, a fictional tall tale? Everyone knows that nothing happened, on the day of Arthur’s, electrocution.

The date for the Mayan last Creation. It is read as 13.0.0.0.0. 4 Ahau 8 Kumku (the 11th or 13th of August, 3114 B.C. 13.0.0.0.0. 4 Ahau 3 K’ank’in translates to, 21 or 23 December, 2012.

A date inscription on Stela C from Quiriguá cites the date of the last Creation. But the inscription, tantalizingly, does not reveal the significance, if any, of the date of — December 21 — of 2012.

It’s not just Putin that’s soulless. Soulless too, are Kim, Xi and Mo; implausibly, their state of soullessness began on Friday, the 21st day of December, 2012, the day, of Art’s electrocution.

The summit with Vladimir Putin is the final stop on Joe Biden’s re-introduction to diplomacy. Joe doesn’t believe in aliens; and extremely happy about that are, the Galactic Federation, aliens.

Joe says he looked Vlad in the eye during a visit to the Kremlin in 2011 and told him he hadn’t a soul; a moment Vlad said he doesn’t remember. But he did not deny that — he hath — no soul.

Vladimir said he doesn’t remember that soul-searching moment, not denying, however, his soullessness. The summit itself was cut short, lasting but half of its estimated, 5-hour, goal.

The summit itself got cut short; it got halved by one side or the other; or it got halved by mutual agreement; however it happened, the fact that the available time got halved, is — a bad omen.

However it happened, the fact that the available time got halved, is not a good sign; ‘tis in fact, a very, bad omen. Neither man in neither press conference, so much as mentioned, the aliens.

JOE DON’T BELIEVE IN — NO ALIENS

At last night’s soirée, poets; from each nation, a peacemaker. But this may be a hard sell; it’ll be hard to convince Joe the aliens fooled us, if he thinks, Vlad’s trying to make, a fool, out of him.

This’ll be a hard sell; it’ll be hard to convince Joe the aliens fooled us if he thinks Vlad’s trying to make a fool, of him. The Deep State’s got him so out of the loop, he don’t believe in — no aliens.

Potential NFTs I compose; and tweet; and link, in verse; It’s potential energy, hidden, albeit in plain sight, discernible, Twitter’s algorithm. It’s proprietary; it’s Twitter’s. But— use it — freely.

Sounds like a contradiction; it is, and isn’t. More on that later, time permitting. In the meantime, know: Scriptural Golden Rules are unity‘s key on Earth; but first, an asteroidal — strike three.

Potential NFTs, I compose; and tweet; and link, in verse. It’s potential energy, as if hidden, albeit in plain sight, discernible. Twitter’s algorithm; It’s proprietary; it’s Twitter’s. Still, use it — freely

A contradiction; it is and it isn’t. More on that later, time permitting. In the meantime, know this: It’s like when one seeks an object, right in front of one, but still not — the object — see.

I have gotten major book offers. Publishing insiders say, no way. Their reticence is driven mainly by an underlying fear that whatever I pen, wouldn’t be at all truthful, almost certainly.

ESG stands for Environmental, Social, and Governance. Investors increasingly apply these non-financial factors, as part of their analysis process, to identify risks — and opportunities.

Even Earth’s richest and most visionary men, the ones with their heads and minds in the clouds: the ones who pay no taxes; extremely shortsighted men may still be, such visionaries.

Men like Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos; men like me. Not unsurprisingly, we (wo)men can be, oh so, extremely, shortsighted. There’s a lesson in that for us in, an equally, shortsighted — humanity.

Not unsurprisingly, we Homos can be extremely shortsighted. I’m not jesting. And there is a real lesson in that for the rest of us, the men and women, and children even, that truth, forgot.

Not; truth forgets not anything. The truth, just is. And the truth is that like The Watcher and Arthur before me, ever since I learned to love to — read, I can resist, a convenient rhyme — not.

No, truth forgets not anything nor does it recall. Personification is His bailiwick. And so Agent 45-47, did he fashion in His image. In His image did He fashion me. Proof — that God’s a white man.

