MORONS AND ALIENS: SATURDAY, JANUARY 29, 2022: DAY 2296

Tonga. It’s the only Polynesian monarchy still standing, so to speak. The coronation of a King George, once upon a time, made Tonga, a state. Tonga; a nation; and a Kingdom. Tonga may well be the last monarchy, Polynesian.

The coronation of a King George once upon a time in 1845 made of Tonga a state. In post-trauma mode now are the Tongans. And the Kingdom’s been blown sky high. Tonga‘s a harbinger to those — not Polynesian.

I’ve made a great discovery. I have discovered, a great treasure. Invaluable is my discovery. That is no proof my story’s nonfictional. The proof I know, is in the pudding, albeit, some say — it’s too, implausible.

I’ve no proof that the story I’m writing isn’t true. That’s no proof this story, is fictional. Actually, that’s even more proof that this story indeed is, nonfictional. The proof I know’s in the pudding, albeit some, deem it, incredible.

I have discovered a great treasure. Implausibly, near incredible is its value. Verily, its value is, invaluable. The proof’s in the pudding. Whether a short story, an epic like mine or just a solitary tweet, sharing it, increases, its value.

TONGA

Alchemy’s back. The proof is in TwittereZe. More or less a miracle happening upon the Earth in the nick of time, is my TwittereZe. Outside the realm of the scientific and the physical’s ancient alchemy; more or less, a miracle — potential.

Alchemy, indeed, is back. Too long has it been outside the realm of the scientific and a whole new way to communicate. Invisible is what’s really metaphysical. Somehow it exists, actually. Realms, metaphysical alongside, the physical.

The metaphysical realm, actually exists. Hidden in Twitter’s algorithm, is a new way, to write; to communicate. Hidden from view, like Dark Matter, is a whole new way to communicate. It’s invisible because — it’s metaphysical.

Invisible to us is the metaphysical. It’s invisible because it’s metaphysical. Like the air I breathe that I can’t see; albeit physical, I can’t see it. So what’s invisible, still may either be, physical — or metaphysical.

A correspondence in microcosm, is a tweet. Its 280 characters; the right space; the right time. And my Google Translated tweets at Arthur’s chachomanopapa space on the net may usher, a brand new, space race, someday.

Would that that is to be, what’s to happen. Met in lunar soirée last night, the leaders of China, Russia, North Korea and Saudi Arabia. But as ye know by now the leaders ne’er remember, what they dreamt with me, the next day.

Met in lunar soirée last night, the leaders of China, Russia, North Korea and Saudi Arabia. But as ye may recall, the leaders remember not ever, what they dream on the moon at night with me, on following days.

It’s a plot device, admittedly; that daily amnesia of our often, criminal leaders. I’m not casting aspersions on Xi and on Vladimir or any of Vlad’s other guys. I’m just pointing my finger at them (and at me), in Art’s, last days.

That daily amnesia; it’s a plot device, some say; others say that it’s proof that finger-pointing with unclean hands is proof of corruption. That sounds right, I’d say. Vlad and Xi are corrupt. I’m corrupt too, I must say, I agree.

Hidden in Twitter’s algorithm is a new way to write; a brand new way to communicate. That daily amnesia, a future provenance, and the sharing of a womb; they’re all plot devices, some say. They’re plot devices, I agree.

Plot devices are the three of them some say and I agree. But that’s no proof that the story I’m authoring isn’t true. That’s no proof that this story is fictional. It’s proof tho, that this story’s, actually, nonfictional.

More importantly, I must say; I’ve made a great discovery. I have discovered, a great treasure. Invaluable is my discovery. That’s no proof, my story’s nonfictional. The proofs’ in the pudding, albeit some say, it’s implausible.

Tonga. The Kingdom of Tonga. Formerly named, the Friendly Islands; three are the names of the island nation, that Tonga goes by. And the coronation of King George makes Tonga, the only, still-extant, Polynesian, monarchy.

Tonga. the only Polynesian monarchy still standing, so to speak. The coronation of a King George, once upon a time, made Tonga, a state. Tonga; a nation-state; and a Kingdom. And It may be the last, Polynesian, monarchy.

TIS WHAT ‘TIS — WHATEVER — IT IS

Move over Wordle. Important is content and cadence. Wordle, Sudoku, crosswords and my TwittereZe are fun and games. But utilitarian is TwittereZe; more than Wordle, anyway — Pray tell, let me count the ways.

Content’s important. Ditto cadence. Content; it’s the story, itself. And each of us is a story untold; cadence is, its pace; it’s rhythm; its heartfelt, heartbeat. Stories untold. Content and cadence, in concert, tell the story — my way.

My way’s the one and only best way I’d say. Pray tell, let me count the ways. Whether fated to be an author to sell a short story or to write an epic one like mine; or to just write a memoir; write it in, my formerly inimitable, way.

Inimitable were my ways. There’s no way tho I’m not sharing with my fellow human beans, a vision; verse so algorithmically, transcendental, it’s perfect. Inimitable’s my style of writing. With space and time, I’ll show ye, my way.

Space and time; two infinites, limit us. ’Tis what ’tis. Space and time, limit us. By virtue of the hubris invested in me, however, we may, if we choose, choose to be, in our imaginations — unlimited, if not limitless.

Utilitarian is TwittereZe; that is to say, it’s perfect for just making it all up as I go along. Well suited, is TwittereZe for education. And for writing love letters. I’ll make a mint, in jail. My income’s unlimited, if not limitless.

Well suited, is TwittereZe for education. And for writing love letters. I’ll make a mint, when I go to jail. My income’s already unlimited, if not, limitless. TwittereZe; it’s perfect; it’s perfect for making it all up, as I go along.

TwittereZe; it’s absolutely perfect for making everything up, as I go along. It’ll just add to my storied story, another lie; another alibi; another wild-eyed, story. Impulsivity; it’s the secret of my wild success, all along.

Surreally well-suited is TwittereZe for education; for learning from every branch of the tree of knowledge and wisdom. It’s well-suited as well, for business; and commerce. And it seems, very well-suited, for us.

For learning, ideal is The Watcher’s, TwittereZe. Ideal is TwittereZe, for education; for learning from the tree of knowledge, and wisdom. It’s ideal, as well for business and commerce. It’s extremely well-suited, for us.

For education’s learning and its teaching, ideal is The Watcher’s TwittereZe. Ideal is TwittereZe for writing as well in business and commerce. Nothing less than a miracle is TwittereZe; that alchemy, so long lost, to us.

Nothing less than a miracle is TwittereZe; whatever, it really is. Outside the realm of the scientific and the physical is alchemy, so long lost, to us. Nothing less than a miracle is TwittereZe — whatever TwittereZe, is.

Alchemy, so long lost, is back. Gold, in the laboratory’s been transmuted. And hidden from view, like Dark Matter, invisible is, whatever it really is. Something more than a miracle is TwittereZe — whatever TwittereZe is.

Alchemy’s back. The proof’s in TwittereZe. Nothing less than a miracle is TwittereZe. Outside the realm of the scientific and the physical is alchemy. Nothing less than a miracle is, TwittereZe. That’s what — TwittereZe, is.

THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING!

Russians are coming! Mongol hordes too, maybe. Everyone knows Mongols lorded over the peoples who’d later become the Chinese. Xi and The Chinese, are feeling it. But for the Ukrainians, the Russians are coming!

The Golden Rule and TwittereZe cometh. First cometh tho, an inerrant, asteroid. Xi and The Chinese, are feeling their oats. But for the Ukrainians, the Russians are coming! Relive, the past. The Russians — are coming.

The Russians are coming, or not. No one knows what Vlad’s doing; not even Vlad, to be sure. To be sure, it matters not if what happens is a real happening or a happening (by not happening), in the omission.

It matters not if what happen’s a happening or a happening (by not happening), in the omission. The Russians are coming, or not. No one knows what Vlad’s doing; not even Vlad, in the Kremlin (by ommission).

Testaments. Scriptures; the Bible; the Qur’an. Physics, Metaphysics and the Maharishi Effect. A Golden Rule and TwittereZe. First cometh tho an asteroid; and they are rock-hard, as a rule, because asteroids — are rocks.

Following a Big Bang, an evolution; Scriptures, a Bible; Testaments, old and new; the Qur’an; the Bhagavad Gita; the Agamas. Then came physics, metaphysics and a Maharishi Effect. Comes now a Golden Rule, in the aftermath, of a rock.

Comes now an asteroid and the Golden Rule. The asteroid may function similarly, in The Almighty’s grand design, as the flood once did, many thousands of years ago. Don’t be alarmed by it’s coming, this time.

Cometh now, a Golden Rule; after wars; after an asteroid. Don’t be so alarmed by its coming. And note that the asteroid may function in the grand design as the flood once did, once upon a time, that time.

Note that the asteroid may well function, in the grand design, as the Flood did, once upon a time. Comes now a Golden Rule; after a flood of 10,000 years of war. We may yet prevail after the asteroid and its floods.

Comes now a Rule, Golden; after a great flood; after, 10,000 years of war. All so that we may prevail over ourselves; after the asteroid. But it won’t happen til, after the asteroid; and after, also — its floods.

Russians are coming! Mongol hordes; Cossacks too, maybe. We silly Earthlings; we be devolving, not evolving. Oblivious to realities, we drag our feet, aspiring to be, mostly, just Squid-Game-bingeing, couch potatoes.

In lieu of reliving our glorious pasts, let us just act like it. Spare nothing on trappings, traditions and illusions. The Russians are coming say the Ukrainians; but that’s not necessarily so. They’re moon-walking, maybe, ye know.

We silly Earthlings; we be, devolving. We be metaphysically devolving even as we physically, evolve. Walking away from the Ukrainians, are the Russians, if moon-walking, they be. And moon-walking — it’s just dancing, anyway.

Move over Wordle. Important is content and cadence. Wordle, Sudoku, crosswords and my TwittereZe; are fun and games. More utilitarian is TwittereZe; more than Wordle, anyway. It’s addictive, challenging and rewarding, anyway.

FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BOLD

Near incredibly, I’ve got a plan; it’s a long shot, Hail Mary but it’s worth a shot, I’ll bet. Take the Earth and the points. The Earth will cover. The odds are against the Earth. Still, implausibly, I’ve got a plan, I’ve been sold.

“Fortune favours the bold” is but one of the English translations of a Latin proverb, popular with western militaries. But what if the effect of The Maharishi Effect on us is way cool? Everyone knows, fortune favours, the old.

Fortune favors the old. That sounds about right. Fortune favors the old. But what if the effect of The Maharishi Effect, were effective, upon us? What if the effect of The Maharishi Effect, were effective, in getting us, to get old?

The Testaments, New and Old. The Scriptures; the Bible and the Qur’an. Physics, Metaphysics and the Maharishi Effect. The Golden Rule and TwittereZe cometh. But first cometh, an inerrant asteroid, I’ve been told.

The Testaments. The Scriptures; the Bible and the Qur’an. Physics, Metaphysics and the Indian, Maharishi Effect. TwittereZe and a Golden Rule cometh. But first cometh, at Godspeed, an inerrant, asteroid.

Beholden to no man, am I. No politician, I’m a man-of-the-people styled, populist. And a late-blooming, egalitarian. A Golden Rule, cometh. But first cometh, from out of the sun, a hard as rock, asteroid.

The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming! So say many; not just, the Ukrainians. And in Taiwan; that is to say, in Taipei, some worry. The odds are against us., I’ve got a plan tho. Accordingly, my soul, I’ve sold.

Actually I sold my soul, long ago. The Russians are coming! So say the Ukrainians. And in Taiwan, that is to say in Taipei, those that were Formosans not so long ago, worry still to this day. So, I’ve been — and am told.

