Dance! She told him. So he drug his feet across the newspaper turning headlines into layers of ice, gliding just over the surface of a world to him forgotten. Boom! The bass dropped and his heart nearly popped out of his chest. His ribs too visible beneath his South Pole bowed, creaked and shuttered but muttered something about, something about feeling alive. Clap! A series of muscle convulsions. Shutter glimpses of the unseen acts of lightning looking for a cloud to call home. This one bolts into the highest thunderhead and waits to be told to go. Go. Sshhhh! The sound of rain blinks from his eyes. He squeezes the fruits of life and serves the sour mixture to those who look on with amazement and terror, soaked in his story of craze and misfortune. Clap! This corner raises walls to his perception. This is the metaphysical explanation, God can be found in his dance. This is where his last meal came from and he won't leave the next one to chance. Boom! B-boy breaks down the laws Newton discovered. Spinning until the world learns to turn so that the seasons bring rain on the just and on the unjust, not just those who can afford to ignore each other. Clap! The applause brings tears to his mother's swollen eyes. Swollen with pride and shame of the things she's been pushed to, and pulled from. She's reaching above the waves, he's dancing his way from hell. Sshhhh! The ghosts now dispersed at the first sound of silence. Their consciences are begging more than the boy's pride will let him. But their shoulders were born cold, and the boy skates for nickels. Clap! As if God Himself were impressed by the display of acrobatics set in rhythm, the storm system raged and umbrellas dotted the streets. Camouflage for his tears, he thought, he always has what he needs in its season. Boom! The soul-box pumps out the old clocks. Time has folded itself, molded itself, so it's no shock. Rhythm and blue depression mixed up with B Boy steppin', It's harder to find a meal on cold pavement than you'd think. Dance! She told him. And he sinks.
The 1st of the 3 sketches of youth in poverty I wrote entitled 'Dance.Sing.Pray.'