The men in the video fuck face down. No, the men on the screen are faceless, devised to be known
as achronic illustrations of a dare: the dark organ enters antimatter and attempts to retain a narrative there.
Bent over the arm of a couch, under a body you called by a pseudonym once, you try to ignore the painter
tarp hanging from the ceiling, the thumb he keeps resting in his mouth— minor deviations from the paradigm—
until the only condom goes dry with the last dregs of lubricant and the scene resumes its linear obligation to death.
Distorted across another screen is the latest autopsy of Ezell Ford’s body rendered in diagram, a line
through each wound, the wounds records of just how many ways a person can suffer the word
[through]. For a second, you realize that every single man in the room has his back to another. Suppose
that this were not true all the time.