sinoniem.

medicine is no exact science,

but Doctor Physician’s patients still always die.



one would think the line between surgery and slice/dice would be less fine.



it takes a steady hand to navigate amalgamous waters,

let alone the use of a scalpel.

the [ ] doctor blames Giles de Tourettes for his difficulties in the OR,

but a playwright would likely pinpoint motivation as the main concern;

sharp objects put into the hands of those with something to prove never bodes well,

and there’s no room at the table for practitioners and their chips. 



and then there’s the mask to consider -
the white gauze which is meant to soften the pronouncements made by the orifice it covers
simply works to muffle it,

and will never conceal his eyes.


those unnervingly blood red eyes.



one is supposed to shrink from the sight of spilling crimson,

not respond to it.

perhaps that’s part of the problem.

Dr. Physician’s ‘patients’ will never know.

erba.

The old man with the camera tries her patience & evades her understanding.
Why does he mark his presence & preserve his time spent here?
More to the point, why so fondly?

She grins derisively to herself.
Once a tour guide, always a cynic.

Skye vacations in parables.

With unseeing eyes, she considers the circular seal which represents her literal past & figurative future.

Casually, The GentleMan In the Suit leans against the railing to her right & reads aloud- he does enjoy brochures.
“Why stay in one place when you could be in four?”
Glance = bullet bra.
“Why stay in one piece when you could be in more?”

A scowl, a flick, a fold, a silence.
Hers, hers, his, theirs.

“You can’t live in four corners, you know.”
‘Terse-yet-offhanded’ is copyrighted & on her resume.

He grins like a jackal.
“You can pick one.”

Her shoulders heave.
“I like lightswitches.”

taevalik.

Charybdis runs in place, pedaling her boot-clad feet belligerently but going nowhere.
Held by Sōsh’s invisible pinch, she’ll lash about to no avail.

One must pay one’s dues, intentional membership or no.

Yvaine steps over the cow patty & keeps walking.
She eyes up the tree stump lounging languorously in the center of her plot & raises her axe, muttering threats of destruction.

The image is kodak:
She lifts her arms as the buildings breed mushroom clouds-
Laughs.
Dancing to nothing but the hope of an opus that hasn’t yet been enchanted by paper, she’s all summer smiles & sunshine; nuclear winter be damned.

Oh, Skye.

There may be a new contender in the ring; news is still a mixed bag of jumbled & mum.
Placement: firm pro.

And so the celestial bodies turn.
Meteor showers bring fallout, but goddamn are they a sight to behold.
Sign the mailing list & watch the Stars fall.

end transmission.

ata.

Skye is dancing.

Liege leads.

It works perfectly, despite his small stature.

The Mistress stares in open astonishment.

Skye hasn’t danced a step in almost five years.

Her waltz is flawless.

The diamonds on her character shoes glint in the studio light as they glance off The Master’s broken limbs.

Hairline fractures.

For now.

His hands clutch tufts of Hedge’s feathers. 

Neither are completely incapacitated as of yet; the applicable phrase is “in hot water.”

Skeeter’s been bound & gagged- he’s old news.

Swivel will be his cellmate. 

All characters accounted for, the dance whirls on.

Skye is has been will be

^ dances.

boira.

The Mistress doesn’t know what to do with her head.
M.P. doesn’t know what to do with her eyes.
Swivel doesn’t know what to do with his feet.
Skye doesn’t know what to do with her smile.
Grier doesn’t know what to do with his soul.
Coggs doesn’t know what to do with his cerebrum.
Skeeter doesn’t know what to do with his shoulders.
The Master doesn’t know what to do with his clouds.
Elsie doesn’t know what to do with her inclinations.
Enna doesn’t know what to do with her cells.
Mismatch doesn’t know what to do with her hands.
Sphinx doesn’t know what to do with her answers.
Liege doesn’t know what to do with his pulse.
Chimaera doesn’t know what to do with his research.
Hedge doesn’t know what to do with Its alterations.

Uncertainty is entirely underrated.
Uncertainty is entirely overrated.

mahalle.

The neighborhood is playing Red Rover; the teams are obvious.

Hot dogs burn as alliances are formed on the asphalt battlefield.
The block party was Skye’s idea.
She chirped something about potential while everyone made a game of ignoring her.
They had eyes only for potato salad.

The teams are uneven by design.
Community politics demand it.
The Mistress and The Master aren't speaking; she and Swivel kind of have a thing, though no one understands why they insist on separation.

Halfway through the game, the new girls show up with brownies and hopeful smiles.
Elsie & Enna will make a nice addition to the Femmes.

“Who’s up one now, bitch?”

The Mistress always was competitive.

sunsuz.

Skye watches the breeze and listens to the grass. 
She is everywhere at once and she can’t slow down, spinning through her days like a top constructed from crepe paper and effervescent joy.

The Master doesn’t like her. 
He watches her flit about her yard from his porch, and grumbles incoherently in distaste.
Odd; if you ask Skye, she’ll tell you they’ve never met. 

Whirling in circles (but never getting dizzy), she dances under the sprinkler while a band keeps time to her pirouettes in the background.

Liege jumps from his swing-set, smiling, to join his favorite playmate in her new game.