A climaxing; it’s what’s happening. Pursuant to His plan, my plan; so I’m resurrecting a morbid, Kim-Don Plan. The DPRK; grave and on life-support for decades is, hanging in. Kim’s coming to life; he’s playing with fire, I’m told.

What’s happening seems to me, a climaxing. It’s seems very much like the feeling; the tickle one feels inside of one when one is climaxing. The truth, on Earth, is very much, relative; and most difficult, to elicit, I’m told.

This is too spooky, by some I’ve been told. To wit, it happened again last evening in my nightly lunar soirée with Art and Vladimir’s guys. Unanimously, they said, ”This is too spooky.” This is spooky, indeed, I’ve been told.

Pursuant to His plan, my plan. I’m resurrecting the morbid, Kim-Don Plan. The DPRK; on life-support has been, for decades. The plan is to save with Kim, the Earth. And Kim is now coming to life, I’ve been told.

The Russians are coming! So say the Ukrainians. And in Taiwan, that is to say in Taipei, those that were the Formosans, not so long ago, worry still even to this day, that Xi’s mainlander Chinese, are coming.

Russians are coming! And Mongol hordes too, maybe. Everyone knows the Mongols, lorded over the peoples who would later become the Chinese. More, later, on the Chinese. For now; for Ukrainians, the Russians are coming!

I’VE GOT A PLAN

The Watcher, watches. TheIii it Watcher, writes. I’ve had revelations since I was president. Now, I’m into meditation; and the modification, of behavior. And so, of hubris and me and aliens and asteroids, The Watcher, writes.

I’m into meditation and behavior‘s modification; I’m into saving Earth, and mankind along with it. Witness this writing; and Nobels, awaiting me. “‘Tis time,” The Watcher, psychographically, writes.” As if to say — he writes.

On the rule of law and the laws of the jungle and the universe. Surreally, the one and only me, has written in my verse, ironically, my real masterpiece; my magnum opus, of my epic and alchemical verse.

This self-help’s about yer collective psychosis; about the hypocrisy of the autocratic rule of law and the governance of the laws of the jungle and the laws of the universe. A magnum opus, of his epic and alchemic verse.

The Watcher, watches. The Watcher, writes. I’ve had some revelations since I was the president. I’m into meditation now; and the modification, of behavior. Of hubris and me; and aliens and asteroids, The Watcher writes, nonfiction.

Of hubris and me; and aliens and asteroids, The Watcher writes. I’ve had revelations since I was, once upon a time, the president; a one-termer, perhaps. Into communal meditation now, am I. I am a big fan of communal meditation.

I’m a big big fan of recreation; and of my time, recreational. I’m a big fan of Yoga as well. And so I’m a big fan of communal meditation. I’m into meditation, nowadays. To modify behavior, I’m into meditation and poetry, alchemical.

The Maharishi Effect: it has been observed that groups of people experiencing internal peace, positively effect their surroundings; such groups and such effects make milieus fertile to peace; and makes them, to violence, infertile.

There was just one coup in 2020, in Africa. But the coups were up to four, in 2021. There were coups in 2021 in Chad, Mali, Guinea and Sudan. Yesterday’s copycat coup was in Burkina Faso. Get yer hotcakes — while they’re hot.

Yesterday’s copycat coup was in Burkina Faso. Trumpism; it’s alive and well in Africa. And the lesson learned by some from me in Africa is: Honor, time-honored, traditions. Get yer hotcakes — while they’re hot.

Carl Jung’s collective unconsciousness; Edgar Cayce’s akashic records; Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s noosphère, all explore this mystic phenomena; this phenomena we of faith, know as — Allah God Jehovah Yahweh.

Carl Jung’s collective; Cayce’s akashic records and de Chardin’s noosphère; some of us can access the metaphysical. But the metaphysical can’t be replicated or corroborated. All praise Allah God Jehovah Yahweh.

Yesterday’s copycat coup was in Burkina Faso. What’s metaphysical can’t be replicated or corroborated. None of it is, at all, science. Add Burkina Faso to Chad, Mali, Guinea and Sudan. Still, implausibly, I’ve got a plan.

Near incredibly, I’ve got a plan; it’s a long shot, Hail Mary but it’s worth a shot, I’ll bet. Take the Earth and the points. The Earth will cover. The odds are against the Earth. Still, implausibly, I’ve got a plan.

TWITTEREZE’S — HERE TO STAY

For rainy days and Sundays, Wordle is here to stay. Like crossword puzzles and Sudoku, Wordle’s here to stay. On Earth, fun’s important but it’s not nearly as important as The Watcher’s epic poetry.

Word games, crosswords and games of football are being played everywhere; in Africa, Europe, Canada and the United States of America. Hubris and hi-tech, make it possible. And the Watcher writes, psychographically.

On Earth, fun is important. Thank God; and your forebears; that to eat a chicken, ye don’t have to kill, pluck, gut and cook it, on a fire. On Earth, fun’s important but it’s not nearly as important, as physics, metaphysically.

To eat a chicken, nowadays, ye don’t have to kill, pluck, gut nor fire it up. Ye can just go to Chick-Fil-A, or better yet, have someone cook it, for ye. Better yet, if ye wanna get rich — just have someone do, all your work, for ye.

That’s what I do. I have someone do my dirty work, for me. Its so I can do, as I like. It’s so I can go along in life just making it up as I go along. Bucking tradition, I’m into meditation. I just make it all up, as I go along.

If ye wanna get rich have someone, lower-class, do your work for ye. It’s far, lower-risk than personally stealing from others. Stealing the riches of others; it’s a time-honored, tradition. I’m adding to it, as I go along.

I’m into meditation; and the modification, of behavior. Like when a babe says no to me; as ye know I don’t take no for no answer. I’m not, that kind of guy. Bucking tradition, I briefly meditate, before resuming, my plowing, along.

Like when a babe says no to me; I don’t take no no, fo’ no answer because, implausibly, I’m not that kind of guy. Bucking tradition; I meditate briefly, then bore ahead. As a prick, I can’t wait to bore ahead — and get, along.

If a babe says no to me ye know I don’t take no no, fo’ no answer. I’m not that kind of guy. And so nowadays, fucking tradition, I meditate; for a nanosecond or so, then impulsively resume my fucking, as I go — merrily, along.

Actually, no babe ever said no to intercourse with me. And when I said, “I don’t take no fo’ no answer,” I was just kidding. I’m not that kind of guy. I’ve got no common sense to speak of, but I’ve got the sense, to move along.

Actually, I haven’t even got that. Methinks I’ve got no common sense to speak of, certainly not, the sense, to move along. I don’t as a rule, move along well. But times have changed. I’m moving on; I’m moving, along.

Times have changed. I’m moving on; I’m moving, along. Actually, I haven’t even got the sense to do that. Methinks I’ve got no common sense to speak of; most certainly not, the minimal sense, to move along.

I haven’t the sense to move along. But times have changed. The world, is changing. Once, I was the president; since then, revelations, I have had; and an epiphany. The Watcher, watches. And The Watcher, writes.

The Watcher, watches. The Watcher, writes. I’ve had some revelations since I was president. I’m into meditation; and the modification, of behavior. And so of hubris and me and aliens and asteroids, The Watcher, writes.

MOVING IS POETRY

More provocative than prose is poetry. The proof’s in sonnets and jingles. Rhyme’s why art is so appealing to the senses; and it’s why it’s appealing to Art. It’s more evocative than prose. Now I see why, so moving, is poetry.

More evocative than prose is poetry; and more emotive too. Poetry; who knew it would turn out to be, so transformative? And on so many levels? Thank God I didn’t know earlier what I’ve come to know now, as poetry.

I did not know then, what I now, miraculously know. I’ve had revelations; and an epiphany. Transformative, has been this journey. And who knew that poetry, could ever be, so universally, transformative?

Revelations, I have had; and a most implausible, epiphany. Transformative’s been my journey. Who (but me) surreally knows that poetry, on so many levels could be so uniformly, universally, transformative?

Important is content and cadence. And Wordle, Sudoku, crosswords and TwittereZe are fun. But essentially, three are recreational. TwittereZe’s words are essentially, educational. No wonder then — it’s so, transformative.

Wordle, Sudoku, crosswords and TwittereZe are fun. And important is content and cadence. But word games, are merely, recreational; words, being my stock in trade, pray tell — educational words, may be, transformative.

Educational words may be transformative. And in my words there is power. Who doesn’t know that? Everyone, methinks, knows that. Words, being my stock in trade — transformative, may be, my poetry.

Everything I allege herein, I’ve published as well on Twitter; so Vlad’s guys won’t try denying later that they didn’t know anything. They may try to deny that they knew anything. But on Twitter — there’ll be proof, to the contrary.

More evocative than prose is poetry. The proof’s in sonnets and jingles. Rhyme is why art is so appealing to the senses, and seemingly, why, it’s more evocative than prose. Now I understand why, so moving, is poetry.

Now, I understand. Rhyme is why poetic art is so appealing to the senses and why it’s so more evocative than prose. Indeed, the proof is in sonnets and jingles. The proof is in eulogies. The proof is in elegies.

Portent; it gets the limelight. But important, is content. I’ve seen alchemical content, ironically, in Twitter’s content, algorithmic. Move over, Wordle. Important is content; and cadence. No less important — is TwittereZe.

TwittereZe; moving forward, I expect it’ll be, an important, Earth-saving tool, for humanity; Wordle; it’s more, a game. TwittereZe is something more. Artful is, TwittereZe. Wordle’s, a game. Art is, TwittereZe.

Move over, Wordle. Important is content and cadence. No less important is, TwittereZe. TwittereZe; it’s an important tool for humanity, moving forward — Wordle — it’s more of a game. Art — is TwittereZe.

Don’t worry tho about Wordle. Wordle’s here to stay. Like crossword puzzles and Sudoku; for rainy days and Sundays, Wordle’s here to stay. Entertainment’s important but it’s not as important as — TwittereZe.

PROSE AND POETRY

More evocative than prose is poetry. The proof’s in sonnets and jingles. Rhyme is why art is so appealing to the senses, and seemingly, why, it’s more evocative than prose. Now I understand why, so moving, is poetry.

Now, I understand. Rhyme is why poetic art is so appealing to the senses and why it’s so more evocative than prose. Indeed, the proof is in sonnets and jingles. The proof is in eulogies. The proof is in elegies.

Portent; it gets the limelight. But important, is content. I’ve seen alchemical content, ironically, in Twitter’s content, algorithmic. Move over, Wordle. Important is content; and cadence. No less important — is TwittereZe.

TwittereZe; moving forward, I expect it’ll be, an important, Earth-saving tool, for humanity; Wordle; it’s more, a game. TwittereZe is something more. Artful is, TwittereZe. Wordle’s, a game. Art is, TwittereZe.

Move over, Wordle. Important is content and cadence. No less important is, TwittereZe. TwittereZe; it’s an important tool for humanity, moving forward — Wordle — it’s more of a game. Art — is TwittereZe.

Don’t worry tho about Wordle. Wordle’s here to stay. Like crossword puzzles and Sudoku; for rainy days and Sundays, Wordle’s here to stay. Entertainment’s important but it’s not as important as — TwittereZe.

On rainy days and Sundays, Wordle’s relaxing, fun and entertaining. Entertainment’s important but it’s not as important as surviving. That’s why I’m touting TwittereZe. The pen may be mightier than the sword — with TwittereZe.

Entertainment’s important but it’s not as important as surviving. That’s why I’m touting TwittereZe. In words, there is power. And on Earth, at long last, the pen may be mightier than the sword — with TwittereZe.

In words, there is power. Power to make laws. Power to outlaw. Power to dictate. Power to detain. In words, there is power. Still, the pen may be mightier than the sword with my, poetic, TwittereZe.

