I was an impressionable boy.

When I was in the womb my mom would read to me The
Civil War Mustache Chronicles, William Faulkner and
her buttery-rich bank statements. She hoped this would
mold the physical makeup of my ears.

She claims these were my first words:

"I dreamt I saw a procession on a trail through
southern crop land. Before daybreak, they had snuck
out of Gettysburg in two tight single file lines
twenty men long. Looking blue in tattered blue suits.
It was now twilight. The dust rose a foot or two and
hovered-- a particulate golden haze to shuffle
through. It was as if heaven was aiming its light at
their knees."

No one fucking talks like that.

****

Art is just a matter of discovering something secret
about nature. Though as child, I would have been
reluctant to admit that.

My mom smoked another cig and threw it to the ground.

"But mommy what about that cigarette butt?"

"Don't worry, the birds will eat it."

The mountains in my mind crumbled like Nintendo
pixels.