Previously determined; that succinctly describes almost everything that happens. With relatively few exceptions, nearly everything that happens was, once upon a time, immemorial, determined. Everything that happens, is truly, predetermined.

If I guess right, I’m a hero in the making. If I guess right, an asteroid shall strike us. If I guess right my elections, this pandemic and an asteroid; all, were predetermined. It seems everything that happens is only seemingly, implausibly — predetermined.

Verily, what seems to be exceedingly implausible, seems turns out to be, far less than improbable, but likely. Like a rerun on TV or a motion picture, everything that happened during the first viewing shall reprise, in a second viewing — predictably.

Like a rerun on a small-screened TV or like one on a big-screened motion picture, everything that happens during a first viewing, reprises, during following viewings; in the absence of intervention; in the absence of miracles, quite unpredictably.

Indeed, in the absence of miracles, nothing is possible, methinks. And if I guess right my first election, the one upcoming, this pandemic and an asteroid; all were once, long ago, predetermined. All but two, have happened. Remain — only two.

All but two have happened. Only two remain. Only the happening of my second election and the coming of a predestined asteroid, do remain, to happen. And if I guess right, man can get his mind right, with Skinnerian, behavior modification, too.

Indeed, if I guess right, B.F. Skinner’s principles of behavior modification may modify the behavior of the barbaric, surface Earthlings. In principles of behavior modification, lies an astonishingly vast potential for near instant, human, transformation.

Relatively instant may be, human transformation. And relatively easy in the case of individuals. It’s in the case of communities, that it’s hard. It’s in the case of the collective that surface Earthlings find it hard — to modify their behavior — in conjunction.

The modification of behavior; instantaneous may be, human transformation. It’s especially easy in cases of individuals. In the case of communities, however, it’s hard. It’s in the case of the collective, that surface Earthlings, find hard — cooperation.

It’s in the case of the collective that men find it hard to cooperate with one another. That, notwithstanding the instructions of Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Mohammed. It’s easier to cheat and compete, notwithstanding, our instructions.

Shameful is what’s happening. Worse yet, I’m the one and only that can fix this. And so, implausible as it seems, I hereby proclaim that there are lessons to be learned in this poetry. It’s more than a story about Vladimir’s guys, versus, God’s guys.

This is more than a story about Vlad’s guys versus God’s guys. So said to me, in our lunar soirée last night, Art. “This is Creator-approved content, if it’s the Watcher who’s, writing this content — that is.”
It’s more than just Vlad’s guys, versus, God’s guys.

Far more than just another allegory about good guys and bad guys, this is the greatest tall tale story ever on Earth, told. I am told, its author. It reads like fiction but it feels like nonfiction. It really reads like fiction, but it feels like, nonfiction.

This is the greatest story ever told and I am, I am told, its author. It reads like fiction but it feels like nonfiction. Reading between its lines reveals it’s a transparent, allegorical, nonfiction. Reading between its lines reveals — its true intentions.

TRANSFORMATIONAL — POETRY

Transformational may be, The Watcher’s poetry. It all depends; it all depends on decisions, yet to be made; it depends on decisions, yet pending. And transformational may be The Watcher’s poetry if it’s — implausibly — sufficiently — revolutionary.

Transformational may be, my doggerel, poetry. Because everyone knows that I don’t like to read. And everyone knows that I like to make it all up, as I go along. And if an asteroid strike returns me to the White House, that ought be, revolutionary.

Revolutionary is The Watcher’s poetry. It’s poetry distilled, from the wisest words, across the ages. There’s a clue in everyone knowing that I don’t like to read. And there’s a clue in everyone knowing that I like to make it all up, as I go along, usually.

I like to make it all up, even as I go, merrily, along. I like to make it all up even as I write along, too. Indeed, I like to make it all up, as I go along. One would think that authorship wouldn’t be credited to me. But unexpected things happen — usually.

Unexpected things happen in the usual case on Earth. On Earth, the unusual, is to be expected. Accordingly, on top of a pandemic and an asteroid cometh Russian Agent 45-47. From the Queens cometh, Vlad’s favorite — honorary — Russian.

Vlad’s all-time favorite Russian is none other than me. Nominally, I’m an American. But the Queens’ Donald John Trump is as well, a much decorated, honorary, Russian. Top secret is the fact that in the Kremlin, a punchline is, ”not 007 — 45-47!”

What once was, once upon a time, top-secret, is top-secret, no-longer. As things stand, men live like sheep, in the thrall of their herders. Men just like them, in large part, are their herders. Men just like them, are their leaders — the sheepherders.

