READ OPS

Where we go one, we go all.
Freedom is a mental release from suffering, consciously.
Study hall slumber, your addition breeds anarchy.
Wolves hug these podiums, and lambs sway incivility.
Why you think them alarm bells named Liberty?
Free-dom suspends mass subjects to prospects of being minorities.
Class middle for clueless to read an underwritten liability.
Clauses amend these bills, denying rivers in plausibility.
Secrets still sealed open the public libraries—the Library of Congress.
FOIAs, however, wrapped clandestinely.
Now, how does that apply to me? Good question.
Vineyard roots, B220.
Fiddler on the roof, you dance accordingly.
What’s your handle again? I know, should tell properly.
Kunta Negro, a.k.a. cloak Kente majesty.
Shuffling on foreign feet, tap, tap, jive turkey, shaking leaves.
Chains brand franchise, marked for commodity.
King hang heavy, young orbs adorning elm trees, rose beads.
Crowned nappy, Judah shine brightly.
Pressure refines jewelry.
The gems of suffering are forsakenly blessed with stupidity.
Our Father in Argentine, trek jungles like Che.
All those look backs left behind me.
Rest in peace, Harriet Tubman.
Where we go one, we go all.

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