Art prays: “Holy, Father. Father too, to my brothers. Have your Angels, have my back as I encourage the children to challenge also, Vlad, Xi, Kim and Don.

Pressuring our presidential brothers to declare their respective crimes: TO SERVE NO TIME IN PRISON.”

The CHACHOMANOPAPA CHALLENGE to our kids. Our legatee, children. Their birthrights, criminally stolen. And negligently, lost. The inaugural

challenge is to tweet the cabal members, your opinions on whether Truth and Reconciliation, in the case of the cabal, is … or not, viable.

Whether such a noble purpose goes viral is algorithmically directly proportional to the square of the hypotenuse of the arc of the triangle

formed between, ironically, your Sun, your planet, Urantia and Luna. Make … the formula go … implausibly viral.

Global citizens: Urantians: Lend me your ears: The formula must go, viral. Whether such a noble purpose, indeed, goes viral is proportional,

algorithmically, to the square of the hypotenuse of the arc of the triangle formed between sun, planet and orbital.

Like a leftist mannequin was Art left last night. Left even of, @AOC. Blown over by the autism that’s been a revelation of Greta Thunberg’s super powers.

Surreally sparking for Art, a stunning explanation of past, odd behaviors of Arthur Everman’s. Thanks, Ms.
@GretaThunberg.

Welcome, Greta, to the front lines. Battle lines, drawn, even as fighting, rages. For we are in a tenuous position of having to nature, itself, combat.

Some governors are sympathetic. Others, saboteurs. We need empathy not sympathy to have Mother Nature come back, not for combat.

Never stop, however, imagining. There’s more than one way to skin a cat, some barbarics, say. In lieu of nonfictional actualities, Arthur’s

tweeting, next best things. Tweets written directly to them. Tweets blackmailing them. Blowing a whistle, is Arthur.

Blackmailing his brothers is Art. Because, while they speak the truth on Urantia they lie like dogs, on Luna. And he’s recommending that humans

ironically do, what humans no longer do, that is to say, communicate directly, with their most, sovereign, men.

He laughs best who laughs last. So Art pens couplet poetry. Linking tweets, loaded with characters makes for poetry, pretty.

Margins straight as an arrow, complement content, pithy. Not an autistic one’s revenge. Just justice, really.

Failures to wisely plan oft become, plans to fail. Art Everman is come from a civilized future to these very potentially, end time, present, days,

surreally. Get this! Pen would have Art reason with men who submit not to Abraham, Jesus and Mohammed, today.

MAYDAYS: A tale of two Urantias, in one. One for one percent. One for ninety-nine. No one wins if we come not, to agree. ‘Tis wiser to share

bounty between us and not lose it altogether. Seems logical. But common sense, is uncommon. We just, won’t share.

Seven days in May. The ides of March, bypassing April, have given way to a Manchurian candidate’s, fateful, seven days in May.

As if The Almighty may well be, a fanatic of American culture. God. A film buff. Who knew? And who knew about seven days, in May?

He laughs best who laughs last. So Art pens couplet poetry. Linking tweets, loaded with characters makes for poetry, pretty.

Margins straight as an arrow, complement content, pithy. Not an autistic one’s revenge. Just justice, really.

Failures to wisely plan oft become, plans to fail. Art Everman is come from a civilized future to these very potentially, end time, present, days,

surreally. Get this! Pen would have Art reason with men who submit not to Abraham, Jesus and Mohammed, today.

MAYDAYS: A tale of two Urantias, in one. One for one percent. One for ninety-nine. No one wins if we come not, to agree. ‘Tis wiser to share

bounty between us and not lose it altogether. Seems logical. But common sense, is uncommon. They just, won’t share.

On running, a tight ship. On Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s ‘Mafia State’. A kleptocracy, kept alive, and well. The best interests of an entire people

relegated to an underclass. Upper-class oligarchs; crew, officers. Below deck … row the people.

The Russian Mafia. To be distinguished from other franchisees of a storied, franchise. Captains of ships of state are Arthur’s brothers. Their people,

one percent, above a poop deck, rule. Below though row, an increasingly restless, rest, of the people.

Below decks, horrors. Men in chains rowing for the lives of others and for themselves only incidentally. “Row well and live,” Arthur does well recall,

Rome’s Consul saying to anti-hero, Ben-Hur. A half-dead Consul, dictating. A slave obeying, Art, recalls.

He laughs best who laughs last. So Art pens couplet poetry. Linking tweets, loaded with characters makes for poetry, pretty.

