Dash, Dash, Dot, Dot, Dot

What’s so slasher flick about

expressing in small pox ellipses?

 

I siphon train fuel for its ventures—

in slick, esophagus tastes

like milk,

travel additives and

language minus language.

 

My pauses are collaborative with

stickly dashes,

your phoneme and morpheme hips—

phrasing bits and

alphabet lips.

 

This dialect

grows fuzzy vowel arms,

moist syllable legs and

muted fingertips.

 

Sometimes,

words become crunchy on my ceiling and

flake off into my mouth where

end sentences are

floss

footnotes and

periods…