24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
A new Hollywood apartment.
My parents came to visit one January.
My father discovered plants dying on my back patio.
He was disgusted with me.
“They are not mine!” I affirmed.
“They are now!” he said, furiously watering them.
I reflect on those plants from time to time.
I feel suffocated by my own irresponsibility.
Now, I have too much responsibility.
That feels better.
Prompt 14, Hour 14
Poop in the toilet.
Poop in the training potty.
Poop on the bathroom floor.
Poop on the carpet.
Poop on the track of the sliding closet—
Slide, slide, slide until it is flattened like a penny on a train track.
Poop in our pants.
Poop in our pool.
Poop in the yard.
Poop in my fingernails.
Poop on my tattoo.
Poop in our shoes.
Poop,
poop,
poop.
Prompt 13, Hour 13
Death be common for the rat in the trap.
Death be common for the soldier with a broken bootstrap.
Death be common for predator and prey.
Death be common in a world of decay.
The price of your life is not without a tag,
Our bodies and spirit are not meant to drag.
If there ever a moment, when you must decide,
Trust in MacBeth for the moment he vied:
“And damned be him that first cries ‘Hold! Enough!’
Human is the moment, eternal is the seraph.
Prompt 12, Hour 12
Halfway point.
The tropical heat percolated on the small of her back,
It was the early 60s, in Trenchtown.
The flies bothered them only in the morning,
In the night, they clung to the ceiling and watched them make love.
His dreadlocks the color of crematory smoke,
Spread like tree roots across her satin pillow.
His eyes sad but words hopeful.
She straddled him with lust but found faith when he was inside her,
A black poet, a black Jesus.
No man felt as electric,
When he danced there was lightning.
When he sang, there was peace.
Hour 11, Prompt 11
A musician with no hands.
A painter with no eyes.
A poet with no tongue.
A lover with no love.
Victims of desire.
No charge.
New charge.
Recharge.
Hour 10, Prompt 10
The Moonshadow Challenge
The cottage hid behind the treeline.
A firefly circled my bottle of Stella.
It was good to breathe without the mask.
It was good to escape the heat and strange faces of the desert city.
The lethargy of summer in my knees,
The zoom from the cars zipping down the freeway fading with the day.
The curry porridge was bubbling in the slow cooker,
The kids won’t eat it. That’s ok. I will.
I am only hungry at night.
Hour 9, Prompt 9
Oh Revolt! My Revolt!
Old America is dying
And this voyage is about to come to an end.
Climate change
Pandemic
Economic collapse
Buried hate
TVs and phones burn bright.
Old ghosts can not rest.
Kids killed.
Daddies killed.
Mommies crying.
We aren’t the champions we pretend to be.
We aren’t winning the race to the end.
We are bloody from failure.
Our lip is swollen and tastes of copper.
Our eyes flinch from the light.
Soon, a new captain will take the helm,
The bell will ring,
The slaves will make music.
Blind no more.
Fight or die.
The future will crash down hard.
Hold on tight.
Prompt 8, Hour 8
When her friends stopped visiting,
When her family stopped calling.
When he went inside another woman— and she was still breastfeeding his baby.
When a wild dog kept breaking into the yard, stiff and growling,
but no one came to help.
When the baby started teething.
When the toddler started rebelling.
When she left the magical trees
When she gave the landlord the keys.
She stopped caring.
She started surviving.
She stopped visiting.
She stopped messaging.
She stopped calling.
She stopped loving.
She stopped smiling.
She stopped tasting food.
She left the summer rats
the baby scorpions
the snakes and hungry roadrunners
the lazy people, the angry people
No more parties
No more tagging pictures
No more play dates
No more Mom’s Nights Out
No more bullshit.
You got to pick up every stitch
Oh no, must be the Season of the Bitch.
Hour 7, Prompt 7
Waking up under red curls, hot breath and thrown, tiny bodies.
Little rag dolls.
The fur of dogs rising and falling over my pillows.
Joshua Tree Breakfast Bliss coffee.
Chocolate for breakfast.
Bob Dylan.
Mountains, rivers, farms or beaches.
Squealing innocence.
Empty roads.
Air the temperature of warm bath water.
Cryptic messages left behind by dead poets.
A phone call from an old friend.
Dancing.
Princesses battling with sticks in torn dresses.
Smiling pit bulls.
A shot of Bullet.
Thai food.
Desert rain storms.
Maybe I fall in love again.
#prompt6
Hour 6, Prompt 6
She lay on her back
Her jacket was too big
Fresh dying leaves on top
Rotten dying leaves on bottom
The coming frost bit the end of her nose
Her hair tickled her neck
The zipper grazed her ear lobe
The branches croaked over head
Under the sway of spared trees
No one liked her
And she would never know why.
#Prompt5
Hour 5 Prompt 5