Margins straight as an arrow, complement content, pithy. Not an autistic one’s revenge. Just justice, really.

Failures to wisely plan oft become, plans to fail. Art Everman is come from a civilized future to these very potentially, end time, present, days,

surreally. Get this! Pen would have Art reason with men who submit not to Abraham, Jesus and Mohammed, today.

MAYDAYS: A tale of two Urantias, in one. One for one percent. One for ninety-nine. No one wins if we come not, to agree. ‘Tis wiser to share

bounty between us and not lose it altogether. Seems logical. But common sense, is uncommon. We just, won’t share.

Seven days in May. The ides of March, bypassing April, have given way to a Manchurian candidate’s, fateful, seven days in May.

As if The Almighty may well be, a fanatic of American culture. God. A film buff. Who knew? And who knew about seven days, in May?

Pen then had said, “Upon a sign tomorrow, begin on Twitter, versing. It’s what ye’re here for, man.” ‘Twas a sunny day, that next day when

lightning, balled, Art, did strike. Unlike, regular, jagged, lightning. Very memorable. Especially, when stricken.

Stricken by lightning, was Art. Startled, Art recalled, Penemue, and his charge to him. Now, mind ye, Art had not been fried, but rather as if bathed in electric,

fields. So charged, Arthur’s began tweeting the nations with an as if, magic, algorithmic.

An algorithmic magic wand, virtually, is Twitter. Stricken by lightning was Art. Not fried but rather, bathed in electric, fields. So charged, Art had a blast

tweeting the nations with Twitter’s, magic, wand. To little, effect. The Twitter Stream, is vast.

The Twitter Stream, is vast. Yet, next to nothing, next to cosmic winds. Yes, everything is connected. Matters of, timing. Stricken by lightning was Art.

An algorithmic, magic wand, virtually, is Twitter. And a new way to communicate, has discovered … Art.

Dogged determination and relentless tweeting have led Art to discover a new twist in communicating, ideal, for the composition, of couplet, poetry,

functional as well in marketing and education. Linking loaded tweets together. A template, for epic, poetry.

A template for epic poetry. Linking loaded tweets, together. Ideal for the composition of couplet, poetry. Remember karma, President Donald

Trump. In civilization, people uncivil, eventually, get their due. And that he laughs best, who laughs last, Donald.

A Mission Impossible Plan: To pen poetry: To shame Kim, Don, Xi and Vlad. To reason simultaneously with those who submit not (really). Today

too, going through motions, holy. To reprise, Abraham, Jesus and Mohammed, even going through, the motions, today.

The Don was born on June 14, 1946. ‘Tis been either 39 or 42 days since the past ides of March. For divining purposes, the Jewish Declaration Day

in 1948 or admission to the United Nations in 1949, vary only but slightly a key date. A most fateful, day.

‘Tis with good reason that Books caution against divining. Witness: Watcher Pen watching even as The Don was born. Throwing caution then,

and protocol, to the wind. For the first time in ages, the Watcher, acted. Messaging Paradise. Googling for Art, then.

For the first time in ages the Watcher, acted. Messaging Paradise. Then, googling, for Art. For good reason Books caution, against divining.

Witness: Watcher Pen watching even as The Don was born. Throwing caution and protocol to the wind, in his alarming.

Penemue. The Watcher. And Penemue the Watcher was duly watching, as The Don, was born. Ignoring then, caution and protocol to warn of The Donald.

For the first time in ages, he acted. Messaging Paradise. Googling then, Art, autistic brother, of The Donald.

For the first time in ages, Pen acted. Messaging, Paradise. Googling then for Art the autistic brother of The Don. Art. The brother, prodigal. Arthur, who from

his home was driven by the bullying of his older brother, Don. But from the future, Art is come.

From the future, is Art. Come to gift ye, a surprise, reprise. And once again, it’s poetry. For a first time in ages, the Watcher, acted. Messaging, to start,

Paradise. Googling then for Art, the autistic brother of Don. Then coming, in a dream, to Art.

Then in a dream did Pen with a plan, come, to Art. A surprise, reprise. Again, it’s poetry. Penemue’s subtle awakening of Arthur augurs, in man,

transformation. Pen then said, “Upon a sign tomorrow, begin on Twitter, versing. It’s what ye’re here for, man.

It’s Friday. A good day, to March. Or to pen poetry: To shame the cabal: Kim, Don, Xi and Vladimir. To reason with those not yet moved, or physically

unable, to march. A groundswell, swells. The cabal is feeling the pressure. An opportunity to address, connected … issues, duly.