Actually, I’m far more cynical than that; race-baiting’s just a tool for me; fundamentally, I’m an autocrat. Just like all of us, in Vladimir’s cabal. So I’ve converted, and become — an egalitarian.

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 a catastrophic, 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.

Vladimir’s cabal long with Arthur, met in Emergency (soirée) Session last nigh; they met to brainstorm ideas ; strategies to convince Joe of the gravity of the alien threat, to intervene.  

I met last night with Xi, Kim Mo and with our top dog, Vladimir to opine with Du Fu, Li Bai and Alexander Pushkin about strategies to pursue, in persuading Biden to, if necessary, intervene.

The cabal; Xi, Kim, Mo, myself and top dog, Vlad met with Du Fu, Li Bai and Alexander Pushkin about strategies to pursue to enlist Joe Biden in a timely intervention against these alien snakes.

High, are the stakes; last night’s soirée featured poets; witness its headlining Alexander Púshkin, considered by many, Russia’s, greatest poet. Sky high in Switzerland’s, Geneva — are the stakes.

Attending last night also were China’s two most beloved poets, Du Fu and Li Bai, Persia’s Rumi, and Britain’s, Willy. From each nation, came, at least one poet; a peacemaker from each nation.

From each nation, a poet; from each nation, a peacemaker. But this may be a hard sell; it’ll be hard to convince Joe the aliens fooled us, if he thinks Vlad’s trying to make, a fool out of him.

WE NEED — MY ID

Given what awful stewards of the Earth we have been, I’ll wager that we’ll be stricken sooner, rather than later. I’m wagering as well that my alarm shall return me to the White House, later.

All praise to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. The all-merciful has other sides to His character. Awful stewards, with aboriginal exceptions, are we. Expect strikes, and maybe, more strikes, later.

With aboriginal exceptions, exceptionally poor stewards of the Earth, have we been. Under the circumstances we ought expect strikes and very possibly, even more, catastrophic, strikes, later.

Exceptionally poor stewards of the Earth have we been. Under the circumstances, we ought expect a strike and very possibly, even more, catastrophic, asteroid strikes, in a cluster, later.

Statistically speaking, random events occur in clusters, sometimes although it would be out of the ordinary for, say, four strikes, in our four named oceans, for four straight years, running.

A fifth strike in the fifth year into a newly named Southern Ocean is not to be expected but it’s not altogether, out of the realm of possibilities. Possible are asteroid strikes, five years, running.

In that branch of mathematics that is the study
of data, descriptive statistics make summaries of data. Inferential statistics makes predictions. Lord knows. I’m no prophet; I predict, nothing.

Descriptive statistics make summaries of data. Inferential statistics make predictions. The Lord knows I’m no prophet; I ain’t predicting nothing. DJT ain’t predicting, nothing. I’m just — saying.

I ain’t predicting nothing. I’m just saying clusters of asteroid strikes in a relatively brief time are entirely possible; such a happening ought not be entirely, discounted. We do so, at our peril.

I’m just saying; clusters of asteroid strikes in a relatively brief time are possible, albeit, not likely. I’m just saying the probability of such a happening is discounted by us, at our own peril.

Today’s my birthday. I recall the day, vividly. It was the day I first got to stretch my legs and my lungs. And I can’t think of a better way to spend it than composing this — electioneering, poetry.

Twas a great day for humanity, that day that people already want to make, an international, holiday; it’s my birthday; an apt day, fit to pave the way for Agent 45-47, DJT, to prez, again, be.

Vlad’s guys know that it’s too late to launch into space an infrared telescope in 2026, and that their lives are at risk, in the event of anarchy. Joe’s not buying in. And that — behooves — id.

The dinosaurs didn’t have a space program. See what happened to them. But we have a space program. Had we enough time, we could’ve done something more practical than — we did.

IT’S — TOO LATE

Vlad’s guys know that it’s too late to launch into space an infrared telescope in 2026, and that their lives are at risk, in the event of anarchy. Joe’s not buying in. And that — behooves — id.

