Dying in Hollywood

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

Potty Training

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.








Prompt 13, Hour 13

Death Be Common

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.

Ode to Bob

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

Battery Life

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. 




Hour 10, Prompt 10

The Moonshadow Challenge

The Pandemic Summer Vacation

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

New America (Emoji Poetry Challenge)

Oh Revolt! My Revolt! 

Old America is dying

And this voyage is about to come to an end.


Climate change


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

Season of the Bitch

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

#6 A Perfect Day

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.




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.



Hour 6, Prompt 6

4th Grade

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.



Hour 5 Prompt 5