Base transitions for rest of semester;
Native tenure continues ‘till Indian summer.
Communion collectivist is transitive tangent while test review involves royal mutilation.
Barley-tinged lager, lights of economy hunger bangs the twenty-something population which built America as what it is, for what it was peels off like paint coat exposed to salty air, pleading for a fresh layer from the hands of illegal alien painters who’re just human, actually.
Chapters One and Two ramble on through historical role plays in starched uncomfortable colony suits and working class rags, where Powhatan and Harriet Tubman are all part of the same opera, same stages once owned by some over-killed heretics and barrels of tobacco.
Make it flow, says overseer, stamped and suitable for English consumption, while Hispaniola dazed bright into a socio-political slideshow.
How now, our species, shall we originate warlike or curious?
According to textbook maniacal owner’s manual, we suffer from timeline loneliness.
There is no cure.

A free-write/poem on, well, it should be pretty obvious...