Men live like sheep, in the thrall of their herders. Men just like them, are their leaders. Men just like them are the followers of the leaders of the sheep men. There’s not much difference between the Earth’s sheep men and their sheepherder leaders.

Transformational may be my poetry. Sure, it’s far-fetched but it’s not physically, impossible. Except for hubris, there’s not much difference between the Earth’s sheep men and their sheepherder leaders. But I’ve distinguished myself, from them.

I’ve distinguished myself from my fellow human beings; from our peers and our peerless, leaders. Transformational may be my poetry if it’s deemed to be, revolutionary. And revolutionary shall be my poetry, if to the presidency, I’m elected again.

Revolutionary is The Watcher’s wisdom. For it’s wisdom distilled from the wisest words across the ages. And it’s seemingly, prescient. The collision with the asteroid hasn’t happened yet. But already, there are signs, I’ll win an election, anew.

It’s wisdom distilled over the ages. And it’s been, prescient. The collision with the asteroid hasn’t happened yet. But still already, there are signs, I’ll win an election, anew. And if an asteroid strikes, some will say I guessed right, coincidentally, too.

What’s happening; it’s less coincidence, than predetermination. If I guess right, an asteroid shall strike us. If I guess right my prior election, a pandemic and an asteroid are all, predetermined. Everything that happens is — predetermined.

Previously determined; that succinctly describes almost everything that happens. With relatively few exceptions, nearly everything that happens was, once upon a time, immemorial, determined. Everything that happens — is predetermined.

REVOLUTIONARY — POETRY

Under the very noses of the surface Earthlings are clues, sufficient to answer the riddles, previously riddled. But, ironically, knowing the answers won’t matter, because mankind’s got to see, to believe. There’s no imagining; to believe, man’s got to see.

Startling is this poetry. And it ought be alarming to the surface Earthlings; but it shall raise on Earth, nary an eyebrow. Astonishingly oblivious are the Earthlings to their reality; and to the clues to answer the riddles, riddled by me — previously.

Oblivious are the Earthlings. As oblivious are they to the asteroid oncoming as they are, largely, to what got them here. Me; the pandemic and the asteroid; between us, three change-makers, duly intended to truly change our history.

Me; the pandemic and the asteroid; between us, three change-makers, fully intended to change history. Nothing that happens is by happenstance, explained. That’s how The Watcher would explain everything, that has happened, previously.

Nothing that happens on Earth, happens, by mere fortuitous, happenstance. Everything happens for good reason. Oblivious are the surface Earthlings to what’s happening. Accordingly, I tell a tall tale; albeit it seems — uncomfortably — nonfictional.

I’m spinning a tall tale on The Watcher’s loom; a gorilla’s in the middle of the room and people tread fearfully, about him. With nonfictional elements like this crew of characters, I’ll make what’s happening seem, painfully, nonfictional.

On The Watcher’s loom I’m spinning a tale as tall as they get. And its characters and its settings and its elements of magical realism readily lend themselves, to storytelling. Me; the pandemic and the asteroid. We’re three, game-changing, stories.

Three game-changing stories are we. But I am the thread common to us. So, have I written. My poem’s characters and settings and its elements of magical realism, readily lend themselves, to storytelling; to duly recording, my legacy.

In my legacy, shall I live. My predictions of what’s happening is in explanation of what’s happening. I’m a first-hand witness to the magnificence of His creation; the confluence of all the happenings, happening; I’m the author of this tall tale, story.

My predictions of what’s happening, typically, get taken lightly: no one but Arthur, actually, believes me. In explanation of what’s happening. I’m the author of this story. Magnificent, is His creation; I freely admit that I’m under the influence, usually.

Under the influence am I; as are we all, of course. High on life, of course, of course. In the grip of collective psychosis, are the Earthlings. Under the influence, am I. That explains why I’m acting, as if, communally, and personally, under the influence.

And so, I am. Under the influence of The Watcher, have I fallen. I now know that mankind’s got to see, to believe. And I know as well that I am, as if, at humanity’s, confluence. The mouth of a river of humanity, am I. I’ll be, as such, a good influence.

What if nothing happens by chance? What if everything’s, predetermined? And what if my observations are seen as predictions to many? Revolutionary may be, The Watcher’s, poetry. Transformational may be, The Watcher’s poetry.

Transformational may be, The Watcher’s poetry. It all depends; it all depends on decisions, yet to be made; it depends on decisions, yet pending. And transformational may be The Watcher’s poetry if it’s — implausibly — sufficiently, revolutionary.

