Delicious Poverty (a short speech for a long departed friend)

Michael J. Hoover was a catlike man; sinewy, graceful in movement, and perhaps there’s something to Chinese astrology after all because he was born in 1951, the year of the cat…But what kind of a cat was he?

When he passed away in 2013 I was asked if I wanted his notebooks, which span three decades and contain journal entries, lyrics, poems, sketches, and the odd I Ching reading. Of course, I said yes, and soon after my suspicions were very much confirmed…The Hoov, the man with the monster groove, never spent a minute of his adult life living as a surfeited house cat. He was a rangy alley cat through and through: a survivor, surviving the challenges of a life lived in “delicious poverty” as he called it. A life lived at street level, where the now largely forgotten spirit of rock and roll still stands with one foot in the gutter and the other in the grave.

I thought it would be apropos to read a short poem of his dated Christmas 1990, considering it was right around the time he came to the Limestone city, having decamped from a dire situation in his hometown of Toronto, with the help of some solid friends, and so, on behalf of The Hoov it behooves me to dedicate the following to everyone who called him a friend, and to everyone who is planning on attending the Hoover Jam V in support of a great cause:

Christmas 1990

Experiencing Technical Difficulties

Approaching The Station

The Scariest Thing About Life Is Death

But That’s Normal I Guess

I’m Only Frozen To My Elbows

Spirit Is In My Heart, Now

Where It Belongs

—Michael J. Hoover

Thank you, and may the alleys always have their cats.


6 thoughts on “Delicious Poverty (a short speech for a long departed friend)

  1. I pity the soul who receives the passwords to my crypt of cryptic philosophies. I’ll say I’ve spared them the truth that spins a black hole at the center. No one should have to endure that reveal. We all have one don’t we; that blackened cherry pit buried deep inside, it’s almond scent corrupted to sulfuric fumes. I keep mine secured behind a fortress of practiced lies.

    Liked by 1 person

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