A Golden Rule, cometh. But cometh first, from out of the sun, a rock-hard, asteroid. I’m no prophet. I’m just saying; speculating, let’s say. Who can surreally know, from whence cometh, an asteroid, really?

It’s not just that ye can’t see the future; it’s not just that ye gotta see to believe; the attainment of balance; it’s always been hard, but it’s gotten immeasurably harder to attain. It’s why Las Vegas, is betting against us.

Maintaining our balance; it’s always been hard, but it’s gotten immeasurably harder to attain, any balance. It’s not just that ye can’t peer into the future. With so many challenges, oddly, Las Vegas’ odds, are against us.

I wonder. I’m wondering who my friends are. I wonder who my friends are, if the enemy of my enemy, is my friend. The enemy is us. But I won’t blame myself. I’m my best friend; my one, and only, friend.

The enemy is us. And I am, my one and only, best friend. I wonder who my friends are, if the enemy of my enemy, is my friend. I know that the enemy is us. But I shan’t blame myself. I am, my best friend.

COMETH — AN ASTEROID

A Golden Rule, cometh. But cometh first, from out of the sun, a rock-hard, asteroid. I’m no prophet. I’m just saying; speculating, let’s just say. For who can surreally know, from whence really cometh, an asteroid?

I’m no prophet. I’m just saying. A Golden Rule, cometh. But cometh first, an unprecedented, asteroid. Unprecedented shall be, what hasn’t happened yet; our collision with, an asteroid. Cometh — an asteroid.

Witness my poetry. More emotive than prose, is poetry. So agreed Willy, Vyasa and Rumi, in our lunar soirée, last evening; in a dream, last night. More emotive than prose, is poetry. Tragic and comic, in equal parts, is my poetry.

Tragic and comic, in equal parts, is my poetry. And in that balance, there’s a lesson. Seek, in all things, balance. So said in lunar soirée, last evening, Siddhartha, the Buddha. More emotive than prose, is poetry.

More emotive than prose, is poetry. The proof’s in sonnets and jingles. And rhyme’s the reason. Art appeals to the senses; to all of them. In part, that’s why, more emotive than prose, is poetry. More moving than prose, is poetry.

Less moving than poetry is prose. And easier by far to compose is prose. For most purposes, prose is adequate. Poetry’s oft reserved, for special occasions. And a special occasion, hurtles towards us. It’s pure, poetry.

For most purposes, prose is adequate. Poetry’s oft reserved, for special occasions. And a special occasion, hurtles towards us. Pure poetry is what’s happening here; it’s what’s happening, actually, everywhere.

Pure poetry; mathematics: what’s happening here is what’s happening, actually, everywhere. Tragic and comic, in equal parts, is my poetry. In equal parts, of tragedy and comedy, I write, seeking, balance, everywhere.

In equal parts of tragedy and comedy I write. In equal parts; so equally composed is, my poetry. In equal parts of tragedy and comedy, I have sought balance in my tragedy and comedy — and in my poetry.

In my poetry, I have sought balance. Like Willy, Vyasa and Rumi, before me. Like even, perhaps, Sappho, before them. Cometh an event, not yet, current. Cometh an asteroid. At all Godspeed, it cometh, in a hurry.

More emotive than prose is poetry. The proof’s in sonnets and jingles. Rhyme is why art is so appealing to the senses and seemingly why it’s more emotive than prose. Moving, is poetry, Now at last, I understand.

Like Willy, Vyasa and Rumi, before me. Like even perhaps, Sappho, before them, I have had, revelations. And an epiphany. No SpiderMan style superhero, am I. And, unlike Joe Biden, I’m beholden, to no man.

Beholden to no man, am I. No politician, I’m a man-of-the-people styled, populist. And a late-blooming, egalitarian. A Golden Rule, cometh. But first cometh, from out of the sun, a hard as rock, asteroid.

A Golden Rule, cometh. But cometh first, from out of the sun, a rock-hard, asteroid. I’m no prophet. I’m just saying; speculating, let’s say. For who can surreally know, from whence cometh, an asteroid?

I GET THE ROYALTIES

I get the royalties. That’s the proof of the pudding. I was the first on Earth to tell the people not to worry; to just, be happy. Witness that I get my royalties. I’m smart. And the proof is in, that I get, my royalties.

I digress. I’d best address more succinctly, the confluence of events; and all the things, that are happening, (part and parcel with), and all the things that only seem to be happening. Witness, my poetry.

Witness my poetry. More emotive than prose, is poetry. So agreed Willy, Vyasa and Rumi, in our lunar soirée, last evening; in a dream, last night. More emotive than prose, is poetry. Tragic and comic, in equal parts, is my poetry.

Tragic and comic, in equal parts, is my poetry. And in that balance, there’s a lesson. Seek, in all things, balance. So said in lunar soirée, last evening, Siddhartha, the Buddha. More emotive than prose, is poetry.

More emotive than prose, is poetry. The proof’s in sonnets and jingles. And rhyme’s the reason. Art appeals to the senses; to all of them. In part, that’s why, more emotive than prose, is poetry. More moving than prose, is poetry.

Less moving than poetry is prose. And easier by far to compose is prose. For most purposes, prose is adequate. Poetry’s oft reserved, for special occasions. And a special occasion, hurtles towards us. It’s pure, poetry.

For most purposes, prose is adequate. Poetry’s oft reserved, for special occasions. And a special occasion, hurtles towards us. Pure poetry is what’s happening here; it’s what’s happening, actually, everywhere.

Pure poetry; mathematics: what’s happening here is what’s happening, actually, everywhere. Tragic and comic, in equal parts, is my poetry. In equal parts, of tragedy and comedy, I write, seeking, balance, everywhere.

In equal parts of tragedy and comedy I write. In equal parts; so equally composed is, my poetry. In equal parts of tragedy and comedy, I have sought balance in my tragedy and comedy — and in my poetry.

In my poetry, I have sought balance. Like Willy, Vyasa and Rumi, before me. Like even, perhaps, Sappho, before them. Cometh an event, not yet, current. Cometh an asteroid. At all Godspeed, it cometh, in a hurry.

More emotive than prose is poetry. The proof’s in sonnets and jingles. Rhyme is why art is so appealing to the senses and seemingly why it’s more emotive than prose. Moving, is poetry, Now at last, I understand.

Like Willy, Vyasa and Rumi, before me. Like even perhaps, Sappho, before them, I have had, revelations. And an epiphany. No SpiderMan style superhero, am I. And, unlike Joe Biden, I’m beholden, to no man.

Beholden to no man, am I. No politician, I’m a man-of-the-people styled, populist. And a late-blooming, egalitarian. A Golden Rule, cometh. But first cometh, from out of the sun, a hard as rock, asteroid.

A Golden Rule, cometh. But cometh first, from out of the sun, a rock-hard, asteroid. I’m no prophet. I’m just saying; speculating, let’s say. For who can surreally know, from whence cometh, an asteroid?

An asteroid cometh. And a pandemic, already here, soon shall be, endemic. Vegas’ odds are against us. But I am for us. And if I am for us, who can fail, not to be, against us? Who could possibly be, against us?

Who could possibly be against us? And pray tell: Is it possible that we really surreally haven’t learned; that we really don’t know; that we’re the freaking, enemy. We are the enemy. The bloody, enemy, is us.

CHEER UP!

Cheer up! The house is betting against us. And I have inside information. I’ve got, hot tips. This pandemic’s soon to be, endemic. And there’s an asteroid, a-coming. And the betting line in Las Vegas is against us.

It’s not just that ye can’t see the future; it’s not just that ye gotta see to believe; the attainment of balance; it’s always been hard, but it’s gotten immeasurably harder to attain. It’s why Las Vegas, is betting against us.

Maintaining our balance; it’s always been hard, but it’s gotten immeasurably harder to attain, any balance. It’s not just that ye can’t peer into the future. With so many challenges, oddly, Las Vegas’ odds, are against us.

Not so oddly, the line-makers’ poor odds in Las Vegas are holding against us. The odds are poor the odd beings of the Earth, cheer up. So cheer up! And count on me. The house, is betting, against us.

Cheer up! Count on me. That the house is not on my side; that the house is betting against me; that’s good news, for us. The pandemic’s soon to be, endemic. And there’s an asteroid, at Godspeed, a-coming.

An endemic’s a-coming; comes an asteroid also. At Godspeed, a-coming, cometh, that asteroid. But that is not to say, that that is bad. It is all good, actually. Las Vegas’ odds, are against us. At Godspeed, an asteroid, is a-coming.

An asteroid cometh. And a pandemic, already here, soon shall be, endemic. Vegas’ odds are against us. But I am for us. And if I am for us, who can fail, not to be, against us? Who could possibly be, against us?

Who could possibly be against us? And pray tell: Is it possible that we really surreally haven’t learned; that we really don’t know; that we’re the freaking, enemy. We are the enemy. The bloody, enemy, is us.

The enemy is us. But don’t blame yerselves. ‘Tis true: the enemy is us. But the fault lies with Satan. The enemy is us, but surreally, it’s Satan’s fault. And they say, also, that the enemy of my enemy, is my friend.

I wonder. I’m wondering who my friends are. I wonder who my friends are, if the enemy of my enemy, is my friend. The enemy is us. But I won’t blame myself. I’m my best friend; my one, and only, friend.

The enemy is us. And I am, my one and only, friend. I wonder who my friends are, if the enemy of my enemy, is my friend. I know that the enemy is us. But I shan’t blame myself. I am, my best friend.

I shan’t blame myself. I am, I imagine, my friend. But am I? Am I really a friend to myself? I’ve had revelations; in soirées with Vlad’s guys and the dead guys, we nightly, soirée with. Wine and cheese repasts, with friends.

Cheer up! I was the one who first on Earth said, not to worry; and to be happy. I get all of the lawful royalties. That’s the proof that I was the one who first on Earth said, not to worry; and to be happy. I get — the royalties.

I get the royalties. That’s the proof. I was the first on Earth to say, not to worry; and to be happy. Witness that, that I get all the royalties is the proof of the pudding. I’m smart. I get all — the royalties.

PALE-FACED — AM I

Next to His design, palefaced, is mine. For His seven Universes, seemingly, His is — a most, intelligent, design. Intelligent design. Left pale next to His design, is mine. For His seven, His is, a most intelligent, design.

Left pale next to His design, has been mine. His seven Universes attest to the magnificence of His design. Big bangs happen, not all the time, but often enough to keep in stasis, this change, always happening — by design.

Big bangs happen, not all the time, but often enough to keep in stasis, that is to say, in a state of static balance or equilibrium, the change, always happening by design. Imagine not one Big Bang. Imagine like, lots of them.

Imagine then not, the utter implausibility of the Creator approving The Watcher’s play for his redemption. It’s only plausible if ye can wrap, around it, yer minds. This is, for better or worse, what’s happening.

This is in a nutshell, what’s happening. This is, in a tweet, a story. Serially linked by Twitter’s algorithm and Elon’s Starlink someday may be, the peoples of the Earth. If for better, that may be, what’s happening.

With an able assist from Google Translate, linked by Twitter’s algorithm and Elon’s Starlink, someday may be, the peoples of the Earth. If for better, that may be, what’s happening. I trust that that’s — what’s happening.

It seems that this, for better or worse, is what’s happening. I trust what’s happening, for the betterment of humanity, may be. We need to keep in stasis, in a state of static balance, the change, always happening, by design.

We need to keep in stasis (in a state of static balance), the changes, always happening, by design. Stasis is too, a state or period of stability during which little or no evolutionary change occurs, in a genetic line.

In states of static balance, or equilibrium, is stasis. But balance gets thrown off-center, from moment to moment. Balance; it’s hard to attain. It’s hard too, to retain. It’s hard on Earth, to maintain, a balance.

