Chronicling, an obsession. An addiction far more compelling than literary crosswords and the mathematical, Sodukus. On tweeting in exactly

280 characters, the story of The Don. Paralleling, the story, of (wo)man. And Plan Kim-Don. It is what is happening. Implausibly. Incredibly.

Art resides in fear. That Russians, reach out, to him. On Urantia. Not, on Luna. And that’s a problem for Arthur. For Art Everman resides, not on Luna

with Vlad, but on Urantia. He only dreams with Vlad, on the surface of Luna. Art’s safe … only on Luna.

On discrimination against future immigrants. Like Art and Buzz, Art’s cyber, spy-fly. From Angel-Trainee Art Everman’s, muckraking, MAYDAYS,

both fiction and nonfiction. Nonfictional. In settings. In characters. In plot. What’s happening … is in MAYDAYS.

On Angel-Trainee Arthur Everman’s, muckraking, MAYDAYS. Both fiction and nonfiction. Nonfictional. In settings. In characters. In plot. Why

what’s happening, is happening! On discrimination against future immigrants. Like Art and Buzz, his … cyber, spy-fly.

Novichok. Just one of Russian President Vladimir Putin’s many agents, personal and impersonal. Assassins all, drawn from the pages of Arthur’s

muckraking, MAYDAYS. It’s intended to blackmail Art’s brothers. Expect someone to be sent, to ‘talk,’ to Arthur.

In case someone’s sent to ‘talk,’ to Arthur. Someone from Russia. With a heavy accent. Like Natasha’s, Boris. Someone bearing Russian nerve agent,

Novichok, to have his way. Just one of Vlad’s assassins from the muckraking MAYDAYS, penned by … His agent.

Art lives in fear of the Russian Puppet Master President Vladimir Putin. For the cabal of brothers know well from the minutes of their soirées, with Art,

on Luna, Art’s intent is to blackmail his brothers. So Art fears someone be sent … to ‘talk’ to Art.

Art’s intent in writing MAYDAYS is to blackmail the cabal that rules Urantia. A ruthless cabal of loveless brothers. And so it’s easy for Vladimir Putin’s

puppets to be less, than brotherly. Art lives in fear of a Russian. And it is Russia’s … Mr. Putin.

Arthur resides in fear, while on Urantia, of Vladimir. But Art fears him not at all, when they soirée, on Luna. A red flag for Art’s security. For on Urantia, Arthur

resides with Vladimir. And so, Arthur resides in fear. That Russians reach out, to Arthur.

What’s been happening for a long time now has Arthur’s brothers, for yesterdays, longing. Like a ton of bricks has been the global impact of @POTUS.

The news dawns on each of them. Don’s ides are the brothers’ ides as well. As well as also … Caesar, Julius’.

MAYDAYS: Poetry, epic. A panacea for Urantia’s Pangaea. At Penemue’s, behest. An algorithm. A set of instructions. From apprentice, Art,

Angel-Trainee. From a future recalled to counter Vlad’s Don-toxin against President Don, has been, his brother … Art.

MAYDAYS: Poetry, epic. Panaceas for Urantia’s Pangaea. At Penemue’s behest. An algorithm. From Arthur, an Angel-Trainee, apprenticing.

From the future. With missions, multiple. Counter Vlad. Save Urantia’s humans. Teach #Twitteze. AND earn … Angel Wings.

MAYDAYS: Epic poetry. Panaceas. For Urantia’s, Pangaea. At Penemue’s, behest. An algorithm, humbly authored by Arthur, the long apprenticing,

Angel-Trainee. From the future. With missions, a-plenty. Stop Vlad. Save the humans. And EARN his … Angel Wings.

MAYDAYS: An algorithm authored by Arthur Everman, the long apprenticing, Angel-Trainee. From the future, is he. With a plethora of top-secret missions.

Stop Vlad. Save humans. EARN, Angel’s, Wings. Panaceas, for Pangaea, upon Penemue’s (Pen’s), apparition.

MAYDAYS: On Art’s top-secret missions. Stop Vlad. Save humans. EARN, Angel Wings. Panaceas, for Pangaea, upon Penemue’s (Pen’s),

apparition. An algorithm authored by Art, the long apprenticing, Angel-Trainee. From the future, he. Come to tweet, His wisdom.

Funny. These, ironies. These things, that happen. Momentous things. Mundane, things. In pasts, presents and futures. Like, assassinations

and Russian, selection, of our President. Like all things, Russian and American. Like all things … Urantian.

Verily, the ides of March are, at last, coming. And so it remains to be seen. Are we ignorant sheep to be herded? Or are we men,

of reason? Know, men, then, this: The ides of March are coming. Stop already with all, the lying! This, Art did, yell, at them.

