MORONS AND ALIENS: MONDAY, JANUARY 3, 2022: DAY 2270
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, but rather, in plastic; so any changes that need to be made may be made more easily — and in time. Almost upon us, is the 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.
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.
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.
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
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
This entry was posted in Uncategorized on January 3, 2022 by chachomanopapa.
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