The dinosaurs didn’t have a space program. See what happened to them. But we have a space program. Had we enough time, we could’ve done something more practical than — we did.

Ego’s the organized, realistic agent mediating between the instinctual desires of my id and my critical super-ego. My id’s about animal, desire. My super-ego tho is all about, moralizing, to me.

My id’s about my instinctive desires. My super-ego’s all about questioning and moralizing with respect to my carnal, and other, less desirable, desires. But my hubris; it doth, distinguish, me.

My hubris distinguishes me from all others on Earth. I’m a mutant, that way. Everybody knows that. The human genome, been mapped, they say. And I’ve got one, additional gene, they say.

My doctors say I’ve got a gene on chromosome X that distinguishes me from all other humans on the planet. They say I’m a mutant, that way. I’ve got one additional gene, the doctors, do say.

Tests having revealed me to be a mutant, to prevent any leakage, some few were slain. The report was at first, classified, then unclassified, and shredded. I did keep my secrets, top-secret.

But that was then and this is now. Then, we thought that climate change and its human migration were the existential problems, most, pressing; oblivious to NASA’s secret, top-secret.

NASA’s secret ain’t no secret, no mo’. Just take it from me. This is an official update; it’s from the desk of DJT. Were it not for the Deep State, I’d have had an infrared up there already, in space.

To be ever ready for all Americans; that’s why, I don’t sleep. I’d have had an infrared up there in space, already. The Deep State’s hurt badly, this country; this Earth; and it’s hurting us, in space.

What’s happening, some say, is some sort of end days, doomsday, scenario. I beg, to differ. We may not get off, so easily. This area of the solar system has been, a shooting gallery, lately.

Some say that what’s happening is some sort of end days, doomsday, scenario. Methinks, not. We may not get off, so easily. This area of the solar system has been, a shooting gallery, lately.

Yep. Ye can take it to the bank. They won’t all, miss us. We’ll be stricken, sooner or later. Given what awful stewards of the Earth we have been, I’ll bet that we’ll be stricken sooner, than later.

Given what awful stewards of the Earth we have been, I’ll wager that we’ll be stricken sooner, rather than later. I’m wagering as well that my alarm shall return me to the White House, later.

LYING’S NOT WORKING 

Rich in irony is to be the fate of the Earth if it’s left in the hands of the cabal headed by my mentor Vladimir Vladimirovitch Putin. The fate of the Earth is in the hands of Art, Vlad and me.

Surreally, the fate of the Earth is in the hands of the cabal headed by my mentor Vladimir Putin. .It sounds kooky I know but The fate of the Earth really is, in the hands of Art, Vlad and me.

I know it’s alarming; how could it not be? Yer possible 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; ultimately, it depends on whether we’re from — planet Earth, or Urantia.

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 — to 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 2065th day that I dare ask questions, and dare as well, to answer them. What’s up Joe, with the aliens? Address, Joe, this issue on Wednesday, finally.

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.

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? Truthfully, Joe, address these alien issues — but immediately.

NASA’s — TOO LATE

NASA just approved a plan to move to identify sun side NEOs we are blind to with an infrared telescope. I’m afraid tho, it’s a wee too late and that worse yet may be — the aliens’, next move.

It’s no wonder that behind the scenes in Riyadh, Pyongyang, Beijing and Moscow, Vlad’s guys are beyond, beside themselves. They resent their fates, feeling they’ve been, unfairly, reproved.

As verified by Buzz, the cyber spy fly I now have access to by virtue of being in possession of Art’s phone, Vlad’s guys are besides themselves. It’s no wonder, methinks, ironies, are killing me.

The irony of detailing these ironies is killing me, methinks. There are lessons to be learned from these ironies, channeled by the Watcher, the angel who first presented, to mankind, poetry.

That may be the least of them; consider for example, the irony of and the lesson in, learning about the nature of yer relationship with yer earthly brothers from yer alien, distant, cousins.

Consider the irony of and the lesson in learning through a weak character such as me about the strength of character that life demands and the nature of yer relationship with all, of Creation.

