Attrition They are into front porch motorcycle maintenance, greased monkeys, Pink Floyd concept albums, Mad Dog 20 20, heavy leather, teenage girls, rolling monster joints one handed, spooking the mailman, worshipping the devil, modifying things with tire irons, cutting up with census, shoving policemen through picture windows; one by one, over the years, they kill themselves off. The Family Reunion begins outside, rows of picnic tables pushed together, steaming red hot grilles, quick fried foods, quarter kegs of cheap domestic beer. The children hit hard balls over the fence, off neighboring houses, the women are yelling: "All this infernal noise must stop!" But the children are into screaming games, tying the youngest wrists together: Let's see how far we can stretch them behind his back. The men are playing Black Jack, five dollars a hit, chugging beer, ignoring the women, saying, "We are doing something, we're playing cards. They're kids, they're having fun." Every year the cops are called to break up their men fighting with broken beer bottles, rusting church keys, gravity knives; after the fighting, they cut down the forgotten children hanging from the trees.