W. Joe Hoppe, Poet Lariat of the Dionysium
Poems
Poems
1951 Plymouth Cranbrook Independence Day, 2016 (When America was Great Again)
The best way for me to connect
was to hit the highway roll the road
in a 1951 Plymouth
four year project
assisted by dozens of friends
built in the manner of my ancestors
with the tools of my grandfather
in the spirit of my people
Not quite legal w/ no
inspection license plates speedometer
back up lights windshield wipers
or sideglass
Missing most of the interior
except for seats
big hot hollow can
resonating w/ Cherry Bomb exhaust
sun beating down on a thin metal roof
a hundred degrees by mid morning
While Polly sits beside me in a torn up bucket seat
and her own America
or love or just indulgence maybe
sweat in our eyes and
ears only registering a rumble
Until after too loud too hot who knows how fast
a pint of human fluids lost
photos in the shade of the
Bartholomew Pool parking lot
prove this dream
is on the edge of fulfilled
Yes the engine seems solid
suspension’s okay
but there will always be
things that still need doing
If this journey is going to be made
if the world is going to become
the way it ought to be
After the Election
Not like a celebratory champagne cork
but like a valve punched through a piston top
we head south and west
Through San Antonio
past Medina on HWY 90
highrise pick-up trucks
at the Gas & Shop
Proclaim football hero sons:
Travis 24
Minimi 17
in white vinyl on blacked out
rear windows
No one around here’s
expecting much to change
Further west we traverse the Brazos
along a steel span just a little older
than Polly or me
one hundred feet below
a diagonal crossing
centuries old
(the plaque says Old Spanish Road)
asserts a continuity
in this motion
The only thing at this moment
is indeed to move
The Davis Mountains rising before us
caught up in motion and change
I cannot gauge time’s register
© W. Joe Hoppe
New Year’s Day, 2017
The kitchen clock disguises itself
as a water faucet leaking into
this morning’s celebratory
oatmeal pot
Sun shines through four
windowsill cat ears
attuned to squirrels frolicking
in last year’s dead leaves
Cedar pollen swirls from
hill country junipers
covering the little trees in my lungs
with sharp yellow snowflakes
If I could catch a full breath
would the beauty of this struggle
grow or just
fulfill another expectation
© W. Joe Hoppe
Chinati’s Foundations
Poured concrete slabs
of Judd judgement
fudge space
like nothing else
in Marfa, Texas
You can view them for free
guiding yourself
as long as you
stay on the trails and off the art
Big sky shines blue
on the horizon
but here under clouds
it’s all thorny black brittle brown
smooth gray
standing up
to space itself
cottontail kicks up deer scat
rushing to shelter
under a bush
crickets crawl the deer trails
© W. Joe Hoppe, Marfa, TX 11/12/16
video from the HOWL event
Oct. 7, 2015 was the 60th anniversary of the first reading of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl.” To honor the occasion, Malvern Books hosted a crowd-sourced performance of the poem, featuring people from all over Austin. The event was organized and hosted by Brett Reeves and me, and it emphasized the religious nature of the piece, combining elements of worship from various spiritual traditions into one magical night of community.
It was a real cool time.
In Heaven, Fidel Castro Dances With Florence Henderson
And the dancefloor is like an ice rink
they glide in and out of billowing clouds
pink mist blood of martyrs of La Revolucion
soothing baby blue of suburban housewife Valium
Spinning ecstatic now to their own stars
not proletariat red or bourgeoisie sparkly
no judges with magic-markered cards
nor nosey neighbors from down the street
Together again after their all-too-brief
NYC affair in 1958—
she a budding Broadway starlet
he a hard throwing prospect for Los Yanquis
Eternity will be just like
their single Copacabana night
a spotlight on her bright blonde hair
the glint of his polished alligator shoes
She smells like America to him
a hint of vanilla at neck and wrist
newly mown lawns and wood paneled dens
But when the rhumba beat starts up
Her hips her culo roll with genuine desire
for his suave Latin loins Caribbean
breezes blowing through pomaded hair
nutmeg and handrolled cigars sugarcane sweat
A tango now they are joined thigh to thigh
zoom out to reveal the band in flamingo rhumba sleeves
half of them American blondes with shining teeth
the other swarthy Cubans knocking out time
until this eternity is over
when they can slip out to the alley
and sing moonlit songs
of their own choosing
© W. Joe Hoppe, 2016
In the Palm of Your Hand
There’s a planet
There’s a past life and a future
There’s a question mark
if you follow the line of your thumb
up around your index finger
and trail off around the
remaining three digits
The palm of your hand
holds a light bulb
a bright idea of possibilities
Don’t squeeze too tight
it could break and cut
or even burn
The palm of your hand
holds a bird’s nest
blue speckled eggs
ready to hatch
two three four
birds in the hand
Everything you need
is within your grasp.
from Diamond Plate, 2012, Obsolete Press
Michael Collins & the Far Side of the Moon
Like angels in
their lack of free will
hovering above us
purely as agents
Think of Michael Collins
14 orbits around the moon
but never getting closer
than 9 miles to its surface
Command module
for Buzz and Neil
trudging their Seas of Tranquility
and Glory
While alone above their heads
he circled like a film noir taxi
keeping the motor running
for the getaway
But 47 minutes
of each two hour orbit
found him beyond all contact
in truly cosmic solitude
The far side of the moon
with no Earth to look back on
a universe to look out on
all to himself
from Diamond Plate, 2012, Obsolete Press
W. Joe Hoppe 