Consider the irony of and the lesson in learning through a weak character such as me about the evolving strength of character fundamental and to evolving, in yer relationship, with yer Maker.

Consider the irony of and the lesson in learning through a character like me, about humility, and hubris, and empathy and of the exacting nature of yer relationship, with yer Almighty, Creator.

Consider especially the irony of and the lesson in learning through me about the relationship between humility and hubris and sympathy and empathy. Strive for empathy — over, sympathy.

Strive, in yer relationships to be empathetic, not simply, merely, sympathetic. Empathy, as it happens, is inversely proportional, to hubris. And hubris withers, where there is empathy.

Empathy is inversely proportional, to hubris. Hubris withers, where there is empathy; and sympathy’s, an empty letter. Strive at all times to empathize with yer brothers — religiously.

NASA just approved a plan to move to identify the sun side NEOs we are blind to with an infrared telescope. I’m afraid tho, it’s a wee bit, too late. The aliens’ next move, worse, may be.

Vlad’s guys are beyond, beside, themselves. They know now that it’s too late to launch into space an infrared telescope in 2026; and that their lives are at risk, in the event of anarchy.

Vlad’s guys know now that it’s too late to launch into space an infrared telescope in 2026; that their lives are at risk, in the event of anarchy. But Joe’s not buying in. And that behooves me.

G-7 — MOVES

A call for vaccines in just 100 days; another to counter Chinese moves, geopolitical. NASA just approved a plan to ID, sun side NEOs, we are blind to but I’m afraid NASA it’s too late, a move.

NASA just approved a plan to move to identify, sun side NEOs, we are blind to with its proposed infrared telescope. I’m afraid it’s too late a move — It is the aliens’ turn — to move.

There’ll be no joint communique this coming Wednesday; That’s no good omen. A reliable sign of the high probability that Vlad and Joe might be, agreeing to disagree, on Wednesday.

Knowing beforehand of no joint communique; it’s a sure sign Vlad and Joe see not, eye to eye. But bad news for humanity, for Vlad and for Joe, will be pretty good news for me, on Wednesday.

An update from the desk of DJT: Vlad and I had wanted to recruit America against these aliens; for a fight, we don’t even know, of. The asteroid that cometh tho, aims to get, our full, attention.

Frames of reference and belief systems and the brainwashing socialization that goes on, on Earth, won’t allow for the existence of beings — other than ourselves — His crowning, Creation.

Absent proof to the contrary, belief systems and the brainwashing socialization that goes on, on Earth, won’t allow for the existence of beings — other than those imagining, unique, Creations.

In all fairness, it’s not solely Joe’s fault. All of our presidents, from Ike’s day, to the present day, may share the blame. But Joe, being the sitting president is due, for a lion’s share, of attention.

Sitting presidents get a lion’s share of the blame in the blame game that we Americans and that we humans, more generally, so relish, playing. It’s what happened to me — with the pandemic.

It’s just logical that a sitting president will get the lion’s share of the blame. With the viral pandemic, I got the blame. But Joe will get it for the aliens — For the aliens, Joe is gonna, get it.

With the pandemic, I got the blame. But it’s Joe that will get the blame for these aliens. Black-budgeted Deep State agencies have kept the presidents out of the loop, and — in the dark.

Black-budgeted Deep State agencies have kept the presidents out of the loop, and in the dark. Had I a soul, I’d feel sorry for Joe. But I don’t, so I don’t. Why on Earth are our leaders in the dark?

How is it that the military-industrial complex that Ike so presciently warned us about has so slowly but surely, squeezed the president, of the nation, so completely — out of the picture?

How on Earth is it possible, presidents and ex-presidents alike have been relegated to being figureheads, out of the picture, when it comes to — connecting the dots — in the big picture?

HUBRIS AND KARMA — ATTRACT

It oft happens that astronomers don’t know an asteroid exists until after it whizzes by. Often, nobody sees an asteroid coming because it comes, from the blinding direction, of the sun.