Tweet them poetry. Tweet them beauty. In time. And in space. Little lines. Held together. By dark matter. And dark energy. Matters, metaphysical.

Incomprehensible matters, mostly, to us. Just be grateful. Give thanks. March, or pen. Show, ye are grateful.

“Watch your back, Art” they’ve been saying to him at the end of every soirée, lately. Since then there have been attempts made on Art’s life.

Attempted, assassinations. And at the More-Mart Store where he labors, greeting customers, threats on, Art’s life.

The threats at the close of each evening’s soirée gave Art, pause. For the threats were made, in tones, non-threatening. As if, friendly, warnings.

Confirmation, to Art that he well might expect attempts on his life. Attempts to follow through on warnings.

Jarring to Art; realizing that notwithstanding a friendship built up over hundreds of pleasant evening soirées, each of them would have me

killed the next day and go merrily on his way, desisting only if they, personally, were in the position of, for example, strangling me.

Jarring to Art has been the difference between video-game-playing-killing and killing up close. And personal. As in death by strangulation

in comparison with having others kill for ye. It’s easier to kill by proxy and/or remotely … by pressing … a button.

On the facility of lying and killing on Nebadon‘s Urantia. And their interrelatedness. And indeed, the interrelatedness, of things.

Everything connected by, as if, invisible, strings. A fact, nonfictional in a fiction, surreally, in MAYDAYS … nonfiction.

Everything’s connected by as if, invisible strings. A nonfictional fact, in a fiction, surreally, in Arthur’s MAYDAYS, nonfictional. On the facility

of lying and killing on Nebadon‘s Urantia. Their interrelatedness. And the interrelatedness … of a unity.

Metaphysically, actions and reactions have ripple effects, wrinkling, more or less, the space-time fabric. A nonfictional fact, in a fiction, surreally,

in Arthur’s MAYDAYS, nonfictional. On Nebadon‘s Urantia. Earning, an Angel, his wings … by saving ye.

Trump Tower-Moscow: The story of how Team Trump toiled on a long proposed Trump Tower in Moscow. A hundred stories tall. An icon. Trump-fashioned glass and steel reaching high in the sky to spell out loud, to high heavens and low men alike … “TRUMP”.

“TRUMP“ Envisioned by The Don. Emblazoned upon the skyline of Moscow. A cautionary tale. A near incredible, story of how Trump’s

commemoration, of himself, one hundred stories tall, never, happened. Not for want of trying to spell, out loudly … “TRUMP”.

Bob’s happy to do so. To correct a summary, misstatement. And to officially call upon special governmental enforcer and RICO,

special agent. Art suspects testimony more dramatic even than John Dean’s from Nixon’s impeachment. Who ye gonna call if not RICO?

@AOC @GretaThunberg @davidhogg111: Why not a clearinghouse? Let US learn how Nobel winner Mandela’s model of Truth and Reconciliation

helps US @MoveOn from criminal pasts, to futures, recast. Reprise, Madiba Mandela’s, noble, Truth, and Reconciliation.

Might it have been more accurate to say that the witch hunters have suspects but suspect also they could not conclusively prove neither obstruction,

nor conspiracy (collusion), albeit both, they suspect? Is Barr’s DOJ summary, a word play? Or a real, exoneration?

The saga continues. Different AG. Same sad, old story. Bi-partisan, politics. Scratch, my back. Get yours, scratched. The AG’s brief summary,

won’t for long hold water. Public and press: Press him. As he crows. As he is wont to do: Exoneration, in victory.

The AG’s summary won’t for long, hold water. Public and press: Press him. As he crows. As he is wont to do. This time a rash, exaggeration. The victory’s

in exoneration. Different, AG. Same, story. Scratch my back, to get yours, scratched, reciprocally.

Lies. The stock in trade of the Trump Organization. The President, as is his wont, lies indiscriminately. On this occasion, yet another, rash,

exaggeration. In exoneration, he sees a victory, moral. Any other interpretation, just another, partisan, bash.

The Trump Organization. A criminal enterprise. Among assets not on the books, countless, lies. Lies. The stock in trade of Don’s various organizations,

sundry. As is his wont, he lies. Exonerated feels Don. Crowing victory for illegal, organizations.

The Trump Organization. A criminal enterprise. Among assets not on the books, countless, lies. Lies. Stock in trade of Don’s organizations, sundry.

As is his wont, The Don lies. Pathologically, seemingly. Not eloquently. Not even, oft, coherently. The Don … lies, instinctively.