debbborra

The noise she produces, the cacophony, is larger than she. I cover her small mouth with my fingers, holding them over the sweet pink flesh. I see my mother's eyes in hers, that same crystalline gray-blue. Her cheeks are small arcs of angelic perfection. When I move my hand, she is quiet, and completely still.

Sometimes, I like to stretch out on the subway benches, and sleep in the fluorescent light. Mary and her imaginary friends sit with me. The constant yelling doesn't keep me up. I find the cadence soothing. It also keeps away the people who'd brave the fragrance of unwashed bodies. Usually I keep to the tunnels. Where a man can find peace, can find himself, maybe find salvation. They are cool caves where the cacophony is so thunderous it rings like silence. So quiet it shuts out even the memory of your mother's voice, "but what will you do with your life?" I love the smell best. The odor of humanity is lost, unable to find a surface porous e

The calliope wheezes. When I made it, I imagined the music bright, uplifting, music that would tickle and delight me, eternally. The music drags. It whines. It must be that the boiler does not make enough steam. Maybe the trouble lies with me. It could be the music is the same, and all that has changed is the pleasure I take in it. Does the lament I hear comes from my heart, and not the carousel? The strings of lights that twinkled along with the music just flicker and sputter. I hung the lights to tell stories. The archer and the bears have had nothing new to say in years. I rarely stroll around it now, only rarely. Lately, the revolution