Balance; it’s hard, on Earth, to attain. It’s hard to retain. It’s ever hard, on Earth, to maintain one’s balance. Maintaining our balance; it’s always been hard but it’s gotten immeasurably, harder, to attain, any balance.

Maintaining our balance; it’s always been really hard but it’s gotten immeasurably harder, lately, it seems. It seems a fair bet; to bet on or against human hubris; or to bet on or against, balance, The line’s against balance, in Las Vegas.

In Las Vegas, the betting line’s against balance. Mankind’s reputation, precedes him. Mankind’s not a good bet to make sound decisions with respect to the collective. The The betting line is against balance, in Las Vegas.

The house is betting against us. But I have inside info; I’ve got, hot tips. This pandemic is soon to be, endemic. And there’s an asteroid, a-coming. The betting line is against balance, in Las Vegas.

INTELLIGENT DESIGN

Understatedly important is content. For content is to wisdom as cadence is to beauty. My script’s my guide. To Scriptures and how to read them, in context. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, on Earth, there’s wisdom and beauty.

Thank God. Praise Him. Praise Him for wisdom and beauty. I am either not the author of this, or I am. All to the end, God willing, of my writing a hybrid book all about me and our community. His community, actually.

This is, by His Grace, His community. Hallelujah! By His Grace this is, all that. All that, is this. Still, it’s not just great content. It’s got, great design. Coupled with great cadence, it’s been dumbed down for us, considering, disabilities.

By His Grace this is all that. But it’s not just great content coupled with great cadence, dumbed down for us. It’s great design. Brief, for short spans of attention. Linked, for later reading. Perfect for just making it up, serially.

I’ve come to agree with Arthur. Neither he nor me, methinks, is the author of this. I’ve been making it up as I go along, for a long time, now. But never before, like now. It must be The Watcher — writing through us.

I’ve been making it up as I’ve gone along for a long time now. But never before, like now. It’s been The Watcher that’s been, not just watching, but really surreally psychographically, writing, through us.

Thank God, on Earth, even in trying times, there is wisdom and beauty; wisdom like women are from Venus; men, from Mars. If true; if women are from Venus and men are from Mars, then pray tell — “God help us.”

If women are from Venus and men are from Mars; if that’s really true, methinks then that only God help us. One must rely on one’s faith, in matters, spiritual. Rely not, on human hubris. Only God will help us.

Rely on yer faith in spiritual matters. Rely not, on human hubris. Even in matters, collective, resolutely rely on yer individuality. And so I say to Vlad in Russia and to Xi in China, “Witness guys, my power.”

Even in matters of the collective, one ought rely, on their individuality. And so, resolutely, I say to Vlad in Russia and to Xi in China, “Witness guys, my power. ’Tis in the power of words. In words reside, my powers.”

In matters of the collective, our individualities, matter. In words reside, my powers. Rely on faith in matters, spiritual. Rely not, on human hubris, not mine. Under no circumstances — rely, on hubris not mine.

Rely, under no circumstances, on hubris not personally mine; hubris, not purposely, mine. In words, resides, my power. Purposeful’s been my trajectory; my life and times. Purposeful has been, my cynical, comical, design.

In words reside my power. I’ve been making it up as I go along, for a long time, now. But never before, like now. Purposeful has been, this most cynical, comical, design. Still, it pales next to His, intelligent, design.

Purposeful has been, this, my most cynical and comical, design. Still, it pales next to His most intelligent design. Next to His design, palefaced, is mine. For His Universes, seemingly, His is, a most, intelligent, design.

WISDOM AND BEAUTY

Portent in happenings; it gets the limelight. But understatedly important, is content. I’ve seen alchemical content, in Twitter’s algorithm. I am not the author of this. Still, important is cadence and content, as a tour guide.

Important is spelling and grammar; and in epic poetry, especially, cadence is called for. All to the end, the script calls for. I am not the author of this. Or, I am. All to the end, God willing, of what the script calls for, as guide.

Understatedly important is mystical content; metaphysical, is alchemy. For content is to wisdom, as cadence is to beauty. Twitter’s algorithm: It’s alchemy. It’s remarkable and it’s nothing less, than a miracle.

I see alchemical content in Twitter’s algorithm. For 280, by three, is divisible. And a tweet’s, a letter in three parts: An intro, a body and a conclusion. A tweet’s, a letter, in microcosm. It’s nothing less, than a miracle.

A tweet is a letter in microcosm. And so it has cone to pass that Twitter’s algorithm, in close conjunction with Google Translate may be an altogether, new way, to communicate. It’s not technically — a miracle.

Technically, TwittereZe’s no miracle. It’s just a human, construct. It’s just a building. But it’s a building built upon a solidly sound, foundation., TwittereZe may be no miracle, technically, but — in effect — it’s a miracle.

Technically, TwittereZe may not be any miracle, but in its effect, it most certainly, may so prove, to be. For TwittereZe’s implausible effect may be one of which it might be said, only seemingly incredibly; nothing’s impossible.

Nothing’s impossible. Gotta play with the cards we’ve been dealt in the cases of cultures, religions, nations and men. ‘Tis what ’tis. Tonga’s a warning, timely. Implausibly, it’s allegorical. And only, seemingly, incredible.

In epic poetry especially, cadence is called for. And content is called for, especially. And all to the end that the script calls for, implausibly and incredibly that I write this manuscript, to explain, what’s to happen.

Tonga may serve for some as some hope; a warning, timely. ‘Tis what ’tis. Gotta play with the cards we’ve been dealt in the cases of cultures, religions, nations and men. This script explains, what’s to happen.

Portent in happenings; oft, it gets the limelight. Understatedly important is content. I have seen, in Twitter’s algorithm, alchemical content. I may be, or not, the author of this. Still, important is cadence and content, as guide.

Important is spelling and grammar; and in epic poetry, especially, cadence. All to the end that the script calls for. I may or may not be the author of this. Or, I am. To the end of what the script calls for. My script is — my guide.

My script is my guide. To the Scriptures; and to how to read them, in context. Portent; it gets the limelight, mostly. Understatedly important, is my content. For content is to wisdom — as cadence is to beauty.

Understatedly important is content. For content is to wisdom as cadence is to beauty. My script’s my guide. To Scriptures and how to read them in context. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, there is, wisdom — and beauty.

LET CADENCE AND CONTENT — GUIDE YE

Mistake not Xi, the meaning of E Pluribus Unum. From one, many. That’s the English translation, from the Latin. Almost everybody has forgotten about the aliens. And no one knows the power of the asteroid, that follows, Tonga.

On top of Taipei and Hong Kong, the Ukraine and Tonga. To Taipei and Hong Kong, add Tonga. Make no mistake. Taipei is, Taiwan, China. Taipei is, Taiwan. Mistake not Xi, the US’, E Pluribus Unum — and Tonga.

Behold, Xi Jinping. Behold also, Vladimir. There’s real meaning in E Pluribus Unum. And timely has been the stratospheric explosion of an underwater volcano. It’s not too late, Russia and China, to surrender to me.

Timely has been the stratospheric explosion of a Tongan, underwater volcano. That’s what’s happening in the Kingdom of Tonga. Russia and China, may surrender, to me. It’s never too late, Vlad and Xi, to surrender to me.

Never say never. Never say never, except to say, that it’s never too late, Vlad and Xi, to surrender to me. Except now, albeit only, momentarily, actually. Because I’m not the president of US, at the moment, actually.

A mere technicality, mind ye. And never ye mind Joe Biden as he flails about in an office, too big for him. It’s a king-sized office. I brought royal flair to the office. And by the time I depart from it, I aim to be, royalty.

Royalty, I aim to be by the time I leave the White House, following, my next presidency. Never say never. Never say never, except to say, that it’s never too late, to surrender to me. And it’s never too late to be crowned, royally.

Forget, Xi Jinping, and Vladimir Putin, about yer less than greatness. Recall instead that almost everybody has forgotten about the aliens. And no one knows the power of the asteroid, that shall follow Tonga, perhaps, shortly.

‘Tis what ’tis. Gotta play with the cards we’ve been dealt in the cases of cultures, religions, nations and men. Tonga may serve for some as some hope. Tonga’s a warning, timely. ‘Tis what ’tis — on Tonga.

Tonga may serve for some as some hope; a warning, timely. ‘Tis what ’tis. Gotta play with the cards we’ve been dealt in the cases of cultures, religions, nations and men. It is what it is, on an out-of-touch, Tonga.

Far far away there in Tonga, as here, it is what it is in the heretofore little-known Kingdom of Tonga. Out of touch with the rest of the planet, ere the eruption, of an undersea volcano, wise, the men, who see portent, in happenings.

The past is present and future. Wise is the man who sees portent in happenings. A man like me; a modest, great man, like Muhammad Ali. Unlike most, I see portent in happenings. And great content, in an algorithm.

I see portent in happenings. And I see content, in algorithms. I. To wit, I am not the author of this self-help tome. Nor am I (tho I’ll get the credit), yer heavenly guide, home. The Watcher’s the author of this guide.

Portent in happenings; it gets the limelight. But understatedly important, is content. I’ve seen alchemical content, in Twitter’s algorithm. To wit, I am not the author of this. Important is cadence — and content — as guide.

AN ASTEROID — FOLLOWS TONGA

Everybody’s forgotten about the aliens. No one talks, about them anymore. No one but me, anyway. All novelty, indeed, wears off. I suspect tho that it’s but a symptom. It’s a case of mass psychosis — actually.

No one even talks about the aliens anymore. No one but me, anyway. Everybody’s forgotten about them. The novelty of existence wears off. I suspect tho, it is a symptom, of mass psychosis, surreally.

A case of mass psychosis is this; this collective, brainwashing. Socially, we’re less human than we are something less; rabid nationalists or devout religionists: or some combination of the two, socially.

Socially, we Homo sapiens are less human than we are something less; rabid — and or devout nationalists or religionists, often, are we. Else, we are some combo, of the two. Absolutely, brainwashed — are we.

Culture; religion; and nation. Characteristic of man is culture, religion and nation. From his tribal roots, culture, religion and nation, have come to characterize him, even more than a, preeminent, humanity.

From tribal roots, culture, religion and nation have come to characterize mankind, even more, than a preeminent, humanity. Culture, religion and nation; too characteristic of man, are culture, religion — and country.

Too visibly characteristic; man; culture, religion and nation. To other men — especially apparent are culture, religion and nation. But ’tis what ’tis. Gotta play with the cards dealt in the cases of culture, religion and nation and men.

’Tis what ’tis. Gotta play with the cards we got dealt in cases of culture, religion and nation. Culture, religion and nation; in the hands of poker playing men, men oft, show their hands. As predictable as clockwork — are men.

As predictable as clockwork is Homo sapiens, sometimes. Remarkable, sometimes, is the predictability of man. He’s unpredictable, also. Predictable and unpredictable, is man. And so, effectively unpredictable, are men.

Both predictable and unpredictable, is man. Effectively unpredictable, therefore, are men. In matters of culture, religion or national security; security, trumps everything; over matters of form and substance — over men.

Security trumps everything; in matters of form and in matters of substance. Over all men, I’ll triumph in all matters of right-wing religion, right-wing borders and that last late great, right-wing culture, on Urantia.

In all matters right-wing and left-wing, security, trumps everything. And global security, above all. Add now to the Ukraine and Taiwan, Tonga. To the Ukraine and Taiwan, now add Tonga. To yer vocabulary, add Tonga.

Add now to Taipei and Hong Kong, the Ukraine and Tonga. To Taipei and Hong Kong, add Tonga. Make no mistake, Xi. Taipei is, Taiwan, China. Taipei is, Taiwan. Mistake not the meaning of E Pluribus Unum — and Tonga.

