endless desire and the boys stare.
she doesn't dance the way the other ones do.
she dances like she doesn't care,
like no one in the world can see her,
in circles with waving arms.
that's the way she runs through life. . .
like the feather blown by a fan
or boiling water on hot surface,
the way it evaporates and joins the things we cannot see.
in circles, flowing to the beat.
tossing hair. i love this here.
because she doesn't care what they have to say
or how she appears to the world.
she never seems notice anyone walking_by.
it's all swirling colours now and she's skipping through.
i think she hears music.
i think she dances in her mind.
i think she dances to her own beat in echoing halls.
and dances to the pencils moving, the keyboards clicking, the endless sound of pages turning.
dances to doors slamming, and the jingle of money, and the swishing of backpacks and lectures.
dances to the humming of fans, and the whirl of projectors, the sound of chalk and of markers.
to photo copiers and whiny students and adults yelling down the halls. books opening, lockers slamming, and screeching breaks.
dances to the awkward couples kissing in the corners, the shuffling of footsteps, the sweat of the masses, the shouts where only fuck and hell and bitch can be recognized.
but she dances.
and sees the beauty in the things that dirty the steps and the walls and cracks in the ground.

tap your feet to the blaring horns and the smog-filled skies and the slamming doors. smile at the crowded freeways and the long lines for food that shall kill us all. sing to the ugliness and sing to the beautiful, because who are you to decide which is which?
Death of a Rose with her 031014
whitechocolatewalrus pretty endless 031229
what's it to you?
who go