“Are we ignorant sheep to be herded? Or are we reasonable men. Know men this: The ides of March come. Stop the lying! Keep democracy from dying!”

Art yelled at them at the top of his lungs. Hoping against hope they’d reason that peace is … what’s happening.

Arthur yelled at them at the top of his lungs, “Are we ignorant sheep to be herded? Or are we, reasonable men. Know ye this: Coming, are … the ides

of March. Stop the lying! So Arthur said in soirée to his brothers, last evening. Come brothers, the ides!

“Come brothers, the ides of March!” At that, wide grew, the eyes of brothers. At the tops of lungs anew, screamed, an enraged … and apoplectic … Art.

“Are we sheep, Art asked, to be herded? Or reasonable … men? Come soon the ides of March!” said Art.

At that, wide grew, the eyes of the brothers. So Arthur reiterated, “Are we sheep,” Art asked, “to be herded? Or reasonable men? Come soon Caesar’s

ides of March!” said Art. And the brothers knew. That The Don’s ides, were their ides, as well as, Caesar’s.

The Don’s ides, were their ides, as well as, Caesar’s. Wide-eyed, at first, were the eyes of Art’s brothers when Art informed them of Bob’s report, finally,

finalizing. But they grew, wild-eyed. As it dawned on each of them. They are tied … to The Donny.

Like a ton of bricks. Such was the impact upon Arthur’s brothers as the news dawned on each of them. As each of them realized how yesterday’s

news might further, impact him. That Don’s ides are their ides as well as Caesar’s, make them long, for yesterday.

In training is Arthur. And while the Angel Trainee wins his wings with a planetary save, that, for store greeter Arthur, no conflicting interest, is. Art

must coerce them. By leaking the minutes, of meetings. Blackmailing his presidential brothers, is Art.

Publicly blackmailing, Arthur’s brothers. At first glance, a course of action near certainly suicidal given the proximity in Russia of Vladimir Putin’s

Novichok, to anyone on the planet. Going public here, feels safe. Unlike, in Russia, with Vlad Putin.

Going public here is safer than elsewhere. We’ve got more powerful, institutions. Less powerful, men. Here, words like freedom and liberty,

everywhere, empower. Unlike in Russia. China. Kim’s Korea. Saudi Arabia. Turkey. Iran. And Brazil following Hungary.

We need to be rid of leaders discriminating against humanity. Re-educating them. Imprisoning them. Executing them, with sovereign,

impunity. Unless they change like the climates do, why live under such men? Are we sheep, … to be so herded? Or are we … men?

Are we sheep, to be so herded? Or are we men? Arthur warned them last night. At last evening’s soirée on Luna, Art clearly warned them: “Know, men,

this: The ides of March are coming. Decry the sovereignties. Decry inhumanity. Decry!” he cried … to them.

MAYDAY 1: Tuesday, June 16, 2015: Donald John Trump, aka The Don and 3rd mate Melania, in an as if, gliding, descent, from Heaven. Once upon

firmament, a soon-to-be president, announced a laughable candidacy for the presidency. To run like a business … the nation.

To run, like a business, the nation. And to run it like, nobody’s business. Nobody’s business, that is, but … his own. Once on firmament, a soon-to-be,

president, announced his candidacy to run, for the presidency. Against, all odds. And the rest, is history.

Verily, the rest, is history. For history is truly, His story. The Almighty’s. Of Urantia (Earth). And US. A matrix, lovingly benevolent, across universes,

vast. Urantia alone, takes, exception. The Golden Rule rules not, here. Here alone, in universes.

Of Urantia (Earth). And US. A matrix, lovingly benevolent, across His vast, universes. Except, here, in Urantia The Golden Rule, rules not, here.

Here alone, among His, universes, unrest unruly, rules. “Houston. We’ve got a surreally, grave problem, here.”

Locally the fabric of the matrix, has lost its integrity. Unlike everywhere else across the universes, here the fabric, whole, is not. It is holy. Witness, Kim,

The Don, The Xi and The Vlad, presiding. And witness Art, in verse, reverse them … in wisdom.

Witness an autistic Arthur. Arthur, the bullied. Arthur, the prodigal. But Arthur the bullied, taken from a past, was given to a future. There to become,

Angel-trainee. Witness his presidential, brothers. Witness, store greeter Arthur, a messenger, become.

In training is Arthur, the Angel Trainee. And he’s asking the cabal of his brothers that effectively is ruling man to reconsider. And do the right thing.

The right thing. Not by themselves. But by their brothers. Tweet to your brothers. On doing the right thing.

