I got a High John the Conqueroo
trading card in my pack of ten
from the convenience store.

I got root access through you,
root doctor, root guru,
ghost in the UNIX shell.

Penguins taught you and you
taught me. See? How a mojo hand
trails off in rootlets, a taproot

where saxophones divide,
a girl named Truffles brushes the drums
with hairy ginseng from the holler:

you knew these blues, and you taught me well,
chords of the Buddhas unborn.