Fingerprint Phonics

“that our eyes read
at all holds the key”
said the balding guru.
“but my dog read
The Brothers Karamazov”
I protested. “he’s lying,
you dumbass.”

“oh.”

he continued.
“let them glaze over
the text like donuts
making decisions,
let them slide down
the page like horny
fingers on a woman’s
throat.
you’ll get there;
just keep at it.”

everyone I meet
brings with them
the inevitable symmetry
of sandwich halves
one vertical slice
through skull and spine
away.

does the man behind the curtain
have more opposable thumbs
than we originally imagined?

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