[4 dancers, antigone, dora, pluto, wind]
.let’s blow this place open..
.let’s sharpen all our charcoal pencils..
.love isn’t your tattoo..
.one of us said, the alphabet soup is getting cold..
.no one here speaks persian..
.the day has gone lazy while finding itself..
.were you able to memorize all your medical notes?.
.a motif fell out while you were coughing..
the kamancheh won’t share the constricting stage built for broken-hearted musicians..
.percussion has walked out..
.tell the children the lunch money absconded with dollhouses..
.explain to the media that an occupation is a war..
.yes, we’ve been here before—licking incisions with dollhouse sandpaper..
.our tragic hero completes the requisite paperwork in triplicate—
a triptych of despair’s paintbrushes..
.let’s call it, still life aliens..
.let’s call it, ancient abstract expressionism..
.why do you keep smelling when you know it all smells bad?.
.we’ll send a letter to your last known address if anything changes..
.in the meantime, reprogram the remote for your new kidney..
.in the meantime, ask the ghosts of the house to come back.