From Parox­ysm

The Iowa Review - - NEWS - Justin phillip reed

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.

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