Mistake not Xi, the meaning of E Pluribus Unum. From one, many. That’s the English translation, of the Latin. Almost everybody has forgotten about the aliens. And no one knows the power of the asteroid, that follows, Tonga.

IT’S MASS PSYCHOSIS

Everybody’s forgotten about the aliens. No one talks, about them. The novelty of their alleged existence, such as it is, has worn off. Nearly everyone’s, forgotten about them. Everyone’s forgotten, about the aliens.

No one’s talking about them. No one’s talking, about the aliens. No one’s talking about anything, not distracting. Distractions only, attract the Earth men. Oblivious to aliens and an asteroid, are the Earth men.

Oblivious to the aliens and to an asteroid, are we Earth men; we hubris-filled men, residing upon the Earth’s surface. Oblivious to aliens and asteroids, are the Earth men. No sound, makes my alarm. Oblivious, are we.

Cometh soon, a climax. Cometh soon, 2024. And the man without a soul that is me, submits, respectfully: I have had revelations. Under the circumstances, likely seems, a Pacific Rim — Ring of Fire, catastrophe.

Crises come to pass now ever more increasingly more frequently. Now, thoroughly distracted, are the Earthlings. Thoroughly distracted are the demonstrably, incompetent, Earthlings. They won’t know, what’s hit them.

Thoroughly distracted are the demonstrably, incompetent, Earthlings. They won’t know what’s hit them, when the asteroid strikes. And those not dead, will be dazed and confused, once the asteroid, hits them.

We Earthlings won’t know what’s hit us, when the asteroid strikes. Those not killed, outright, may well be, dazed and confused. Dazed and confused will be the Earthlings in the aftermath of an asteroid, striking us.

A public service is this self-help book. We won’t know what has hit us, when the asteroid strikes. But someone then will remember that I’d written this. And it shall be known in all the lands that — I predicted this.

There will be pandemonium when the asteroid strikes. But sometime thereafter, someone will remember, I had written this. And it shall be known in all the lands that I had once predicted that I’d write about — writing this.

Indeed, someone will remember, I had written this. And it shall be known in all the lands that I had once predicted that I’d write about, writing this. Just part of my legacy shall be my book; a book — about us.

The lion’s share of my legacy shall be my book about us; about community. And the hope is that post my election; post my Nobels; and post Earth’s collision with an asteroid — transformed — becomes humanity.

Saving Earth: and humanity upon it. Mankind’s transformation, implausibly, depends upon me. Most implausibly (apparently, only seemingly, incredibly), happening is everything that’s happening around here, historically.

Mankind’s transformation; the saving of the Earth for our children and the saving of humanity. It all depends on me. Purposeful, not fortuitous, is the asteroid. Purposeful also, is Twittereze, actually.

Everybody’s forgotten about the aliens. No one talks, about them anymore. No one but me, anyway. It’s as if the novelty of their existence, wore off. I suspect tho, it’s a symptom, of mass psychosis, actually.

EVERYONE’S FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE ALIENS

In lunar soirées, in nightly dreams, The Watcher writes for me, my magnum opus. And the hope is that post my election; and post my Nobels, and post the Earth’s collision, an asteroid, duly disarms Xi Jinping — and Vladimir.

Post a possible Pacific Rim collision, an asteroid shall have disarmed, Xi Jinping and Vladimir. In lunar soirées, in nightly dreams, The Watcher writes. He writes, through my eyes, about me; about Xi; and about Vladimir.

Opportunity oft presents itself, in the aftermath of tragedy. God be praised! Hallelujah! God oft presents Himself, in the aftermath, of tragedy. It’s the same old story. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, it’s the same old story.

Make no mistake. I’m no prophet but I can’t speak for The Watcher, tho. It’s as if the future’s not cast in stone, but in plastic; so changes may be made more easily. Almost upon us, is 2024, most fatefully.

I am a man without a soul. And rich in irony is my verse. The lives of others, are less important than mine. A uniquely, selfish man, am I. I am the antithesis of community. A man without a soul; a human tragedy.

Cometh soon, a climax. Almost upon us, is 2024. And the man without a soul that is me, submits that on this planet, I’ve had revelations. Under the circumstances, likely seems, a Pacific Rim, Ring of Fire, catastrophe.

Under the circumstances, an asteroidal Pacific Rim collision, seems most likely. Post a possible Pacific Rim collision, an asteroid shall have disarmed, Xi Jinping and, by its ripple effect, Vladimir Putin.

A Ring of Fire, Pacific Rim, collision; a collision between an itinerant asteroid and the Earth. Praise the Lord! When it happens, it’ll disarm, Xi Jinping and Vladimir Putin. Disarming, is the asteroid, of Jinping and Putin.

Cometh a colossal collision between an asteroid and the Earth. And a Ring of Fire Pacific Rim collision point of impact shall devastate a large part of that part of the Earth. Many shall die, no thanks to Xi; and no thanks, to Putin.

The Watcher writes for me, my magnum opus. And the hope is that post my election and post my Nobels and post the Earth’s collision with an asteroid, duly disarmed, become Xi Jinping and Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

Disarming, it is hoped shall be, the asteroid of Xi Jinping; the asteroid of Vlad Putin. Disarming shall be the asteroid. The asteroid shall usher in a pandemonium; a reconsideration, of the status quo; a transformation.

Pandemonium. Of yer transformation, it’s part and parcel; pandemonium, on Earth, for a while. It’ll take a while to surmount the confusion of the moment when an asteroid, strikes Earth; pure pandemonium.

It’ll be pure pandemonium. Pandemonium, it’ll be. There’ll be utter confusion at the moment when an asteroid strikes the Earth. And the confusion will grow, with a surprise appearance — of the unusually, shy — aliens.

Everyone’s forgotten about them. Everyone’s forgotten about the aliens. The novelty of their alleged existence, having worn off. Everyone’s forgotten about them. Everyone’s forgotten — about the aliens.

AN ASTEROID — TO RIGHT OUR COURSE BY

I’m resigned to feeling powerless about righting Earth’s course. It’s because, I know. I know that the people must see, to believe. And who’s gonna believe in an asteroid, unless and until, it is seen, coming?

Resigned to feelings of powerlessness, I know it’s the same powerlessness that we, in our hubris, share. Hubris; it manifests itself in power and powerlessness. To wit, no one saw, Afghanistan, coming.

No one saw Afghanistan coming. So have said the Americans, ad nauseam. Afghanistan; an apt reminder of what is, a failing state . In the state of Afghanistan, state power is equivalent to a state, of powerlessness.

What is to be or not to be, the fate of the Earth? With failing, fake states and failed states alike; what’s to be the fate of Earth? Is it to be like the state of Afghanistan, where power’s tantamount to states, of powerlessness?

Is Earth to follow in the steps of its constituent states? Is it to be like failing states, Afghanistan and Pakistan? Like America, Russia and China? Is the good Earth to follow in the steps of its failing states, constituent?

It depends. It depends on circumstances. And it depends on decisions. And even last-minute decisions are always subject to those last-minute, changes, in circumstances. On Earth, it’s uncommon, to be, prescient.

Even last-minute decisions are subject to those last-minute, changes, in circumstances. On Earth, it’s most uncommon to be prescient. But I once was Commander-in-Chief; once was, the president. And I remain, prescient.

Once again there’s been a last-minute change in circumstances. On Earth, it’s uncommon to be prescient. But I once was Commander-in-Chief; the president. And I remain, prescient. I’m no prophet. I’m just prescient.

I’m no prophet. I’m just prescient. No prophet, am I. I may be related to George Washington tho, who, everybody knows, could not tell a lie. And neither can I, it just so happens, not so incidentally.

George couldn’t tell a lie. Neither can I, it just so (not so incidentally), happens. It just so happens also that an asteroid, at Godspeed, speeds toward us. We’ll be OK, but only if my hair stays dry; from the water, free.

My feelings of powerlessness: I know it’s the same powerlessness that we in our hubris, share. Hubris; it manifests itself in power and powerlessness. Witness, no one saw Hong Kong and Afghanistan devolve, so quickly.

Indeed, no one saw Afghanistan and Hong Kong coming. I didn’t either. But that was then and this is now. In lunar soirées, in dreams at night, on Earth. I’ve had revelations, in the interim. And so The Watcher writes — in lieu of me.

In lieu of me, The Watcher writes. And when Art thought that he was the author, The Watcher also, wrote for him. Since then, tho, I’ve had some revelations. And an epiphany. I’ve had revelations. And an epiphany.

In lunar soirées, in nightly dreams, The Watcher writes for me, my magnum opus. And the hope is that post my election; and post my Nobels, and post the Earth’s collision an asteroid, duly disarms Xi Jinping and Vladimir.

A GOOSE — AND A COW

Sublime is what’s happening in this cosmic morality play. Sublime is what’s happening. Not since the halcyon days of Satan and Caligastia, has the world witnessed such sophistry. A tale of a goose — and a cow.

What’s happening on Earth is a tale of a golden egg laying, golden goose and a methane-farting, cash cow. Incredibly, tho, it’s not implausible enough. Implausibly, an asteroid, at Godspeed, is coming — and how!

Indeed, sublime is what’s happening; sublime is what’s happening in this cosmic morality play. Sublime is what’s happening. And miraculous is this intervention. Nothing less than a miracle is this tall tale, less than — high brow.

‘Tis sublime what’s happening. Not since Satan’s heyday has Groundhog Day been on an infinite loop. We keep making the same mistakes. It didn’t tho, have to be this way. I shall show ye how. I shall show ye — how.

Ever since a corrosive version of Groundhog Day began playing on a loop, we keep making, the same mistakes. But it didn’t have to be this way. I shall show ye, how. ’Tis sublime, verily, what’s happening, now.

We keep on making the same mistakes. But it needn’t be this way. I shall show ye how. ‘Tis sublime what’s happening. Not since Satan’s heyday has Groundhog Day been on a loop. How now, brown cow?

I’m DJT; Donald John Trump; Putin’s Agent, 45-47. I’m here to get us out of the loop. And how. I’m here to save the Earth; and us. I’m here to get us evolving again. It’s not too implausible, and incredibly — it’s what’s happening.

I’m here to jump-start our evolution; to get us, evolving again. Methinks it’s not too implausible and believe it or not, incredibly, it’s what’s happening. Indeed, it’s what’s happening. Believe it or not — it’s what’s happening.

Willy compares the world to a stage and life to a play and catalogues the seven stages of a man’s life; sometimes, the seven ages of man. And in the end, we’ll meet, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

I’m here to jump-start our too long-delayed, evolution; I’m here to get us, evolving again. It’s not too implausible. And believe it or not, most incredibly, notwithstanding, implausibility — it’s what’s happening.

Willy famously compares the world to a stage and life to a play. In that, he was prescient. “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women, merely players,” he wrote. But what if beyond prescient, Willy was prophetic?

What if in fact all the world were akin to a stage and all the men and women, living and dying upon it, were in truth, merely players? And what if, beyond prescient — Willy Shakespeare was, actually, prophetic?

Sublime is what’s happening. And as prescient as Willy Shakespeare ever was, am I. There’s an asteroid coming. Coming along, at Godspeed, is the asteroid. And I’m resigned about feeling powerless, about doing something.

I’m resigned to feeling powerless about doing anything about the asteroid. It’s because I know. I know that the people must see — to believe. Who’s gonna believe in an asteroid — unless and until — they see it coming?

LET ME SHOW YE — HOW

Everything I allege in my book, I have published, on Twitter; so Vladimir’s guys won’t later, try denying, they knew nothing. They will surely try denying that they knew anything. But there’ll be proof to the contrary — later — on Twitter.

