Post Road Magazine #18

The Nice + Ghost in the Latrine

Alex Lemon

All this time
I've crossed My heart
With an X-acto
Blade & water
Boarded myself.
I am prepared
& I promise
I'm not hard
To puzzle Whole with
The lights turned
Low. Click, click,
Poof, sleeping
Beauty. This is
The end of the road.
The four star hotel
Is a car parked
In a puddle
Behind a supermarket.
Moonlight slicks
The boulevard's
Lilacs. Security lights,
Cameras, & thousands
Of pounds of antifungals
Surround us. But no one
Pays attention anymore.
The itching never stops.
Inside, the grinning face
On the milk carton
Has done more
In two dimensions
& black & white
Than it could fathom
Before he vanished
From the play-
Ground. Write it
In the steamed-up
Windshield. I am not
Here to be the king
Of July Fourth.
I am weathering
This endless midnight
Inside a corona
Of sparklers, until


The past finally
Stutter-steps out
Of itself. For a limited
Time & just for you,
I promise. & when
We get there,
We'll forever walk
The aisles, chins
Raised to the humming
Fluorescents. Our shrouds
Lifting like bouquets.


Ghost in the Latrine

If the choice between
The men's & women's

Restroom decides
Your identity, what does

The man playing air guitar
With a tennis racket

In front of the urinals
Have to do with Lacan?

I thought it was Larry Craig,

But he turned around & it was

Craig Mack that slapped me
& said that this was his

House. It was 1000 degrees
Beneath the sink lights.

I wanted to ask why
He was in the lady's

Room but the twists
In my gut froze me.

Razzmatazz slopped
Across the tiles. My life

Story appeared in the mirror
Steam when he stormed

Out. I don't remember
There being such a dearth

Of good music, so many
Apples gonging on tin roofs.







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