Tweet ye my brethren then across all the land and cyberspace. Tweet, that it’s fake news that doing the right thing is hard to do. In theory, it’s easy. In

training is Arthur, the Angel Trainee. And he is asking ye, his brothers, to do … the right thing.

In training is Arthur. And while the Angel Trainee wins his wings with a planetary save, that, for store greeter Arthur, no conflicting interest, is. Art

must coerce them. By leaking the minutes, of meetings. Blackmailing his presidential brothers, is Art.

Imagine tweeting exactly what ye want to say, in exactly, 280, spaces. Perfect, couplet, verse. Then imagine the linking of verses, to tell … a story.

Imagine too, that The Don is part (with Kim, Xi and Vlad) of a cabal of four. Then imagine that ye are, the hero, of the story.

Arthur (Art) Everman is the author of MAYDAYS. Epic, poetry. Verses linked into a story, poetic, not prose.
Arthur’s the hero. For once. A super

hero, one might say. Unless one saw him. Super-weak, is Arthur. But Arthur’s words, his weapons … are super.

Arthur (Art) Everman is the author of MAYDAYS. Epic, poetry. Verses, linked into stories, poetic, not prosaic.
Art’s the hero, A super one, one may

say. Unless one, sees him. A weakling is he. But words for Art, are weapons. To save … a day … some day.

But words are for Art, tools, if not, weapons. To save a day, some day, perhaps. At night. In dreams. In soiréeing, on Luna. That’s where Arthur

pens the minutes of their nightly meetings. The meetings are nightly. But the minutes are fleeting, for Arthur.

Words are tools. Not weapons. But sound contingency planning calls for tools of construction, multi-purposed, for that purpose,

defensive. To save a day, some day, perhaps. When in self-defense words, mightier than swords … become weapons … of purpose.

Mightier than swords, words, may be. Particularly, if for purposes, defensive. Words are tools. Not weapons. But sound contingency planning

calls for tools of construction multi-purposed for a most noble purpose, defensive. To save a day, one day a-coming.

Mightier than swords, words, may be. Particularly, if for purposes, defensive. Words are tools. Not weapons. But sound contingency planning’s,

calling for tools of construction multi-purposed for noble purposes, defensive. To save a day, one day, a-coming.

Spectacular’s been The Don’s career, trajectory. Real estate, magnate. Reality TV, celebrity. Ghost, author. Apprentice, President. Of The Don,

Don Jr’s his first-born. So Don Jr’s an author too. Of hashtag #loserteacher. Don Jr’s a loser teacher. And sadly, also … a loser son.

On Don Jr’s attack on teachers. In defense of his daddy, The Don. The draft-dodging former real estate magnate, reality TV star and action,

author, now become, presidential, apprentice. Of President Don and his first-born, Don Jr. Lost boys. Lost … sons.

Lost, boys. Lost, sons. The Don. And Don Jr. Third and fourth generation German immigrants, respectively. On Don Jr’s attack on so-called loser-teachers.

In defense of his daddy, the Mafioso, The Don. To best them Art has been recalled from … the future.

Third and fourth generation German immigrant scions are The Don and Don Jr, respectively. Silver-spooned scions of patriarch, Friedrich Drumpf.

Drumpf got changed to Trump. An American dream become American scheme. Rich is the grandson of Friedrich Drumpf.

Immigrant scions. The Don and Don Jr. Silver-spooned scions of patriarch, Friedrich Drumpf. Drumpf got changed to Trump. An American, dream. An American,

scheme. Rich is the grandson of Friedrich. His rubles, in banks, on account, in dollars … American.

And Republicans Weld’s primary challenge on top of everything already on the table, is just piling on, unnecessarily. For the presidency’s scrutiny,

is spotlight, like. Like being on stage. Under. And in. A really intense spotlight, undulating, surreally.

Spotlight like is the scrutiny of a so-called, fake media. But ‘taint nothing like His scrutiny. ‘Taint nothing, like it. ‘Tis why Art tweets in 280 characters,

precisely. ‘Tis to warn ye to heed indeed, Art’s warning of a cabal of criminal … characters.

But fear not. Art’s here. Back in the present. From the future. To tweet to ye. On what’s happening back stage. Behind the scenes. Spotlight like scrutiny

of a so-called fake media in the face of attack, counter, attacks. As 280 characters attack, virally.

But fear not. Art’s here. Back in the present. From the future. To tweet to ye. On what’s happening back stage. Behind the scenes. Where scrutiny’s

… scarce. In the face of attack, counter, attack. And, with 280 characters, any ONE, may attack, virally.