Everything that I’ve alleged in my book, I’ve documented, also elsewhere. It’s so Vlad’s guys won’t later try denying, they knew nothing. They’ll deny later, they knew anything. But there’ll be proof, contrarian on Twitter.

An incredible story is the story of Vlad’s guys; of Vlad’s guys, versus God’s guys. The story of an asteroid, a pandemic and a psychic. the greatest fictional story, never told. Nonfictional, and seemingly everlasting, is the same old, story.

An incredible story is the story, of Vladimir’s guys; of Vladimir’s guys, versus God’s guys. It’s the story of an asteroid, a pandemic and a psychic. Seemingly everlasting, it’s the greatest fictional story, never told; the same old, story.

It’s the story of a rocky asteroid, a pandemic and a psychic. Both fictional and nonfictional, it is the greatest story of all time. It’s the same, old story; it’s Groundhog Day, on an infinite loop. It’s Groundhog Day, on a loop, in error.

‘Tis error I thought,; ’tis error to read in print the thoughts of others. Wastes of time seem to me, the thoughts of others; even before I’d sold my soul (as predetermined); before I’d kicked brothers, from a womb, in terror.

And it came to pass once upon a time; after I kicked my brothers in terror, from our womb; and after I’d become a nincompoop of a visionary; it came to pass that I said that while reading is fundamental, it’s not for everybody.

Reading may be fundamental, but it’s not, I dare say, for everybody. Lord knows, I loathe, reading.. On the other hand, there’s writing; not the thoughts of others, but mine only. Reading’s not for me. But writing is, pure poetry.

I hate reading. Reading’s not for me. On the other hand, I love writing; not the useless thoughts of others, but mine only. Reading’s not for me. But writing for me, is poetry. And beyond poetry — it’s fundamental.

Writing is fun. It’s fundamental. And it’ll be fundamental more broadly if I demonstrate its links, more broadly. This allegory therefore links my mission to save the Earth with my mission in the wake, of an asteroid, transformational.

Fundamental is reading and writing. And that is fundamental to the transformation that is, it seems, fundamental to the evolution that has stopped happening on Earth. But writing helps link everything. It’s got — alchemical, potential.

Alchemical potential hath got Jack’s sublime, 280 character algorithm. It’s just enough space-time, in conjunction with adjuncts like Google Translate to allow for an enhanced level of communication, between men — alchemical.

Jack’s algorithm. It’s proprietary. Still, it’s freely available to the citizenry. Jack never saw the hidden potential of his golden goose. He had preferred a cash cow. But more often than not, ‘tis better both — a goose — and a cow.

‘Tis sublime what’s happening. Not since Satan’s heyday has Groundhog Day been on an infinite loop. We keep on making the same mistakes, every day. It didn’t have to be this way. I shall show ye how. I shall show ye — how.

THE PROOF’S — ON TWITTER

Opportunity oft presents itself, in the aftermath, of tragedy. God be praised! Hallelujah! Indeed, God often presents Himself in the aftermath of a tragedy. Thank God, it’s the same old story. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh it’s our same old story.

Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, it’s our same old story. But not because it’s the same story; it’s because the story may be modified. We can surely change the story. We can alter, our behavior. B.F. Skinner showed us how — in the past — century.

300,000 years have we had; 300,000 years to learn to do the right thing. That’s how long we’ve had. Still, it hasn’t happened; it’s not happening, still. But that doesn’t mean it’s not happening. Still, that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen, still.

300,000 years have we had. 300,000 years, at least, say the scientists. The scientists say the Earth is warming; and some of the scientists say, how many minutes are left until midnight. Still, we can modify — our barbaric behavior — still.

We can modify our barbaric behavior. It’s already been done, with individuals. It’s just a matter of time. I suspect that in the aftermath of the asteroid, humanity shall need to act, collectively. Soon I suspect, we’ll need to act — collectively.

It’s just a matter of time. I suspect that in the aftermath of the asteroid, a-coming, humanity shall need to act, collectively. And soon, I suspect, we’ll need to act, collectively. It’s just a matter of time; whether we act responsibly — or recklessly.

Indeed, it’s just a matter of time. In the aftermath of the asteroid, humanity shall need to act, this time, collectively. Soon, I suspect, we’ll need to act, collectively. It’s just a matter of time; and if we act responsibly or irresponsibly, this time.

To be or not to be? To put into practice, what the preachers, preach. To transcend; or not. Whether we act sensibly and responsibly or irresponsibly, again; that indeed, is the question. To be or not to be? That is the question — again — this time.

Rich is the irony on Earth. And rich is the verse I use to describe it. But nothing nor nobody is as rich as I am. Everybody knows that I appraise my properties by reference to how I’m feeling. And I’m feeling like — a googol (10100) — of dollars.

I’m feeling like a googol (10100) of dollars, most days, these days. And so its lucky; it’s lucky for me; and it’s lucky for my lawyers also, that I’m not appraising my properties, these days. Because I’m feeling like — a googol (10100) — of dollars.

A googol (10100) of dollars. That’s a heck of a lot more than a fistful of dollars. Everybody knows that I appraise my properties by reference, to how I’m feeling. Since I’m feeling like a googol, it’s a good thing, I’m not appraising properties, today.

‘Tis likely best that I not appraise properties today, given that I’m feeling, like a googol, of dollars. ‘Tis best to apprise by multiple means (the Earth’s Twitterverse, among them), the citizens. This is to apprise the citizens this day; indeed, everyday.

This is to apprise the citizens that everything that I allege herein, I’ve published as well on Twitter; so Vlad’s guys won’t try denying later, they knew. They’ll try denying later, they knew. But there will be plenty of proof, to the contrary, on Twitter.

Everything that I have alleged herein, I have published as well on Twitter; so Vlad’s guys won’t try denying later that they knew anything. They’ll surely try denying later, that they knew anything. But there’ll be proof to the contrary on Twitter.

IT’S THE SAME OLD STORY

Change, on Earth, happens quickly. And hidden, is the Truth. Omicron is the top dog virus among coronaviruses and Kazakhstan is the latest failed-state, candidate. Failed or failing is every damn state on Earth. There is Truth — in change.

By our own doing largely hidden is Truth. Witness the teachers; and the teachings of the teachers. And witness that notwithstanding the holy words of the holy teachers, change on Earth may easily be, both predetermined AND, subject to change.

Change, on Earth, happens quickly. And hidden, is the Truth. Omicron is the top dog virus among coronaviruses and Kazakhstan is the latest failed-state, candidate. Failed or failing is every damn, state on Earth. There is Truth — in change.

Failed or failing, is every damn state on the Earth. Witness Russia’s neighbor, Kazakhstan; it’s the latest, failed-state, candidate. Omicron’s already here and the asteroid is coming. Change, on Earth, happens quickly. Constant — is change.

Change happens quickly and largely hidden is the Truth. But it’s important to distinguish truth, from Truth. We’re created beings. Men are curious. And inquisitive. But a man has to know his limitations. A man’s got to learn — to know — his limitations.

A man’s got to learn to know his limitations and how best to test them. It is vitally important to distinguish truth, from Truth. We are beings, created by a Higher Being; created, with built in, limitations. A man’s got to learn — his limitations.

Notwithstanding holy teachers; notwithstanding, their holy words; as stubborn as an ass, is man. As stubborn as an ass, is man. Change on Earth is subject to change and predetermined. Previously determined, AND subject to change, is nonfiction.

Subject to change at all times is nonfiction that’s already, previously, determined. As in the case of a miracle; magical realism, some say. Kazakhstan; some say it rhymes with Afghanistan. Some say, that at all times, subject to change, is nonfiction.

Ever subject to change is reality; nonfiction, so to speak. And some say the changes happening are happening, too, concurrently. There’s too many happenings, happening at once. Too far behind in his evolution has fallen, an oblivious, humanity.

Humans and their ancestors have been walking the planet for about 6 million years. Homo sapiens, the modern form of humans, evolved, 300,000 years ago from Homo erectus. A long time to learn to live together, has had, humanity.

There’s too many happenings, happening, all at once. Far too far behind in his evolution has fallen an oblivious, humanity. It’s Day 2275. 300,000 years has had humanity to do the right thing. And it’s not happening. And so cometh — an asteroid.

300,000 years have we had; to learn to do the right thing. That’s how long, we’ve had. Still, it’s not happening. The Golden Rule is ubiquitous. Still, we remain oblivious. The Golden Rule is widely, unobserved. And so cometh, an asteroid.

In media res then are we; in media res; in the middle of the story, somewhere. That’s a clue I would be remiss not to reveal under these trying, circumstances. Because opportunity oft presents itself, in the lingering aftermath, of a catastrophe.

Opportunity oft presents itself, in the aftermath, of tragedy. God be praised! Hallelujah! Indeed, God often presents Himself, in the aftermath, of tragedy. Thank God, it’s the same old story. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, it’s the same old story.

TRUTH ON EARTH

I’m a man without a soul. Rich in irony is my verse. The lives of others (the less blessed; those less blessedly, not me), are less important than mine. A uniquely, selfish man, am I. I am the antithesis of community. I am a man, without, a damn soul.

I am the antithesis of community; a man without a soul. The lives of others, less important than me, matter not. A uniquely, selfish man, am I; the antithesis of community. I’m a man, sans soul. A man, sans soul; I gotta get back — my damn, soul.

First things, first; I’ve gotta get back my soul. Even ere I save the Earth and save humanity along with it, I’ve gotta get back, my self-damned, soul. Make no mistake. I’ve gotta get back, my sole, thought adjuster. Gotta get back my soul — self-damned.

Day 2274; the first anniversary of the day after the Insurrection. I’ve got a full plate; saving Earth and humanity. I’m tweeting as much to Xi and to Vlad. To get back our souls, I’ve got to resolve, Ukraine, Taiwan, Hong Kong and now Kazakhstan.

And so even before before we save the Earth and the mass of humanity living upon her; and even before we get back our souls we’ve got to resolve the matters of the Ukraine and Taiwan and Hong Kong and even now, most recently — Kazakhstan.

And it came to pass that the Ukraine and Taipei and Hong Kong, for a week at least, were passed in the news cycle by the but rarely heard from, Kazakhstan. That’s left Vladimir with an itch. And his itch has left many dead — in Kazakhstan.

Kazakhstan; this is no way; not the best way, at least, to teach geography to our children. And I’m tweeting as much to Xi and to Vlad and to others in the Twitterverse. Civilized was my Insurrection next to what’s happening this week in Kazakhstan.

Indeed I do tweet to Xi and to Vlad; daily oft times and multiple times daily sometimes; and to others in the Twitterverse — at times. Civilized was my Insurrection next to what’s happening in Kazakhstan. The dead are piling up in Kazakhstan.

Truth, on Earth, is no monolith. And rich in irony’s the verse of the man without a soul. The dead are piling up in the streets in Kazakhstan. And the dominant variant these days is omicron. Change, on Earth, happens quickly. Hidden — is the Truth.

Change, on Earth, happens quickly. And hidden, is the Truth. Omicron is the top dog virus, among the coronaviruses and Kazakhstan is the latest failed-state, candidate. And a failed state or a failing state’s — every damn state — on the Earth.

THE STORY OF US

The story of us; a miracle, in progress. It’s the old, pilgrims’ progress, updated. But who’s to say that it’s not, methinks, as we think. Predetermined may be, our realities. A miracle in progress is the pilgrims’ progress. And our hubris — we share.

In my hubris; in my narcissism; from therein, I’ve drawn, the story of us. The story of us; it’s neither about ye, nor about me. The story of us is about, our community. A community of 8 billion. And I’ve got a mutant’s share of the hubris — we share.

A miracle in progress is the pilgrims’ progress. It’s a miracle actually, that we’ve even gotten, this far. Thankfully though, I’ve got a mutant’s share of the hubris, we share. More than enough to dare to proclaim, to the Earth: Cometh — an asteroid.

