96
Chirps 
This bird chirps. And that bird chirps.
What do you think they chirp about?
I hear the chirping down the street.
Are chirps a whisper or a shout?
That is to say, the little bird,
is reaching distant blocks its goal?
Or does it wish to speak unheard
but hasn't got volume control?
People will call the cries all trysts
for bagging bad bodacious babes,
but maybe birds are scientists
proudly discussing astrolabes.
Or maybe they're comedians
projecting jokes so all can hear,
and all the other birds are laughing
"Tell the one about Shakespeare!"
And what if a bird teacher
is lecturing its class
of scattered chirping bird students
on properties of mass?
That objects have inertia
keeping them in place
and gravitational attraction
bending time and space.
The birds could all be picketing
in protest for fair wages
for all the birds we catch and breed
and keep inside birdcages.
And suddenly and noisily a truck turns down the street
and every single chatty chirp turns into tricksy tweet.
They know that we are watching, waiting, wondering of what
their bouncy bellowed babbling belies inside them, but
the secrets in their speeches spoken stridently are still
intended only for their friends awakened with free will.
So when we've penetrated near enough to generate translation
they hide their voice behind masks of pretend inarticulation.
Joke's on them, though, we can't tell
the difference between speaking well 
and alarm bell
and raising hell
and incoherent shouting spell.
Yes, all the chirps and tweets and caws
of birds with feathers, beaks, and claws
sound just the same to human ears,
and all that any of us hears
is tune with textures, tones, and tiers
of songliness, no rhyme or cause.
And so these little chirping birds
with wary watchful eyes
are all the while wasting words
on linguistic disguise.
95
PromiseOfBiotechnology 
The promise of biotechnology,
a spiraling vision for all to see,
in stark opposition
to moral decision,
could be to abet an atrocity.

UntitledWoman 
Across the lot standing stonefaced,
an untitled woman encased
in black and white flowers
for fighting the powers
that would see her skin tone erased.
94
YellowLine 
Stand behind the yellow line.
Not blue like Klein, not red red wine, not puce-ish pink like calamine.
The sign declines divine design.
The sign enshrines thy storyline.
No deadline for a live line where a life line flatlines.
Not a dead line, a lifeline, this death line.
A bright line for a bloodline.
It's a foul line, this foul line,
a fell line, this fall line.
For some a goal line,
for all a front line.
We, the undefined undersigned, remind the plum wine inclined:
Please, stay well off the well-off line,
lest one's incline go supine,
one's plumb line turn minus sign,
one's outline make headlines.
For the saddest punch line outshines the sunshine:
"But doctor," the B whines,
"I am the train line!"
93
PinkPuffs 
Pink puffs proliferate.
Boughs bend beneath their weight.
Blossoms bloom to captivate
buzzing bees that circulate
and congregate and pollinate
to help the cherries propagate.
92
OnceUponAPaintedTime LovePark
ShoulderToShoulderInSolidarity TiesThatBind MishmashMesh 
Once upon a painted time, in a place known for its giant hearts,
where the houses stand shoulder-to-shoulder in solidarity,
proud of their colors, proud of each other, proud to be defiant parts
of the storied grid of bricks laid, planned, older-and-older, to wall this rare city
where a mishmash mesh of lights on lines
crisscross tightly aligned lanes
like ties that bind and intertwine
to bond with brother-loving chains.
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These poems are Avi's diary. You can email him at avi@invariablyhappy.com