Send to a Friend
			Printer Friendly Format
			Leave Feedback
			Read Feedback
			Nerve RSS

I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
— Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

New Year's Day, Dawn, 1950
The Block is quiet. Sunrise seeps through the development, spills on the identical homes in this town on the South Shore of Long Island, a town which is identical to the towns on either side. The milk is in the milkbox, mothers. The cars are in their ports, dads. Smoke hangs in the air from fireworks long spent tonight, the dust of great promises & fantasies of light. The bang & clang of pots & pans is dead.

Everyone's in bed.

Traces of war are chalk'd like hopscotch boxes on these streets. The war is fading like initials on the steamed window of a ruby Lincoln Sedan. These neighbors, these veterans & their stunning wives, are sleeping, the fruits of their marriages tuck'd here & there in bedrooms & bunk beds. The children are cover'd in sheets, like apples in tissue at the fruit stands back in Brooklyn.

The Italians — the Morettis, Rizzolis, DeLucas, Mancinis, Savorellis and Caputos. Dreaming in their lucky-red underwear, after a feast of lentils & Spumante. Those Callaghans & Mulligans, those Boyds & Dillons & O'Reilleys, those McMalleys. Their Irish eyes are closed, their ginger hearts at peace, lulled by Bushmills & cabbage. The Palios family — the only Greeks — had honey on their table & a coin in the cake. The Shepherds, long-time citizens, no immigrants, these, are fallen from some Mayflower height, & they had nothing but a fight tonight.

The only souls awake are Grannies who look out attic windows, yellow pupils like lanterns. They're dressed in black. They darn. They judge. They're done with being sexual, their bodies seal'd like wounds finally heal'd.

The Grannies never sleep.

And in the basement of the only empty house, corralled there by the sparks & flames of festival, is a gangbang of cats. The

Queen, in the dark, lowers her head, and bends those forelegs. Her tail is rais'd & twist'd to the side, the golden vulva exposed. One Tomcat mounts her, sinking fangs into her neck, which makes the egg drop. She yowls in pain & pleasure, while the barb of his penis opens like a flower of thorns inside her.

And the next Tomcat shall take his turn. And then the next. O, mother, what will your litter be? I must tell you. Your kittens will belong to no man, but to all of them.

Happy new decade, families! Happy dawn, beautiful Americans.

Block Party 1950-1960
Rollerskates & BB guns! Hula hoops & polka dots! Click your Starmite camera, so you never forget this gentle & perfect childhood summer day, the one that stretches like a shadow on the lawn, the one that ends in crystal drops from a garden hose used to cool down.

You're all cousins — of blood and milk. You grow up on the Block, you youthful progeny and refugees of Sicily & Dublin & Athens — & Plymouth Rock. You have one great mother, and she raises her one great red gingham curtain in her one kitchen window. She looks out at you. You're playing ring around the rosy, your pockets full of posy. The one great father gets in his great car, and goes to the office. The one dog licks his only balls.

There are no fences; it's one backyard. Everyone can play after dark. These fields were potato farms before the earth was torn & planted with houses. Now it's a nursery for the next generation, kids born in deliberate & determined innocence. Souls raised in spank'd & spit-wash'd morality, so that they'll one day reign this suburban utopia with fairness & wisdom. They play now like puppies, writhing and whimpering, clumsily kissing & kissing, & chaste.

Which is not to say lions don't pace outside the cage. Bridget & Angela & Eileen & Kerry & Mona & Sylvia & Calliope & Natalia & Kaitlin & Marie & Jacinthe, you princesses in birthday hats, you dolls in saddle shoes. The world already wants you. The Voyeur is a widower. Like the moon, his face finds its rightful place in your window at night. He isn't the apoplectic kind. Not the rubbing kind. His eyes jiggle in his head like Sylvester the Cat. He's a man of order & discipline. He comes without friction. He stares, he loves, he doesn't move his hands of stone, he shoots his cream, he walks home, he lays down his head & goes to bed & he doesn't even dream.

Raymond & Nino & Aidan & Jerry & Sergio & Riley & Sean & Cyrus & Conor & Angelo & the rest of you newspaper boys & baseball stars & boy scouts. Look out for Drunk Mary, the sister of Mrs. Shepherd, and the blight of the Block. She stays there when she's kick'd out of everywhere. She'll holler or whistle from the back door, as if in distress. She's post-bubble-bath; her hair is wet, face bloated, & the pink towel is too short. You see red bristle! Her legs are wide & varicose-vein'd, her waist tiny. She asks you to retrieve the vermouth from the shelf, where she put it fifteen minutes ago.

You'll hand Mary the bottle & she'll slow-wink like a starlet on Valium. Now your wood is heavy as iron, weighting your torso forward. You rub her breasts like you're testing fruit. She's in an ecstatic daze, but doesn't touch you. She lets you come in your pants, fondling her there in the sunlight. You, in your buzz cut, you, with your archery badge. She's opening her wet eyes as the door slams. Then she cries!

Mary, you'll be the pin-up of the Block. You'll be famous, dear heart, & make movies & make millions in these boys' minds — even if you ended up on the cutting-room floor of your own world. Hush, now, little girl. Put your handprint in that cement.

The porn collector, the flasher, the bisexual housewife, the foot fetishist uncle. During these years, they mainly stay inside. They hide. Father O'Brien discloses his short red stub, sometimes, from the bat wings of his attire. But he doesn't actually interact with the choir.

Blue skies roar over the Block. American rain washes gutters clean. The flocks of family bake their Alaskas & broil their grapefruits. You're safe. Maria gets her period! Bridget foxtrots! Raymond sets a fire! Sean plays the flute! Nino rubs his mom's black stocking on his face! On the playground, kids slide down the slide. You already know you like a good ride.

Blocked 1960-1970

Hey, ladies & gents. Welcome to the next round, to the big love song, with Mingus at the front and Altamont in back, a song gone wrong.

Where are you? Well, right now you're still at home. Trigonometry & batons twirl'd like exploding stars. Chemistry sets & Tang & buttered peas. Dancin' to your radios. Learning how to tease, wondering how to please. You girls — Mona & Catie & Jacinthe and all — put on your pedal-pushers, dab mom's Evening in Paris & roll your hair. The boys, everyone from Alfonso to Connor, you got your Dacron shirts & crew cuts & street-corner stare. You all try clumsy kissing, playing Twister in the dark, kissing someone's sister, twisting & wishing. Oh God, you want some more. You need to score.