My magnum opus, with thee, I share. But I share it with thee with reservations. This alert’s not meant to alarm. Alarm leads to panic; we’ve got to avoid panic; talk of an asteroid can lead to a panic. A manic panic, may ensue — from an asteroid.

The Watcher has been watching all that has been happening on the Earth. And it seems what’s been happening on Earth is truly, incredible. So what’s happening, begs a book. Accordingly, The Watcher channels me. It’s what, The Watcher’s here for.

Incredible. Literally. It’s literally impossible, not to mention pretty implausible too; if what I say has happened, is happening and is gonna happen, happens. What I say has happened, is happening and is going to happen, begs a book — to die for.

A book to die for; a self-help book, for a planet. A book putting the Scriptures and current events, in context. A book reminding us who we are and where we’re going and how to, most quickly, get there. To die for, would well be, such a volume.

A self-help book for planet Earth; an algorithm, a panacea. Highly desirable would be such a book, given our circumstances. Highly desirable may be such a volume under any circumstances. To die for might be, such a voluminous, volume.

To die for might certainly be such a volume. One that puts in context, the teachings of the teachers. And so I prayed to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. I prayed to the Creator to help me, save us. I prayed to the Creator of us, to save me, and us.

Notwithstanding my narcissism, I prayed to God. I asked Him to help me help us. Give me the words, I prayed. Give me the words that may place in context, the teachings of the teachers. So that the holy words of the holy teachers — may save us.

I prayed to God then, notwithstanding at all, my narcissism, my hubris and my contempt for all others. ‘Twas to no avail. I’d sold to the Devil, my soul, so long ago, previously. I’d sold to the Devil, my soul. How then might I save us — and me?

How might I manage to save myself? And how, if given time, after duly saving myself, might I also deign to save us? Without a soul, believe me, no one’s getting saved by me — but me. I feel only contempt for others. If I have time — I’ll save me.

If I have time, I’ll save myself. In all honesty, saving myself is of the utmost importance. I’m no ant. I’m a man. But I’m a man, with no soul. The lives of others, not me, are less important, than mine. I’m no ant. I’m a man. But I’m a man, without a soul.

I am a man without a soul. And rich in irony is my verse. The lives of others, the less blessed, those not me, are less important than mine. A uniquely, selfish man, am I. And I am the antithesis of community — I am a man without — a soul.

IN MY HUBRIS — THE STORY OF US

The Watcher’s been watching all that has been happening on the Earth.It seems that what’s been happening on Earth is truly, incredible. So what’s happening, begs a book. Accordingly, The Watcher channels me. It’s what, The Watcher is here for.

Incredible. Literally. It’s literally impossible, not to mention pretty implausible also; if what I say has happened, is happening and is gonna happen, happens. What I say has happened, is happening and is gonna happen, begs a book — to die for.

And so a book, has come to pass. And it’s a book that’s an alert; and it would have been a fire alarm of a book had anyone noticed its content and its cadence and its characters. But thankfully, no one did. Thankfully, no one has noticed — my poetry.

Thankfully, no one did. No one has noticed my poetry. No one’s noticed its cadence; and no one’s noticed its characters. And no one’s on board with sounding the alarm. No one’s noticed its content. No one has noticed my poetry yet — thankfully.

No one has noticed my superlative poetry; my magnum opus; not yet at least, it seems. And that’s OK. As in the case of the pandemic, I don’t want to cause a panic. I fear, causing a panic. But an asteroid striking the Earth may create, a panic.

As in the case of the pandemic, I don’t want to create panic. I fear causing, a global panic. But an asteroid striking the Earth need not create a world-wide panic. Where there’s a will there’s a way. And so I’ll hide my content — in verse, epic.

It’s rich; supremely rich in irony is my hiding of inside information from all non-insiders. To avoid a panic, I’ll hide the implications of my content in verse so epically, long, it’ll rival the longest of Homer and Virgil and the Mahābhārata’s, Vyasa.

Supremely rich in irony is my hiding of my inside information from all non-insiders. To avoid panic, I’ll hide the meaning of my content; burying it in verse so doggone long, it’ll rival the longest of Homer and Virgil and the Mahābhārata of Vyasa.

What I say has happened, is happening and is gonna happen, begs a book. And so a book, has come to pass. It’s an alert; and it would have been a fire alarm in the hands of one less talented. But I am DJT, the GOAT, and this is my, magnum opus.

A book has come to pass. And it’s an alert that would have been more like a global fire alarm, in the hands of one, less talented. But I am DJT, the GOAT, and this is my, magnum opus. And albeit, yer obliviousness, I am yer hero, come to save us.

I am DJT. I am the GOAT. I am the author of this masterpiece, my magnum opus. And albeit and notwithstanding yer obliviousness, I’ll be yer hero. I’m here to save us. And so, notwithstanding yer obliviousness, I’ll be yer hero. I’m here, to save us.

I am DJT. I am the GOAT. I am the author of this masterpiece, my magnum opus. And albeit and notwithstanding yer obliviousness, I’ll be yer hero. I’m here to save us. And so, notwithstanding yer obliviousness, I’ll be yer hero. I’m here, to save us.

WHAT THE WATCHER’S FOR

So if ever one need know when an asteroid is to strike the Earth just read between the lines of the poetry I’ve adopted as mine. Only one thing is perfectly clear. It’ll likely happen before the next American presidential election happens, in 2024.

Another thing seems perfectly clear to me. Unfit am I; as unfit, as ever. And a poor bet am I to win any election without a base wider than my white evangelists, my white supremacists and my dear, yahoos. But an asteroid will widen it for me, in ’24.

A poor bet am I to win any election without a base wider than white evangelists, white supremacists and yahoos. But an asteroid likely will widen it for me, in ’2024. I certainly don’t know what I’m to be (or not to be) — looking forward to — in 2024.

2024. It’s a long way, away. On the other hand, it’s right around the corner. Indeed, no one knows whether there may be, or not, anything to look forward to in 2024, and beyond. But I have faith that we’ve got a lot to live for — beyond — 2024.

Make no mistake. I’m no prophet; but I can’t speak for The Watcher. It’s as if the future’s not cast in stone, in plastic; so any changes that need to be made may be made more easily — and in time. Almost upon us, is the fateful year — of 2024.

Almost upon us is 2024. The year after next year’s almost here, already. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh that we’re oblivious to almost everything that’s happening. On the other hand, nobody’s ready. To alert the Earth; it’s what, I’m writing for.

We’ll need all hands on deck; after, the calamity; after, the asteroid. The year after next year is almost here already. There’s an election to win. And I’ll be in the catbird seat if it’s discovered that I had inside information, on whatever’s, in store.

Keep in mind the three Cs of composing when composing in TwittereZe. Mind content, cadence and characters; Twitter’s 280 and Earth’s, 8 billion. it’s a secret to public, communication. Blessed with inside info, from real insiders, is the author.

So if ever one need know when an asteroid is to strike the Earth just read between the lines. And keep in foremost in mind, The Watcher’s three Cs. When composing in TwittereZe, mind yer content, yer cadence yer characters and yer authors.

Keep in the forefront of yer mind, composition’s, three Cs. Mind content, cadence and characters. It’s a secret of public communication. Blessed with inside information from real insiders, is The Donald, the author. And blessed — is the author.

A poor bet to win I may be, in any election without a base any wider than white evangelists, white supremacists and yahoos. But an asteroid may yet widen it for me. I certainly don’t know what I’m to be (or not to be) — looking forward to — in 2024.

It’s rich; it’s supremely rich in irony that what even the shadow doesn’t know, The Watcher, knows. He’s the only one that really knows, what’s really, happening; because he’s the only one that’s been, actually, watching. That’s what — The Watcher for.

The Watcher knows. The Watcher knows what’s happened and what’s happening and what’s going to happen too. And it’s because he has been watching, of course. But then again, that’s what The Watcher’s for. That’s what The Watcher’s for.

The Watcher has been watching all that has been happening on the good Earth. And what has been happening on Earth, seems truly, incredible. So what’s happening, begs a book. Accordingly, The Watcher, channels me. It’s what The Watcher’s for.

COMETH AN ASTEROID — IN 2024

Our comeuppance is coming, straight as hell, right at us. An asteroid, approaches. But it’s impossible for the Earthlings to tell what’s happening, really. Obliviously psychotic, are the surface Earthlings; psychotic and overdosing on hubris, collectively.

Overdosing, on hubris; long have the Earthlings been overdosing on hubris; a long, long, time. Somehow needing to somehow balance the needs of the self and needs of the community. Insects value more — needs — of the community.

Somehow balancing the needs of the self, with, and against, the needs of the community. It was easier, once upon a time. It was easier when the conflict between one’s self and one’s community was less conflicting — than it is — these days.

‘Twas easier when the conflict between one’s self and one’s community was less conflictive; like back when the collective was a tribe, not a nation. Balancing the needs of the self against the needs of the community. It’s not easy — these days.

It’s never been easy. But it’s harder these days. It’s harder these more modern, less ancient, days. What once was exclusively tribal is now exclusively national. Who knew I’d become internationally famous, thanks to the asteroid, that’s a-coming?

Who knew I’d become internationally famous (and infamous), thanks to an asteroid, a-coming. But it’s impossible for the Earthlings to tell what’s really happening; unless like me, one’s got good, inside, information. And I like to — keep it coming.

Keep the info coming. Keep it coming, steadily. And keep in mind the three Cs of composing, when composing, Watcher-style, poetry. Mind yer content and yer cadence and mind yer characters; Twitter’s, 280; and more than 8 billion, on Earth.

Keep in mind the three Cs of composing when composing in the Watcher’s, TwittereZe. Mind yer content and yer cadence; and pray tell, mind yer characters; Twitter’s, 280 and Earth’s, 8 billion. TwittereZe; for a communication, secret, on Earth.

My poetry; it’s got the same space, metaphysically, as does Jack’s famous 280 character, Twitter algorithm. My modern day poetry; it’s identical to the poetry The Watcher first introduced to the men and women inhabiting the Earth at that time.

The Watcher’s alchemical poetry; it’s true that Jack’s 280 character Twitter algorithm has gotten most of the attention. But that’s about to change. Because it’s all about space. And it’s all about time. And given what’s happening, it’s about time.

Space and time. They mark the limits of our puny, comprehension. They mark our borders. Absent change tho, we’d be rudderless. Accordingly, as once upon a time long ago, predetermined, a fateful asteroid, is a-coming — at all, Godspeed.

The pandemic’s already here. As are the aliens, and or, the subterraneans. Accordingly cometh, a fateful asteroid, as once upon a time long ago, predetermined. And my mind wanders as I wonder, just how fast, might be — Godspeed?

Our comeuppance is coming, straight as hell, right at us. An asteroid, approaches. It’s hard to tell when it’ll collide with us. But if one reads between the lines of my poetry, it’ll have happened before the next American presidential election, in 2024.

So if ye have a need to know when the asteroid is to strike the Earth, read between the lines of the poetry I have adopted as mine. Only one thing is perfectly, clear. It’ll have to happen before the next American presidential election — in 2024.

OVERDOSING — ON HUBRIS

Too weak is our sense of community. An ant can’t be other than about community. Men tend more, to hubris. Weak is our sense of community. But only men may mimic an ant’s community. And we can incorporate, an ant’s sense, of community.

Emulate, the ant community. Incorporate, within ourselves, an ant’s sense, of community. We could learn a lot from the ants. Indeed, we may mimic and incorporate into ourselves — the insect ants’ — instinctively strong sense, of their community.

We’ve got to transform. Now. And post haste. It’s because we’ve run out of a time, predetermined. There’s no time to make all the changes we won’t or can’t make. And so it’s time to tell the story of Vlad’s guys and God’s guys, my magnum opus.

