 The new McDonough Street bar is no longer filled with those old, red, white faces noising about Jacques Fournier, Del Bisonetti, Jake Dobert, Dolph Camilly, Ivy Orson, Pistol Pete Reza, Babe and Billy Herman, Dixie Walker, Mickey Owen, Dazzy Vance, Coyby Higby, Wilbert Robinson and the once mad Robbins, the Bums, the Daffyness Boys, who gave awkward thrills to the bone-baking stevedores and then seat-breaking clerks who once filled this bar. The thrill-givers who once ran the bases superbly backwards with the whizz and the bang are now a business in L.A. computing $10 bills on the basis of Tommy Davis's RBI's and Sandy Koufax's case. Black bases fill the McDonough now. They avoid baseball before Jackie in 47. Jackie Robinson, who oddly enough lived down the block during that year, and played stickball with the kids in the block near Patchin Avenue. Black faces don't talk about Jake and Dolph and Babe, but know about Jackie, who now sells Rocky to blacks in New York while Rocky sells blacks to whites in South Africa and that ain't baseball. That's diamonds. American sports are funny. Years ago when the cops just heated citizens before the riots, before Jackie, those older red white faces used to spill out of the McDonough and play stickball with the colored boys. Or was it football? Or was it basketball? That was when the neighborhood was integrated. But then everybody talked about Colin Kelly. Nobody talked about Dory Miller. Fuck the Haruna. Colin was trained to fly. Dory was trained to cook. Dory poor misguided black man dying for acceptance, playing a white man's role of bravery while Bilbo and Rankin reigned at home. That was when the neighborhood was integrated before Jackie stealing home in a cloud of dust and a flash of black lightning. Now, before you now, Mr. Moynihan, who would see the old neighborhood integrated again, you and your federal money see plainly that integration is the time that it takes from the first black family moving in to the last white family moving out. So you will see to it that family units are integrated, that personalities are integrated because neighborhoods and livelihoods can't be. You would have me integrate my family and personality like yours because you sense the tactic of non-integration for years to come. You want me to integrate my personality like yours? Are you kidding? You know that the poor black family that stays together will never get as due together. The new white rismatized, the new gospel hidden behind the magic cloak social science cannibals arise. A new missionary is coming. You remember Dory Miller poor magnificent black fool whose very death was betrayed in the very next moment by thousands of you Moynihan's rehabilitate the Negro family structure. Don't worry about the houses they live in. After a little picking in his impressive father figures, they really don't need good schools. Train the men in father dumb. They'll never understand cyber nation. Anyhow, who hire them? So we can put more fathers in their families. We can stabilize the economy and blacks can be as good as whites at slum lording it over their brothers and sisters. Hey man, any junkie can see through that shit, Mr Moynihan. Yeah, that beat up down cat standing there on that corner. Just before that last nod, he made a brilliant running back and catch of a screaming three summer three sewer line drive. Of course, that was years ago before the before the neighborhood playing against the dictator street boys. You wouldn't know them either, Mr Moynihan, who he was fighting with in a few years, more years desperately trying to create a presentable self against overwhelming odds. And in a few more years after that, he was drinking rich red port and smoking accurate reefers with and in a few more years, he had joined them in the brotherhood, the brotherhood of junk. There go your productive fathers, Mr Moynihan, taking off an alley on Bambridge Street behind a few remaining respectable red brick houses or taking off in the decrepit rubber vestibule of a Reed Avenue tournament as the block grew blacker and blacker grew junkier and junkier. White faces no longer played stick ball with colored boys, but sold them the magic out of it all nest. Who says there's no connection between money and color? White boys get rich, black boys get high. What kind of integration were you talking about, Mr Moynihan? You will not put me in that bag, baby. No, you won't. Your slave ships are now made in Detroit. Your plantations are run by white-shirted psychophants and polysyllable vacuous mandarins who want to go to the moon to destroy men rather than meet God. Silent crowded dusky Fortin Street suddenly cries out against the geometrical constraints of your city white planners. We have some culture, too. In fact, all nickel-slick or dime you if you don't watch out, all sand well equipped detachments of junkies to boost from your neighborhoods, from your department stores. Do you still want to integrate Mr Moynihan? I can see right now you'll never be a credit to your race as if your race needs credits at this point. Yeah, Cassius Clay will never be a