Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘Kid Hollywood Returns To The Scene Of The Crime’

The real Mulholland Drive

by Larry Brody


After over two decades of taking – and giving – abuse as a television writer and producer, I left my Hollywood life behind and trekked (by SUV, of course) to the Southwest, tracking the magic I’d long believed in but never been part of. Thanks to the Navajo Dog, I found a path that was good and true. But sometimes a man needs a break, you know? The following happened during a short visit to – well, the title tells it all:

Kid Hollywood Returns To The Scene Of The Crime

Three of us drove up toward Mulholland that night,

My friend the wild Indian, the Hopi elder, and I.

It was just before dusk, and we were going to

See a TV writer whose career I had started

Some years ago. We wanted dinner, and a place

To sleep. A spigot would have been nice. We

Needed neither of those things, because by then

Even I had learned to fend for myself, and sneaking

A meal, or three into a motel room for one was

Something we all could accomplish with ease.

As we reached Mulholland, my friend the wild

Indian pointed, and shouted out. A deer was

Clambering up from the side of the hill, followed

By a full dozen more. I stopped as bucks and does

And fawns circled our borrowed car. My friend the

Wild Indian and the Hopi elder gazed at the deer

Intently, their bodies seeming to vibrate with

Concentration, and a full ten minutes passed

In the most natural silence. Then the first deer turned and

Ran back out of sight down the slope, the others

Following quickly. In mere seconds, it was as if the

Deer had never been with us. The Hopi elder turned

To me. “Did you hear them?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“But you know they were speaking?” the elder said,

And I nodded. “There was power here,” said my

Friend the wild Indian, Hopi and Lakota sharing the

Strength. “They were sent as messengers to speak

For the Great Spirit, to offer their counsel and their


“I heard nothing,” I admitted.

“But you felt?” they both said.

“Oh,” I said, feeling it again, “I felt.”

The elder and the wild Indian nodded,

And were silent the rest of the

Way. After dinner with the TV writer and his

TV producer wife, I told them about the deer

Appearing in the middle of the Valley like ghosts

from the city’s long-forgotten past.

“There’s a preserve about half a mile away,” the

TV Producer wife said, “and when they’re

Hungry the deer come over here at sunset

And nibble on people’s bushes.” It was all very

Mundane, and unimportant, and about as real

As the blacktop they’d just put on their driveway.

My friend the wild Indian looked at the Hopi Elder
and the two of them shrugged. I did the same.

Magic is where you find it,

Even in the concrete canyons of L.A.

Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. Although the book whose cover you see above is for sale on Kindle, he is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.