W. Joe Hoppe
Selected Poems by W. Joe Hoppe
In The Afterlife, 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 Revoluccion
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-to-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 on 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
From 11-26-16, when Cuban Dictator Castro and Ms. Henderson, who starred as the mom on 70s TV series “The Brady Bunch” both died on the same day
The Pantheon
Rome, 12/26/2018
Honoring all the gods
we create heaven’s dome
so as to be human
beneath it
Polished, chiseled,
sculpted stacked
we figure and cast
our knowledge
out into this world
through numbers
curves degrees angles
it is how creation happens
a perfect sphere inside
a perfect cube proclaims
understanding as
perfect as any
now let your eye ride
up to the dome’s pure center
where a perfectly placed hole
invites any god at all
Going West After Uncle Art’s Funeral
“Caravan” kicks in as we clear the Houston sprawl
west into dark into promise towards home
to the Western Lands like Egypt’s dead
---and we’re not---
--and Uncle Art is--
Night air on the highway in the
White headlight red taillight river
Onto those cinnamon hot Caravan sands
Uncle Art is dead and we’re not
Opening up through the night in our grateful love bubble
In a focused jazz tunnel stretching
Through the music
Over the road
Into the night
Polly beside me—he was really her uncle
And her version of grief
To mine like Graham Reynolds’ to Duke’s
“Caravan”—
highway tires rolling chassis flexing engine humming
the car over the road
like the musicians through the song
drums bass piano horns as we all
dig farther into the night
there’s a road in front of us
we all swear no one else has traveled
a song that no one has ever played like this.
When All You’ve Got is a Hammer
Lee decided to shoot
his brain tumor
w/ a .22 squirrel rifle
Shaved his head
said he got a doctor
to mark the spot
Wanted me to pull the trigger
I went down the hall
and kept on going
Years later
nobody could remember
if it was the bullet or the cancer