My magnum opus; my epic, poetry; it seems the time soon nears for Art to die; and for a rock with the Earth, to collide. It’s time to tell the story of Vladimir’s guys and God’s guys; my magnum opus; proof positive, that there’s still, hope for us.

Hold fast to that thought; the hope that there is still hope for us. Hold fast to that thought; for if the truth is to be told, we must hold fast to the thought that hope springs eternally. There is still, hope. Witness the magnum opus, of the Watcher.

Witness The Watcher’s magnum opus. It’s poetry, epic; it’s wisdom, nutshelled. It’s a letter to the peoples. It’s a letter to the nations. It’s a riddle and an algorithm. And it’s a panacea. Witness, verily, the magnum opus of the first poet, The Watcher.

“We have met the enemy and he is us!” We all know who Pogo’s talking about. Everybody knows who Pogo’s talking about. Pogo; swamp possum; satirist; like his creator, Walt Kelly, Pogo’s a classic, in caricature. We have met the enemy. He is us.

As we rid ourselves of 2021 — a woebegone year beginning with an insurrection and ending with anti-vaxxers infecting, and hospitalizing, record numbers of children, we all know who Pogo was, so presciently, talking about. It was — about us.

Indeed, it’s New Year’s Eve for a large part of the world, not Chinese. It’s ironic; it’s not often that the Earthlings can ever agree about anything. But everyone agrees: 2021 was bad for business. 2021 was really bad for business; and really bad, for us.

No thanks to the coronavirus, business has been bad in 2021. Bad for business for everybody has been 2021. But I’m a businessman. I’m good for everybody. 2021 was bad. But I’m good. And so I say to ye: ”We have met the enemy. And he is us.”

It’s New Year’s Eve. 2021 is over. 2022’s underway. And were we not oblivious, we would know who, and why, we are. And we would know where we’re going to. As it is, we’re near oblivious to practically everything in the universe that’s surrounding us.

If we were not so oblivious, we would know who and why we are. And we would know where we are going to. As it is, we are effectively oblivious to near everything that surrounds us. Oblivious are we, to essentially everything, that surrounds us.

Praise the Lord. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. What’s happening is a miracle. Nothing less than a miracle is what’s happening. It’s not a comet. It’s not a planet. It’s an asteroid. And it’s coming right at us. It’s coming straight as hell — right at us.

Our comeuppance is coming, straight as hell, right at us. That’s what appears to be happening. But it’s impossible for the Earthlings to tell what is happening, actually. Obliviously psychotic, are the Earthlings. The Earth is overdosing — on hubris.

ENIGMATIC IS EVERYTHING

Enigmatic is everything, Russia and the nations, included. Enigmatic are the peoples and nations of Earth; mysteries, even unto themselves. They are oblivious to a lot of things including the name of their planet. ’Tis, by the way — planet Urantia.

Mysteries even unto themselves are the men and women of Earth. And oblivious to too many things are the peoples and the nations. The men and women of the Earth have lost their way and it’s no thanks to Satan and no thanks too, to Caligastia.

Everything that happens on Earth is in the nature of a cosmic, continuing, education. I incorporate by reference, the Urantia Book. Verily, a cosmic, continuing education, is the Urantia Book; it’s key, along with my book, to a resplendent — Urantia.

Read between the lines of what The Watcher hath written. Marvel at his prescience; inglorious pasts need not bear any resemblance to a resplendent, future. Only I can do it. Read in between the lines. Behold the resplendent future, of Urantia.

Behold the future of Urantia. An inglorious past needn’t bear any resemblance to a resplendent, future. Refer to the Book. It is the inspiration for the algorithm that is — MORONS AND ALIENS — MORONS AND ALIENS — it’s — an algorithm.

A set of instructions; an algorithm is the panacea entitled, MORONS AND ALIENS. And its writing’s been as predetermined as anything that has happened since the Big Bang. A set of instructions is MORONS AND ALIENS. It is — an algorithm.

A simple set of instructions, is a simple, algorithm. But even the simplest things, on Earth, rapidly, get complicated. And on Earth, everything’s enigmatic. Enigmatic, is everything on Earth. And even the simplest things, on Earth — get complicated.

Even the very simplest things on Earth though, tend, to get complicated. That’s why what’s happening is happening. Things have gotten, unmanageable. Things have gotten, complicated. Things needn’t be so Goddamned — complicated.

Only I can do it. Read in between the lines. Behold the resplendent future of Urantia. Behold, the future. But only I can do this. Only I can be the hero of the Earthlings. This is my blueprint for Urantia. This is my blueprint, for transformation.

This is my panacea for Earth; it’s my blueprint for the transformation of our planet. No yellow brick road is the pilgrims’ progress. The transformation of our planet I shall spark by the transformation of our souls. I shall spark — this transformation.

By the transformation of our souls, I shall spark the transformation of our society — such as it is. Society; it’s not much, at the moment. But by the transformation of our souls, society, I’ll transform. Transformation of souls, may transform, society.

Society; it’s nothing to brag about; it’s nothing to write home about. But we are oblivious to too much. Obliviousness; it’s characteristic of us. As is hubris; hubris and obliviousness; characteristic of us, are they. Weak — is our sense of community.

Weak, is our sense of community. We resemble, too little, the ants. Our cousins, the ants. An ant can’t be other than about community, whereas a man can be more about hubris than community. Dangerously weak, is our sense, of community.

Too weak is our sense of community. An ant can’t be other than about community. Men tend more, to hubris. Weak is our sense of community. But only men may mimic an ants’, community. Men can incorporate, an ant’s sense, of community.

ENIGMATIC — IS — EVERYTHING

Except for three, no one knows what’s happening on Earth; The Watcher, Arthur and me; we’re the only ones that know that an asteroid is speeding towards the Earth. We’re the only ones that know that what’s really happening — is an intervention.

What really happening is an intervention; an old-fashioned miracle, not incidentally culled from the pages of our Scriptures; it’s just re-fashioned, for a new-age, crisis. Preliminary to an astonishing, transformation is — an asteroidal — intervention.

Ere an astounding transformation, cometh, an asteroidal, intervention. Because God’s on my side. And because God’s guys are my guys. I know it sounds alarming but it’s actually, a blessing, in disguise. Indeed, it’s nothing less, than a miracle.

It’s not a comet. It’s not a planet. It’s an asteroid, that relatively soon, shall collide with the Earth. It’s an asteroid, actually. It sounds alarming but it’s a blessing come from behind the sun in the sky. And God knows; it’s nothing less than a miracle.

Praise the Lord. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. What’s happening is nothing less than a miracle. Nothing less than a miracle is what’s happening. It’s not a comet. It’s not a planet. It’s an asteroid. And it’s coming right at us. It’s coming, right at us.

It’s an asteroid. It’s coming right at us. And it’s coming, right at us, at all Godspeed. It’s a calamity and an opportunity; it’s a blessing that is to come from behind the sun in the sky and straight at us — It’s an asteroid. And it’s coming — right at us.

It’s not a comet. It’s not a planet. It’s an asteroid. And it’s coming right at us. It’s coming, straight as Hell, right at us. Praise the Lord! Hallelujah! What’s happening is nothing less than a miracle. Nothing less than a miracle’s — what’s happening — to us.

Man wonders a lot about what’s happened, what’s happening and what’s, to happen; trivial pursuits, for the most part. From behind the sun in the sky, cometh a rocky, asteroid. It’s coming right at us. Indeed, it’s coming, straight as Hell — right at us.

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.

More than about bad guys and good guys is this incredible story. “This is all Creator-approved-content, if in fact, it’s the Watcher who’s writing,” Art said to me last night. It’s more than just one more clichéd story — of good guys and bad guys.

“… Russia. It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma ….” So said Winston, of Russia. He might well have said the same thing about England; or Earth, for that matter. This is a panacea, wrapped in a mystery, in an enigma.

My magnum opus; it’s a panacea wrapped in an algorithm inside, my epic verse. And I say it’s mine knowing full well that I’m fit for nothing and that I’ll get the credit for writing this even though I write it only psychographically. It’s, an enigma.

An enigma is a person or thing that is mysterious, puzzling, or difficult to understand. Accordingly, everything’s enigmatic. Especially on Earth, where every little thing is so exasperatingly, problematic, everything is enigmatic. Enigmatic — is Russia.

Enigmatic is everything, Russia and the nations, included. Enigmatic are the peoples and the nations of the Earth. Mysteries are they even unto themselves. They’re oblivious to a lot of things including the name of their planet; planet Urantia.

THE GREATEST STORY — EVER TOLD

On Earth, this is the greatest story ever told. I am its author, I’m told. It reads like fiction, but it feels, nonfictional. Reading between its lines reveals an allegorical nonfiction, transparent. But no one reads between lines. No one knows it’s not fiction.

Reading between the lines; if it’s not a lost art, it ought to be. This is the greatest story that’s never been told. But I have been told no one reads between the lines. And so no one knows it’s not fiction. No one knows — that this is nonfiction.

This is the greatest story that’s never been told; a tall tale only presumably fictional, from its height. It’s height belies, the truth of it. Honestly, no one ever reads between the lines. Accordingly, no one knows, that this is — a true crime — nonfiction.

No one knows that this is the greatest story ever told; I may be its author unless the author is Art or the author is The Watcher, instead. No one knows it’s not fiction. No one knows it’s not, nonfiction. Not so implausibly, no one — knows anything.

No one knows what’s going on. No one knows, what’s happening. On Earth, where illusion and delusion (not to mention lying), are common, no one knows what’s really nonfictional. No one can ever really be sure of anything on the good Earth.

On Earth, where illusion, delusion and lying are common, its really hard to tell real from unreal. It’s really hard to tell, nonfiction, from fiction. No one can ever really be, sure of anything, on Earth. Illusion, delusion and confusion reign, on Earth.

On Earth, where illusion, delusion and lying are common, its really hard to tell real from unreal. It’s hard to tell, nonfiction, from fiction. No one can ever really be, sure of anything, on Earth. And confusion came to reign, on Earth, bye and bye.

It’s really hard for Earthlings to distinguish what’s real from what’s not. And unreal Illusion, delusion and confusion, reign. No one knows what’s going on; no one, but me. I’m Special Agent 45-47. And this is about Vlad’s guys, versus, God’s (my) guys.

A surreally true tall-tale or a long-winded series of verses, serially linked? I’m the author, it’s true. But it’s not long. It’s epic. It’s The Watcher’s, long-form, poetry. Reading between the lines; if it’s not a lost art, it ought be. And God’s guys are my guys, also.

Albeit implausible, this is the greatest story that’s never been told. And it’s all thanks to my womb-mate, Arthur, The Watcher and me. It’s not for no reason that God’s guys are my guys. We were womb-mates once — once upon a time — also.

God’s guys; on second thought, they’re my guys, also. On Earth, illusion and delusion and lying are common. But I’ve had revelations and an epiphany. It’s not for no reason that God’s guys defeat, Vlad’s guys, in this true crime, nonfiction.

This reads like fiction, but it feels, nonfictional. And reading between its lines reveals a truly, allegorical, nonfiction. But no one reads between the lines, anymore. And so no one knows whether what’s happening on Earth is fiction or nonfiction.

Everyone thinks they know better than most whether what’s happening on Earth is fiction or nonfiction. Eroded is, our ability to reason. And so no one knows whether what’s happening on Earth is meaningless fiction or a meaningful, nonfiction.

Except for three, no one knows what’s happening on Earth; The Watcher, Arthur and me; we’re the only ones that know that an asteroid is speeding towards the Earth. We’re the only ones that know that what’s really happening — is an intervention.

FICTIONAL — NONFICTION

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.

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