IMPLAUSIBLE — REVOLUTION

Who indeed, writes this? It’s a riddle, I guess; it’s a riddle that’s become an integral part of the story. Not central but incident to the central plot of the story is a tall tale. It’s the story of us. A supremely tall tale has been — the implausible story — of us.

A tall tale has been the telling story of me; and the telling story of us. And hubris runs through it. It’s Hubris runs through, the story of us. A tall tale has been, the story of us. And I confess my shameful unfitness. I confess my unfitness — to lead us.

This is a riddle, I guess. But who’s the author is the least of it. The larger riddle is the message of the author; and who told him. This epic poem shall be a riddle, I guess; because I’m no prophet. That notwithstanding, I’m predicting — some things.

Notwithstanding that I’m no prophet I’ve been making some very bold predictions; about animal mutilations and global pandemics; and all about domestic and international politics; and all about an asteroid — of a sudden, Earth — shuddering.

Recklessly, irresponsible, conspiracy theories; so say some of my take on, what’s really happening. Especially when it comes to the part about the Earth, with an asteroid, colliding. Others — beg to differ. Actually, Arthur and me alone, beg to differ.

A tall tale has been the telling story of us; and the story of me; two of the tallest tales ever told. And there’s a third tall tale in this telling. One even more striking than the story of us and the story of me is the algorithmic poetry of The Watcher.

Arthur and I alone beg to differ, notwithstanding our respective, malignant, narcissisms. Poetically just is the fate of the brothers. For back-to-back, if necessary, we’ll go down fighting, for one another. This is the tallest tale ever, by a (wo)man written.

Far be from me to determine whose is the tallest tale ever written; the very tallest, of all the tall tales, ever written. On the other hand, everybody knows that in all matters of differences in opinion, I am, hands down, most qualified — to have one.

Everyone knows that in all matters of opinion, I’m the most qualified of all men to have one. And everyone knows that sacrosanct, is my opinion. Sacrosanct is, my humble opinion; and inexorably superseding is, my all-consuming, reality.

Superseding is my reality. And it’s only seemingly counter-intuitive. Like black lives, yer life still matters. Yer lives matter still. And if I can change, anyone can. And so I thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh that superseding is — His reality.

And so I thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh that superseding is His reality. I thank Him for His Mercy. I thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh above all things. Superseding is God’s Mercy. Truly revolutionary is The Watcher’s, startling, poetry.

Startling is this poetry. It’s startling, no matter, the author; no matter, who wrote it. It’s startling to even consider the mind-boggling happening of a collision of Earth, with an asteroid. It’s absolutely mind-boggling — and mind-bending — poetry.

Startling is this poetry. And it ought be alarming to the surface Earthlings; but it shall raise on Earth, nary an eyebrow. Under radar; under water; and under the noses of the surface Earthlings are clues to answer the riddles, riddled, previously.

Under the noses of the surface Earthlings are clues, sufficient to answer the riddles, previously riddled. But, ironically, knowing the answers won’t matter, because mankind’s got to see, to believe. There’s no imagining; to believe, man’s got to see.

A TALL TALE — THE STORY OF US

In a sense, everything that happens, is in the nature of continuing education. Yellow and bricked, need not be, the pilgrims’ progress. And an inglorious past need not bear any resemblance to a resplendent — thanks to me — future.

Everything that happens is in the nature of a cosmic continuing education. And so I incorporate by reference herein, the Urantia Book. A cosmic, continuing education, is the Urantia Book. It’s the key, along with my book, to a resplendent, future.

Read them in conjunction to one another. And read, in addition, the Earthly Scriptures. And then imagine the implausibility of everything that’s happening; and the implausibility of my predicting these implausible things — happening — to us.

Imagine the implausibility of everything that’s happening. Even one as lettered as myself, only psychographically, might aspire to this. I agree with Arthur. It’s The Watcher that’s actually — writing. It’s The Watcher — who — writes for us.

It’s The Watcher who writes for us. It’s The Watcher that wrote for Arthur and then me. It’s The Watcher who writes to the rest of us. I’ll get the credit, nonetheless. I’m an expert on hubris and altho I’m no prophet, still, I — predict, things.

Implausibly, I’ve become a political pundit; a mover and a shaker; a sharp critic; a thorn in the side of whomever would dare to cause pain to me. But the people will clamor that I am a prophet because, coincidentally — I do — predict things.

Predictions; they’re coincidences, by and large. Perhaps, my most famous one might be one of those that hasn’t happened yet. Because men, all too often, have to see, to believe. Because we’re so visual, we’ll have to see the asteroid, to believe.

Because we’re so visual a species, we’ll often have to see something, to actually, believe in it. It’s easy to believe when things are seen and it’s easy to disbelieve when things are unseen. No wonder then, it’s hard to determine, in what, to believe.