Telescopes on the ground can only observe the sky at night, which means they miss almost everything that flies at us from the sun. NASA has an infrared telescope mission, for the sun.

Take not too lightly this only seemingly tall, tale; a tale of morons, and aliens. Secretly, I tweet an algorithm, to humanity; in 280 character tweets, future, NFTs. Towards, a new paradigm, poetry.

It’s chilling; it’s terrifying, actually. It’s freaking creeping me out, actually. Even some of my dear lectors can’t stand contemplating, what is actually only — speculative fiction — technically.

I’m even more terrified about an asteroid strike than Vlad; and certainly more than Xi, Kim and Mo. With Karma in the mix, I’m afraid Karma will seek me out, striking me possibly, in the noggin.

Basket cases are Vlad’s guys and me; me even more than them. What if that asteroid seeks me out, striking me, possibly, in the noggin? My hair will get mussed up, if I’m struck, in the noggin.

This summit’s not just about hacking, spying, interfering in elections and extrajudicial killings. At Vlad’s behest, added to the agenda has been, aliens, an asteroid and The Watcher and hubris.

Added to the agenda by Vladimir has been, the aliens, an asteroid, and The Watcher. Vladimir’s really worried. From the desk of DJT Vlad has learned, that these aliens, have designs on us.

And the whole world will know in days, two days after my birthday, what happened in Geneva, between Russia and US. The whole world will know from the content, of their, communique.

Vlad knows that no one believes him about too much, anymore. He knows too, that my own credibility has grown suspect, in some quarters. But the people just might believe, what Joe says.

Vlad knows that no one believes him about anything anymore. He knows too, that my own credibility has grown suspect, in some quarters. But the people just might believe, what Joe says.

And the whole world will know in days, two days after my birthday, what happened in Geneva, between Russia and US. The whole world will know, from the content, of their communique.

Whoops! Strike that last, half couplet, verse. I’d composed it earlier today; it has since been duly announced that there will not be, in fact, any, joint — communique, this coming Wednesday.

That’s no good omen. That there will be no joint communique this coming Wednesday; a reliable sign of the high probability that Vlad and Joe might be, agreeing to disagree, on Wednesday.

TAKE NOT LIGHTLY — THIS TALL TALE

Take not lightly this cautionary tale; a tale of morons and aliens. Secretly and serially, I tweet an algorithm to humanity; 280 character tweets; future, NFTs. Towards a new paradigm, poetry.

Secretly; serially; and in lieu of Art, I’ve been tweeting an algorithm to humanity; linking 280 character tweets; future, NFTs, possibly. Poetry; poetry — towards a new paradigm, TwittereZe.

In lieu of Art (who’s in hiding from Vlad and the virus), I’m the one who’s destined to be credited with this authorship and the transformation of the Earth to follow (maybe). It’s so, TwittereZe.

Witness, later, how unifying a catastrophe may be. Witness too how The Creator uses men of weak character to teach men how to be strong. Witness, my introduction to men of TwittereZe.

At the behest of The Watcher, on behalf of The Creator and at the behest of Arthur through whom The Watcher channels, The Watcher channels through me, as well — in TwittereZe.

The Watcher’s been channeling; first through Arthur, and now that Art’s in hiding from Vlad and the virus, through me, also. Vlad hopes, he can convince Joe Biden — to reveal, TwittereZe.

Vlad knows now, what’s really happening. He knows that it’s the aliens who are the real enemy here. He knows about the aliens’ plans. And he’s sorry about his extrajudicial, killings.

Everyone thinks this summit’s about hacking and spying and killings. But, at Vladimir’s behest, added to the agenda have been the aliens, an asteroid, and The Watcher’s, planning.

This summit’s not just about hacking, spying, interfering in elections and extrajudicial killings. At Vlad’s behest, added to the agenda has been, aliens an asteroid and The Watcher and hubris.

Added to the agenda by Vladimir has been, the aliens, an asteroid, and The Watcher. Vladimir’s really worried. From the desk of DJT he has learned that the aliens — have designs on us.

