The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer.

                                                      Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”

 

Hunched over,

hungover,

tubercular,

I hack

dry spit

into a plastic tube

to mail off

to a lab

for a map

of my DNA.

 

Going back

 

far far

way down upon

the Pee Dee

River . . .

 

. . . farther back   Tou-la-loo-la-loo-ra . . .

 

. . . way way back. . .

 

. . . down south in the land of Indira

 

shanti, shanti-

sha-boom-bop-a-bop-a boom

 

bzzzzzzzzzzp

 

caduceus cubed

twining vine

serpents

split

splat

muck

wa-wa

BOOM!