I'm lying on the sofa and my cat sits on my chest. It's the best. I put down what I'm doing to make room to settle in. Such a win. His purring vibrates noisily. He croaks a hoarse meow. I'm stuck now. He rubs his face against my face. We both have found our perfect place. He suddenly looks at the door, springs up, jumps down, and leaves. With a sigh I grieve. He didn't even say goodbye. So I die.
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Glinting, gleaming, glowing eyes that see the world through sound and touch, knobbled, knotted, gnarled hands that swing a cane, not as a crutch but as a percussive surprise for tapping beats on makeshift drums or finding giant outdoor urns to thrust her face inside and hum. She seeks the resonating tone and lingers with musical glee, and when she stops the note continues in the air echoically. And in the dark two glassy paintings, mottled blue like stormy seas, emit a light that's joy-sustaining and observe invisibly.
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Single serving popping penes, tensive turgid whizzing wienies, flying free like green Houdinis, spraying seeds from burst zucchinis. Seedpods explode like grenades, pressure pulse from valve cascades launching pips like cannonades from plant rubbing escapades.
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https://www.instagram.com/miss.mantis/
A miniature sculptor of moderate size, of entomic dresses and floral thigh-highs, of possums and blossoms, communing raccoons, and curated shades of purples and maroons. And off in the corner under picture frames her husband is working 'til time for boardgames. A cool summer evening on top of the hill, we sit in their condo and quietly chill. Tip-tapping of fingers, the scratch of my pen, a peacefulness lingers among us, and then she offers me chocolate with hazelnut bits and gathers her laptop and blanket and sits on the other sofa with her cup of tea, and says, 😫 "Too much liquid! Now I have to pee!" And each exposed surface is covered in bugs. There are bugs in the windows and bugs on the rugs and bugs on the shelves and bugs on the wall and bugs in the stairwell and bugs in the hall and bugs in glass cases and bugs on the floor and, let's not forget, there are bugs on the door and bugs on the spoons and bugs on the mugs and bugs wearing costumes and bugs giving hugs. And twining vines line every wall of the room, with bats, skulls, and ravens like a gothy tomb, and fabulous fabrics fresh from her dad's loom, and crêpe paper flowers in permanent bloom where packed cozy comfort leaves no space for gloom.
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Dainty mushrooms keep growing in my sage. Slim stalks come of age, rampage, wage war across a soiled stage. I pull them out but they just...come right back. Baby umbrellas bushwhack, toxic non-snacks counter-attack. Each day I spot more and pluck them gently. Consequently they rise, intently, but placed differently. Movement makes me think they spawn from below. Tendrils grow, burrow, first slow then whoa, to fruit a white chapeau. Maybe I should water the planter less? I guess, if pressed, I should decompress, suppress stress, and assess.
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These poems are Avi's diary. You can email him at avi@invariablyhappy.com