With 280 characters ANY ONE may attack (or defend), another, virally. Virtually, for free. To tweet and opine on what’s happening back stage.

Facing attack, communicate. With 280 characters, Truth, rings true. Any one may communicate. Any one. Of any, age.

Why not, like sub-reddits, cash-flow-friendly, sub-Twitters? There is Twitter after all, something magically real, in your algorithm. Verily … it is poetry.

Why not like cash-flow-friendly sub-Reddits, sub-Twitters? Why not feature, 280 character, poetry?

Why not feature Twitter, in a sub-Twitter, 280 character, poetry? There seems something magically real, in your algorithm. Verily … it is poetry.

Why not like cash-flow-friendly sub-Reddits, sub-Twitters? Why not feature a focus on 280 character, poetry?

@Jack: That metaphysical something in Twitter’s algorithm is potential energy. And it may trigger revelation. And epiphany.

Courtesy of Pen, poetry. Penemue. The Watcher. Of, the Apocrypha. Thanks to Pen (Penemue, per the Apocrypha) … we have … poetry.

That metaphysical something in Twitter’s algorithm is potential, energy. To trigger revelation. And epiphany. Thanks to Penemue … poetry.

Penemue. The Watcher. Of the Apocrypha. Thanks to Pen (Penemue, per the Apocrypha), we have Sappho. In her, poetry.

Beloved by (wo)man, is Pen’s poetry.

“Help elect, children for Emperor of Urantia, the former President of US, The Don. Follow me Art. And the children. I’m the only one that can

resolve the thorny issues of climate change, mass migrations and violence with weapons and migrant … caravans.”

Astonished, was Art. That the former President of US should have a stump speech, for a new office, at the ready. The Don is the only one that can

resolve the thorny issues of climate change, mass migrations and violence, with weapons and migrant, caravans.

Astonished, was Art. That the former President of US should have a stump speech, for a new office, at the ready. The Don is the only one that can

resolve issues of climate change, mass migrations and violence, with weapons. No one else, can. Only Don, can.

Climate change, mass migrations and violence, with weapons. No one else, can. Only Don, can. Astonished, was Art. That the former President

of US should have a stump speech for a new office, at the ready. Need The Don resign, a Plan B, hath, the President.

A Plan B hath the President. In case of resignation. Resignation by Republicans on the real state of the union. And, of the presidency,

resignation. On reinventing The Don, in that eventuality. A Plan B, hath, the President. For his plans, post-presidency.

In case of resignation. Resignation by Republicans, on the real state of the union. And, of the presidency, resignation. On reinventing The Don,

in that eventuality. A Plan B, hath, the President. For his plans, post-presidency. A Plan B … hath, The Don.

The Don, internationally recognized, is becoming. He is being considered for the 2019 Nobel Prize. He imagines it looking well, on his mantle. Thanks to

‘Honest’ Abe Shinzo. A Peace Prize just like that of Barack Obama. Surreally, a Nobel for The Don, too.

MAYDAYS: On a paradigm of sovereignties disfavoring the common man. Disfavoring, every man, verily. Go, viral. Pressure, virtually. To end

paradigms of sovereignties, archaic, favor communally, the unity favored by Him. Go, viral. Virtually pressure them.

And they are, to name but few: In a first tier, Vladimir, The Donald, Xi Jingping and Kim Jong un. Criminal heads of state. And we sheep in
our

enslavement, are complicit. But comes an hour when dominoes fall, invariably. The Don, first. Comes … an hour.

In a second tier, relatively second tier, autocrats. Erdogan. Mohammed bin Salman. But Vladimir’s rule as the puppet master is, by
pupil puppet President

Don, in question On attack on all sides is, rebel without a cause, Donald John Trump, the President.

Art’s been wondering whether the President is astute enough to have a plan, alternative, should he be forced to resign from the 46th, presidency.

Surreally, Art knows. The President can’t even spell astute, much less, make plans, logically and reasonably.

So, surprised was Art when The Don in soirée last night did say, “Pass the baton, Art. Ye are too old. Ye have too little energy left in your tank. Follow me

Art. I’m the only one that can tame twin problems of climate change and immigration. Only … me.”

Flabbergasted was Arthur when The Don said to him, “Pass the baton, Art. Ye are too old. Ye have way too little energy left in your tank. So follow me.

I’m the only one that can tame the twin problems of climate change and immigration. Only me. Follow me.

“Pass the baton, Art. Ye are too, low energy. So follow me. And the children. I’m the only one that can resolve issues of climate change,

migrations and violence, with weapons. Help the children elect, The Don. For Emperor … of Urantia. For … change.”