From the desk of DJT Vladimir has learned that the alien have designs on us. Updates from my desk are overcoming Twitter’s suspension of me. And I’m counting on Vlad to talk to Joe …

… about how the nations, together, may best communally respond to the threat, presented by, the aliens. Vladimir knows no one believes him about anything. He has hope tho — in Joe.

Vlad knows that no one believes him about anything anymore. He knows too, that my own credibility has grown suspect, in some quarters. But the people just might believe, what Joe says.

And the whole world will know in days, two days after my birthday, what happened in Geneva, between Russia and US. The whole world will know from the content, of their, communique.

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?

Obviously, thus far, no one speaks for the aliens; not that they would speak, anyway, as they communicate, as I have previously updated ye from the desk of me, telepathically.

The aliens don’t speak as I previously updated my cult of personality; these visiting aliens, communicate, telepathically. More importantly, who, pray tell, Joe Biden, speaks for humanity?

Murder won’t be allowed to upset and poison the summit. In the atmosphere of the summit, poison, would be such talk. The longest arms on Earth are Vladimir’s. With them — he poisons.

Murder won’t be allowed to poison the summit. In the atmosphere of the summit, poison’s any such talk. The longest arms on Earth are Vlad Putin’s; and with them, his citizens, he poisons.

Conflict’s been built into the world order. This is quite apparent, when one views, the big picture. And the big picture, with the help of modern technology, is getting, ever smaller, and smaller.

With the aid of modern technology, the big picture is getting smaller and smaller. And The Watcher has channeled Arthur and me as he has found it necessary to do so — on Twitter.

I know, Joe, what’s up with the aliens. No one on either Earth or Mars, speaks for them. Worse, no one, speaks for us. We need to address, the existential issues presented us by these entities.

Joe doesn’t know it yet but his honeymoon is over. It looks like Joe, just like me and Barack also before me is being kept out of the loop by our — Black-Budgeted, Deep State, frenemies. 

Joe, like me and Barack before me, is being kept out of the loop by Black-Budgeted, Deep State, moronic, frenemies. Any claims of ignorance of the aliens existence, are disingenuous, really.

Witness the ironies; and witness the timing of what Jung, termed, synchronicities. Recognize in them, His magnificence. Witness how unifying, a calamity may be — I’d heed me — if I were ye.

Witness how unifying, catastrophe may be. And witness too how The Creator uses men of weak character to teach men of strength in character, and in personality — Witness, also, my poetry.

Take not lightly a cautionary tale; a tale of morons and aliens. Secretly and serially, I tweet an algorithm to humanity; 280 character tweets; future, NFTs. Towards a new paradigm, poetry.

JOE AND VLAD — VERSUS — THE ALIENS

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 tarnished, 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; we’re on — to their treachery.

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 tho, Vlad hates poetry; and so, he hates Dmitry.

Attempted murder won’t be allowed to poison the atmosphere of a summit; the air there’s too rarefied. And with the longest arms on Earth, Joe aims to keep Vlad, at arm’s length, certainly.

Joe doesn’t know it yet; but his honeymoon’s over. It looks like this president too, just like me, and Barack before me, is being kept out of the loop by Black-Budgeted, Deep State, frenemies.

Joe, just like me, and Barack before me, is being kept out of the loop by Black-Budgeted, Deep State, frenemies. Barack’s claims of ignorance of the aliens existence seem incongruous, really.

Under the circumstances, Obama’s claims of ignorance to even the existence of the aliens seems incongruous, given the statements of the several, highly placed individuals — in Ufology.

It doesn’t add up. And I believe in a conspiracy theory so outlandish, it’s understandable, under the circumstances, that no one believes me. But everyone knows I’m chosen, the one, and only.

I believe in a conspiracy theory so outlandish, it is almost understandable, under these weird circumstances, that no one believes me. But everyone knows that I am, the one — and only.

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.

TO STAY UPDATED — SUBSCRIBE TO:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IT’S KAFKAESQUE — REALLY — SURREALLY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FROM THE DESK OF DJT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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