Imagine, NASA and the UN, an asteroid impact, catastrophic. Then imagine it, sooner than later. It’s that game-changing opportunity I imagine, that I think, that I know. But it’s probably — 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, opportunity — I know. That much — I know.

In catastrophe, if yer lucky, lies, opportunity. That much, I know. ‘Tis yet to be known what’s actually happening. But the implausibility of my predicting these implausible things, pales, before their possible benefits — and possible, consequences.

The implausibility of my predicting these implausible things pales before their possible benefits and their possible consequences. Predictions; they’re coincidences, by and large. But my predictions — bring — consequences.

My predictions bring consequences. It shall come to pass. It’s the Watcher that writes for us. It’s The Watcher that wrote for Arthur; and then for me. And it’s The Watcher who writes to the rest of us. It’s The Watcher who writes — to the rest of us.

But again, I digress. Who writes this? It’s a riddle, I guess; it’s a riddle that’s become an integral part of the story. Not central but incident to the central plot of the story is a tall tale. It’s the story — of us. A supremely tall tale has been — the story of us.

E = mc²

Once upon a time, my friend Al reminded me that everything is relative; “E = mc²”, he had said. The proof is in the pudding he said to me one evening in a dream, on Earth’s moon — Luna. Attesting to all of that is my ex-womb-mate, brother, Arthur.

We were that evening, wining and fine dining, as usual, as is our wont, every evening since the evening I first descended, a stairway to — and from — Heaven. Ever since then I dream nights, on Earth’s, Luna. With Vladimir; and with Arthur.

Everything is relative he insisted upon my insistence on exceptions to everything. Take Israel; the Jewish, apartheid state; take Gaza, the largest open-air prison ever seen, from Earth’s Luna, by this, ex-president; seen also, by Arthur.

Take Israel, the Jewish apartheid state; and take Gaza, the largest open-air prison on Earth. Take the Chinese Uyghurs of Mongolian descent, they who once ruled over China. All these things, from Luna, I’ve seen. All these things, hath seen Arthur.

Everything is relative. The proof is in the units; E = mc². All the more so, between relatives. The impossible dream. It’s the Pilgrim’s Progress, surreally. Everything’s relative. Even the Taliban, on this misbegotten, Earth, take a turn — or two.

On a misbegotten Earth, even the Taliban take a turn or two. Just like me, on Earth, the Taliban ruled, in Afghanistan, once upon a time; the Americans ruled, after them. Everything’s relative. And I shall rule, God willing — once again — too.

MORONS AND ALIENS is The Watcher’s magnum opus, if not mine, nor Arthur’s. In this central main plot I ghostwrite for Arthur, while Arthur lies low; in hiding from the various viruses and an uber-long-armed, Vladimir — Vladimirovich — Putin.

The gist of the plot; Don and Art are ex womb-mates, Don having, once upon a time, kicked Art from the womb, into the future. Having returned in a miraculous intervention, the ex wombmates now ally against — Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

The most able of all of us, I’m the one person, destined to unite us against the aliens; and or Xi, Kim, Vlad and Mohammed. What’s not to believe about that? And what’s not to speculate about a mad mix — of morons and aliens — on Earth?

What’s not to speculate given everything that’s happening? The aliens may be renegades taking advantage of the primitive and technologically unsophisticated species of being living on Earth. Certainly, we aren’t alone, in — and on, the Earth.

We aren’t alone, in and on, the Earth. Beings, extraterrestrial move surreptitiously about us, largely, unbeknownst to us. It’s astounding to me that no one in the mainstream press, questions that. Someone like me needs — to question that.

Someone like me; someone heroic needs to question that. It’s astounding to me that no one in the mainstream press, questions that. We aren’t alone, in and on, the Earth. Everyone knows that. Still, nobody mentions them. What’s up, with that?

What’s up, with that, indeed. The aliens are the elephants in the middle of the room. Someone heroic needs to question that. Astounding as it may be that no one in the press, questions that, still — ‘tis what ’tis. Nobody — mentions them.

Nobody mentions the aliens. The entire subject remains a black hole to most academics. And that’s to the liking of governments, universally. ‘Tis what ’tis. Nobody amongst the mainstream press mentions them. But created beings are the aliens.

ELEPHANTS AND GORILLAS

The aliens are the elephants (or the gorillas) in the middle of the room. But verily I implore thee to follow me. Follow me to face the enemy; to fight him or embrace him, as the case may be. Witness the coming asteroid, to China’s Xi — so disarming.