credit to your respective race, not like Joe Lewis, to bronze B-17, always a credit to his race as if he could have known better. I'll never be in that select company. Thanks, Ma. I owe it all to you and all that. It's all right for you to step out here and play stickball with us, Mr Moynihan. This is where I used to live, make constant where Mr Panky told my mother and father. But the Democratic Party is a party of the poor people, the colored people. Like us, we used to go to the club on Broadway in Brooklyn where the eardrums shattering, ill trains rumbled by and no black people lived. We sang ethnic songs like My Gal Sour and Little Annie Rooney and East Side West Side to an old honky-tonking piano and drank sodas with the same zootsuiting whops we had to fight or run from to get to schools. My dreams then, the bombers paralyzing left hook flattened the many ursats, smelling or galento. I must be careful not to politicize sports. Don't try to star and strike me now. Those same yellow pig pants that niggas lovers then supplies your congressional majority now. Like most New Yorkers, Mr Moynihan, you mistake the rhythm of the subway for the rhythm of the earth. You do not understand that even you are misguided in a planless game and it is up to all of us to construct arbitrary dignities to reinforce the squawks of the living where death is king. You act as if mere techniques will out. And though that is not your fault, it will be your fate. While we run up and down Nostrand Avenue hurling pittiest fire bombs and mauling a few plain clothesmen, a U.S. postmark rides the power circuits of our generation. Only profits make jobs. I'm trying not one, all you worshipers of spontaneous revolution of the omniscient will of the oppressed in action. To hell with all this planning, what we need is action. Let us try and mistake the Newman classings of subcultural nomenclatures, the Newman crushing at the omens of blood flowing the wrong, wrong way in the foul's heart. Divine that one, Mr. Stadish. Divine that one, Mr. Stadish Titian, Pee Wee Reece, Duke Snyder. Stop. How'd they get in here? Mr. Moynihan, the general significance of things has begin to settle into the crevices of my brain tissue, like molten sea steel into a fitting cast. A vision comes. U.S. government goes nuts. Today, 273 glorious naked black lunatics became the new majority in Congress by simply walking in and taking seats. Their capital guards, usually inefficient and businesslike, were afraid to stop them for fear of being accused of making passes a lot Jenkins. Their first legislative move was to declare peace to the world. Their second was to declare love. Their session was picketed by 39 members of the DAR carrying signs proclaiming impeach the perverts and hate filthy fiends they wore in addition to 17 layers of clothing for the sake of decency, blindfolds to ensure they would not see the unspeakable. Unfortunately, this led to the untimely demise of two of the ladies who wandered in front of a red-match trunk as it was going by. Their consulors are, of course, reporting this act of aggression to HUAC. The new legislators promised to return with more on the ball tomorrow. One said to the protesting ladies, if you mainline with me, baby, I have you winking, blinking and nodding. We'll see, said one of the more dubious matrons. Help. Help. I call across the river to you. Leroy. Help. I need help. Leroy, come out from behind that trans-nigrifying prose or as opposed. Send me your theater of destruction and all of its players for Bedford Stuyvesant. Let them play the prelude to the epic making simple dirts. Here, where is your playmaking ass at Leroy? Come over to Brooklyn where even now the natives amputate Leopold's hands from his gold. Records of the rapings of defrock white nuns and the chewing of French pride or glory are instant smashes on Burdell's hit parade. White light show ain't the same as white lightning. Give us some elucidation. You dig it? There are regions of compromise so attractive we daily long to filthy our minds with their fame. Thank you, brother. You begin to understand insult yet, Mr. Moynihan. What happens when you try and pull them all together? I mean Jackie and Jake. I mean Rocky and Rape. I mean McDonough Street and Reed Avenue and Macon Street and Passion Avenue. You begin to understand what I'm talking about yet. I mean Daisy and Dory. Jock and Junk. Stickball and Fulton Street and ODs and O'Malley's. Does it hit home yet? Thompson submachine guns. Black missiles. I mean Integrate PS-70 where they don't even put white toilet paper. I mean me and you. What fucking un-fathers are you talking about now, Mr. Moynihan? I'd like to take you on a tour of my old neighborhood while you battle on about my integration. I'd like to give you an overdose of life. Stuff you were living, breathing, black people blocks, regurgitating all of your positive correlations of black babies dying and social relationships of someone else's nexus. Mr. Moynihan, if you come into my neighborhood talking that shit, I'll beat your brains out with my Louisville slugger. That's how that was.