the jangling loose changes in my pockets bespeak a mode entered into as resorts spread thin

"i don't have the resources to pay these tolls" i say as i do nothing else nonetheless. i write small in hopes that deciphering these words becomes impossible; a garrote around the neck of my lifeblood

from this pen the words roll into your mouth, along the twist and curl of your tongue, languishing in their mawkish, inky insistence, leaving a residue mistaken for disease where tissue is stained with ideas, stained with anticipation, stained with longing and worn raw from the nervous chewing

i capitalize a corner of your mouth, climb inside like a basque cave and leave the scrawling stains along your slick insides. and in the morning you spit me out and i punctuate the opposite corner of your mouth with three dots, denoting that in time the rawness will subside, the residue will flush, and i will return to finish my scrawlings.