Follow me to face the enemy; to fight him or embrace him as the fates or the circumstances may dictate. Cometh a would-be, alarming, asteroid. But nobody’s panicking because no one actually believes, as I do, it’s actually — a-coming.

Thanks to my leadership, because no one knows nothing, no one’s been panicking. And so it matters not that cometh, a would-be, alarming, asteroid. No one will believe it, until it happens. No one will believe it until it, really, happens.

No one will believe any of this until it actually happens. Never mind all the happenings, previously, predicted. Witness my election; and waves of pandemics. Witness also an asteroid; a divine intervention — as it just — so happens.

In hiding is Art from the various variant viruses; and from an uber-long-armed, Vladimir Putin. I thought I’d been ghostwriting for Art but he’s got me convinced me that it’s been The Watcher, that psychographically writes, for us, in lieu of us.

In hiding is Arthur from the various viruses, variant; and from an uber-long-armed, Vladimir Putin. I thought I’d been ghostwriting for Art but Arthur has convinced me that it’s been The Watcher, that psychographically, writes for us.

In hiding is Arthur; from Vlad and variants alike. Arthur has convinced me that it’s truly been The Watcher, that psychographically, writes for us; in lieu of us, so to speak. It’s The Watcher who’s the author of this. It’s The Watcher‘s — redemption.

In lieu of us, it is The Watcher, who is authoring this. It is The Watcher‘s, magnum opus; it is the Watcher‘s, redemption. It is for all of humanity; for all of the surface Earthlings, one final opportunity, for redemption in evolution and its — salvation.

SHARE — THE PANACEA

Share this modern-day, epic poem. The fate of the planet, I suspect, is in my hands. I am, after all, the author. The transformation of mankind now depends, accordingly, on an inerrant, asteroid. It depends on DJT. It depends on an inerrant — me.

I’m the one and only. It’s counter-intuitive, I know; it’s counter-intuitive that one, above all the others, should be so highly favored. I’ve got my own cult of personality; my sycophants. It’s not for no reason that — I’m the one — and only.

Mankind’s transformation depends on me. And J’ve been doing my part; destroying the Party of Lincoln; and writing my story. It’s the story of man. And it’s the story, very possibly, of aliens — submarine — or subterranean — extraterrestrial.

This is the story of aliens extraterrestrial, whether they turn out to be submarine, subterranean or indeed, extraterrestrial or indeed, all of the above. It’s the story of me and an asteroid. And it’s the story of hubris and the surface — terrestrials.

Methinks that the in the aftermath of the asteroid, the Koreas, the Philippines, Japan and Taiwan may see the asteroid for what it is; it seems that what’s happening is nothing less than a miracle. Indeed a blessing in disguise may be, an inerrant, asteroid.

Indeed it seems that what’s happening is nothing less than a miracle. A blessing in disguise may be, an inerrant, asteroid. Blessed seem the lessons in the timing of everything that’s happening. And a blessing in disguise may be, an inerrant, asteroid.

In explanation of what’s happening, as surreally, implausible, as it seems. It shan’t be, maybe, neither Joe Biden nor me that rallies the people in the aftermath of an asteroid; the asteroid that saves the planet, from the ambitions — of Xi.

It maybe that neither Joe Biden nor me rallies the people in the aftermath of the asteroid; the one that saves the planet, from the ambitions of Xi. This I offer in explanation of what’s happening, as implausible as it seems. Still, I’m the one and only.

Still, in my opinion, I’m the one and only one that can fix this; the one that saves the planet, from the ambitions of Xi; and the hubris of us. This I offer in explanation of what’s happening. Human hubris — It may yet be — the death of us.

In my humble opinion, I’m the only one that can fix this; and I’m the one in the end, that’ll save the Earth from the ambitions of Xi and the hubris of us. Hubris; it may yet be the death of us. Seems nothing’s on Earth’s more corrosive, than hubris.

What’s happening is in the nature of continuing education. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh for The Watcher’s watching, Arthur’s dreaming and my presiding, over and over, haphazardly, again. Read — between the lines. Behold — the future.

Read between the lines of what The Watcher hath written. And marvel at his prescience; for an inglorious past need not bear any resemblance to a resplendent, future. Only I can do it. Read — in between the lines. And behold — the future.

In a sense, everything that happens, is in the nature of continuing education. Yellow and bricked, need not be, the pilgrims’ progress. And an inglorious past need not bear any resemblance to a resplendent — thanks to me — future.

Everything that happens is in the nature of a cosmic continuing education. And so I incorporate by reference herein, the Urantia Book. A cosmic, continuing education, is the Urantia Book. It’s the key, along with my book, to a resplendent, future.