We Make Mud

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The river was not far from the place we called town. It, our town, it was a dirty river town with a dirty river running through it. Town, it was mostly just a two-way road cutting through the middle of the place where the all-by-itself traffic light was always blinking from two sides of it yellow and from the other two sides of it red. Our town, us brothers one day discovered, it was not the kind of a town where cars not from our town liked to stop. Ours was a drive-on-through kind of a town, a pass-on-by-on-your-way-to-someplace-else kind of a town. Us brothers, we did not understand it why these cars from these other places would not want to stop to be and to stay with us. Look here: there was a dirty river in our dirty river town. There were dirty river fish in this here dirty river that us brothers liked to catch. There was a house, just up from this river, with a back-of-the-yard part where, us brothers, we liked to take the fish that we’d catch out of this dirty river and, us brothers, we liked to chop off the heads off of these fish. What we did then with the heads of these dirty river fish was this: we liked to take these fish’s dirty river heads and we liked to give each of these fish heads each a name. Not one was called Jimmy or John. Jimmy and John, that was mine and my brother’s name. We called each other Brother.

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