To stand is to remain, to unveil time,
To reveal the folds underneath the smooth,
Flowing wood of the spot, you skipped the line,
And you towed it toward the hint of new truth:
In sonnet form, the joy between the lines,
The depth of every breath taken and spit,
Unspooling memories of higher times,
Of nasal sameness, of the same ol’ shit:
Sorry for cursing, my man; I’m just real,
Whether in verse or in vita I’m real,
Like we all are, I just stress my appeal,
Over the real fake masses; time is teal
In Old Mexico, did you know that, man?
I learn real and truth to teach them, to aim.