We would have sex on tattered, sticky pages of the Sunday New York Times.
We would have sex after walking across the Brooklyn Bridge,
cold October afternoons, staying home from work,
angry at our office jobs among the walking dead and art wannabes.
We would have sex instead of air.
We would have sex while burning garbage fell on our fire escape
because the maniac on the floor above us decided devils were living in his trash.
We would have sex after visiting the maniac on the floor above us,
his eyes black and blue, his shirt saturated with blood, who told us
he was beaten by a gang in Red Hook who he tried to buy drugs from on his way
to visit his brother in Staten Island.
We had sex after explaining to the maniac on the floor above us that Red Hook isn’t on the way to Staten Island
and the super is going to recommend that the maniac on the floor above us
who sees devils in many corners of his life
be evicted immediately for nonpayment of rent
and for constantly coming home from Red Hook bleeding from the face.
We had sex after an attempted assassination of the President of the United States.
We would have sex without protection.
We would have sex while children starved,
racists ran for office
war was waged on the poor
exotic and never-to-be-duplicated forms of life were deleted
fundamentalists dictated the terms of our living
the hoarding classes perfected devious and more efficient ways to horde and the country drowned in capital
We would have sex when we didn’t feel like it.
We would have sex after bad dreams.
We would have sex after burying our parents and grandparents,
while work became more and more meaningless,
and friends questioned their marriages.
We would have sex while our children asked about sex.
We would have sex in spasms.
In small violences.
In secret ecstasies.
In patient waiting.
In forgotten languages.
In extreme loneliness.
In promises kept.
In wishes left unacknowledged.
In ritual fantasy.
and in peace.
Listed below is John Blake’s only appearance in Batman comics to date.