101
WhyWork 
Why work, why work, why work indeed
when sun is shining, sky is blue?
We labor more than the world needs
while billionaire wealth accrues.
We make enough for everyone,
such that if we just optimize
we could ensure no rich person
buys yachts instead of saving lives.
If two people both need a <Thing>
to not die choking in a ditch,
and one takes thousands, asserting
the right to have more if you're rich,
then recognize, demands askew,
to satisfy both want and need,
they must produce much more than two
in joint output, collectively.
The rich person, unsatisfied
with only one, deprives the whole
of thousand-<Things>-worth leisure time
to quell the rot inside their soul.
And, yes, it's fine to buy your way
out of producing your own food
instead of working hard each day,
just don't make *extra* work, my dude!
At least not before needs are met!
When someone in society
goes bankrupt from medical debt,
you shouldn't get a shopping spree.
And golly gosh, you'll never guess
who makes the <Things> the rich demand.
A thousand working in distress
so one can live a life that's grand.
See, in a different universe,
the mark of wealth's just working less
not making every system worse
by taking opulent excess.
Go to the park, enjoy your friends,
pick up a hobby painting pets,
turn all your days into weekends
instead of owning private jets.
And if you say, instinctively,
"Then what's the point of earning more
than simple base necessity?
What did I work so keenly for?"
I'd like to flip that back to you
and ask you if you think it's right
for one person's greed to lead to
a thousand toiling day and night.
100
Skelebones1 Skelebones2 Skelebones3 Skelebones4 Skelebones5 Skelebones6 
Click clack, plastic skele-bones attack.
They don't hold back.
They cut no slack.
Decayed maniac brainiacs
as laid-back as live grenade stacks
will beat you blue-black, you sad sack,
but not with bludgeoning blackjacks
or like full packs of tackling fullbacks,
but with non-stop prattling, saber-rattling, neighbor-battling wisecracks.
Yacking knickknacks with trick backs
giving flack and talking smack
like riff tracks with rib racks.
Their ileac syntax impacts like a pickaxe.
Occult insult almanacs.
No sixpacks, no ballsacks, no buttcracks,
only sidesplitting, hard-hitting, unremitting comebacks.
So be cool, Jacks,
like ice packs in snowpack wearing lilac jetpacks, (so cool!)
and remember...
                relax.
99
MailboxDucks 
Goddamn that's cute as fuck.
Two little painted mailbox ducks
surrounded by cattails and flowers,
standing there for endless hours,
waiting for new mail delivery
to feed their written word omnivory.
98
Sitting sideways going forward northward on the train,
waiting, watching platforms pass,
ensconced in plastic, steel, and glass,
two passengers in cabin class,
not underclass, who under-pass
paths slowly cast past low landmass,
at last borne fast through hewn terrain, arriving soon to new domain.
And as they surf the dark
they catch a splash of light,
a rhythmic pulsing spark,
like capturing a sprite.
Amber lanterns fly past, flashing
in the tunnels, faeries dashing
pole to pole, like fireflies
trapped in steel, they hypnotize
captive souls, they captivate
boxed-in riders, congregate
in fleeting dance, they pass the day
in shadow, then, they flit away.
[Amber lanterns fly past,]
[flashing in the tunnels,]
[faeries dashing pole to pole,]
[like fireflies trapped in steel,]
[they hypnotize captive souls,]
[they captivate boxed-in riders,]
[congregate in fleeting dance,]
[they pass the day in shadow,]
[then, they flit away.]
97
CatLetter1 CatLetter2 CatLetter3 CatLetter0
CatLetter4 
All day lain still in relaxed dream,
the window sill, the gold sunbeam,
the dad and daughter passing by
who catch his barely-opened eye,
the twitch, the chirp, the blink, the yawn,
the big stretch, toes like little prawns,
to sit up squinting at the street,
as people pass in summer's heat.
And every day the little cat sits down to write a letter.
And every day he gets one back becomes a little better.
"The sun today," with pen he writes,
"came in the window warm and bright
and bathed my fur with glowing light.
I think I'll sleep quite well tonight."
And now he waits for your reply, dear niece.
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These poems are Avi's diary. You can email him at avi@invariablyhappy.com