John Horvath, Jr: Two poems


Daughter, you could not have known snow
before this Sunday marvel clothed
the wrinkles of the earth and drew
linen across your mother's eyes.

Look here, he says, there is green
grass growing where angel patterns
press against snow drifts,
soft traces of life in the cold.

She runs to him, the snow crushes
beneath her step, clings to her shoes.
Tossing snow, she laughs, "Father,
look how your hair turns white!"


I am.
      You are.
      It is.

you think that I got nothin' t'hide
so you sit your ass down right at side
and order up some sissy tourist drink

sonofabitch get outta my face in this
bar this corner's my place where I'm
safe from those lies in the eyes your

everyday punctual taxpaying profusion
of grantcollecting blowbyblow casestudy
accounts damndisgrace get outta my face

sonofabitch this corner's my place your
ass pens my little ballsoshit and eats
all my barfly words of wit sonofabitch

get outta my face in this bar this dark
corner's MY place can you say pre-var-
i-cate brag to kids about some late

night great who ended like thousands
more your kind has sent to death before
and afterward tho' dead you write it up

we're all just fuckin' passing through
we're all just one bottle short
of where we're all headin' to

like it means shit like it means shit
get outta my face you fat disgrace
get outta my face outta my face