Curious George found Skis

Gave me another book to read

And I sat on the stairs

The sun shines blue

The plants wanted food

And somebody, somewhere, cared

The ceiling fan spun

I watched and had fun

I'm one so easily entertained...

Long conversations can

Be found in small talk

"It's been a while since it rained"

I'm

There's my sign, covering my shirt. I made it myself.

The shirt says I speak for the trees.

I'm not a lawyer, I'm 16.

I don't actually speak for the trees.

But I was raised on Wall-E and Dr. Suess.

They told me that I could make a change if I wanted.

I can't. I could plant a tree, I could pick-up trash, and I could stop eating meat.

but I could not make change.

The world won't end, but it's gonna get hard to live in.

No one has to care, not the rich at least. Not until their taxes are raised.

The kids have given up. A few hold their signs, and sign their petitions.

A few got desparate and went crazy. How could they not? But most gave up.

Thats okay, Greta Thunberg did it. She made a stir.

She's a joke now. Apparently. A broken record. An overplayed song.

This is ridiculous. I should put the sign down, I should go home.

But I'm crazy too.

I look at the green horizon. It shouldn't be like that.

It's pretty, but it shouldn't be like that.

Our springs, algae flowing in the current. It shouldn't be like that either.

The boardwalks were cut off, they had to be shortened.

The sea's gotten closer. It shouldn't be like that.

Sometimes I go to the middle of my town. We have a tree there. Two of them.

I climb one. I get to the top. I'm four stories above the ground, I watch the people pass.

I can pretend for a moment, up there in the branches,

that everything's the way it should be.

I am the lorax. I beg. I beg on behalf the trees.

"Go get him, go get him."

they say it to her, not to me.

I told her third. My sister, my closest friend, and then her.

Because I knew. I knew she liked him too. so I told her.

"Can I tell anybody? or..."

It'd be fair of me to say yes. After all, I told my friend and my sister about her.

"No, I'd rather not. I don't want to complicate things."

Good decision. Nobody knows about me. But nobody tells me to

"Go get him, go get him."

Would they? If they knew? Would they take sides?

I'm a friend first, but the less experienced romantic in me screams to

go get him, go get him.

Love always wins right?

but which kind of Love?

I'm a friend first. I'm a friend first.

"Go get him," I whisper. I'm a friend first. "Go get him."

Maybe we could just... chill? Like, in the same vicinity?

We could forget the acidity we left behind.

Baby we could relax... lay your head back in my lap,

and if you promise not to laugh I might call you mine.

I don't want to make mountains of of anthills, darling-

'cause I don't want to fall from somewhere high.

No, I don't want to go somewhere cold where I can't

hold your hand- so let's stay in the sand and watch the sky.

about three years ago I moved to a neighborhood right downtown. thirteen year old me was given freedom, and suddenly the entire city was at my fingerips. but it wasn't quite in the palm of my hand.

no. That luxury belonged to the Nuerological Sleep lab on the corner of 1st Ave North and 22nd.

Or better yet, the entity I had nicknamed "the Vandal"

It started with the Sleep lab. I was suspicious of the place, of its tan walls and vacant, quiet premises, the way it was almost hauntingly invisible, a void in the middle of the most colorful street in the city. I did my research on the head doctor, on what they studied- I watched the doctors go in and out, I even memorized their schedules.

Eventually I gave up. I had nothing to go on. Just a gut feeling.

That was until I saw the symbol for the first time, about 2 years later. It was simple- a black circle, about an inch below a black triangle. I searched the internet for something that matched, but I found nothing that looked exactly like it.

about two months ago I started volunteering at the local courthouse. Every time I passed I looked at the sculpture they have on their lawn, bright red chairs of every unique shape. It was on one of those brief looks that I saw it. The symbol.

I'd only seen it two places now. The Sleep lab and the Courthouse. It had to mean something. Except that places so serious and important always- and I mean always- scrub r paint over vandalism. especially on such iconic art installations.

But I wasn't fully sold. we have nearly 700 murals in my city, and about 7000 acts of vandalism each year. Some of the better ones have a signature- Fade and Moon among the legends. This was probably a signature of a very picky vandal.

The third time I saw it, I was climbing a tree in front of the Museum of Fine Arts. A museum known for its high-end events and exclusive, inhospitable property. They allowed the banyan and African trees to be climbed, and every now and then you could project movies on their outside wall. But don't you dare take picutres on their sidewalk.

Carved in the africa tree was the symbol.

That was last week.

"Good Morning, Bella."

She didn't jump, she was too good for that. but I knew her well enough to know that she was startled. the twitch of her pinkie gave it away.

"Good Morning. How are you?" She turned and smiled at me, as though I was an old friend. Going through the script we followed.

"Good." I played along. Turning to the barista, I asked for a cappucino. Wasn't usually my style of coffee, but we were in Italy. I knew she wouldn't have left Venice yet, we hadn't gotten a new job. Not yet. And despite the size of the Island city, It'd still taken me all morning to find her.

"How's your mother? Still making the most incredible casserole?"

It was our way of asking if we'd gotten another assignment, and a time and place to meet.

Her finger twitched again, this time her left thumb. She was getting impatient with me. I was so clearly ignoring all of her hints. Making her play this charade instead of leaving her alone.

"Oh she's bored. Not doing much these days." The barista came with my cappucino and I took it, sliding into a seat beside her. Her thumb twitched again. I didn't respond in script.

I looked around the busy, small cafe. It had a lot of character, just like Venice. I could feel her eyes boring into me, hear her thumb begin to make little, fidgety circles on the glass. We worked together for decades. We were notorious! But clearly, we couldn't get on the same page about some things.

"So, tell me about last night!" I looked back at her, her eyebrow twitching this time.

Oh yeah. She did not like this one bit.

"I heard that you were doing something I just couldn't remember if it was for work or if it was some sort of date?"

I was genuinely curious. I was the "something" in question, and I thought that it was the latter. I knew her better than anyone, and I knew her hands. I knew how they felt around my neck, or clinging onto my arm, showing the world that we were together, as yet another job. But last night felt different. Last night felt real. And of course such a relationship would complicate things, but right now, I honestly didn't care. I just wanted to be hers again. And the way she snuck away from me so quickly, I couldn't tell if she had been given a seperate mission, and needed me disarmed, or if she thought she'd made a mistake. And I couldn't tell which option would hurt worse.

"It's really none of your business, mitchell. I told you to get your own life. We're done!"

She shook her head and got up, leaving the cafe, avoiding my question, pretending I was some annoying ex.

I watched her go. Her hands, hands I've seen covered in blood, ran through hair I've seen waving in battle. But lwhether it was a lie or not, last night would forever be the night I remember her bye.

I'd see her again. And then I might get my answer.

"Could I get that canoli right there too, please? grazie."

https://open.spotify.com/track/5xcfepnz1v7a83T8An9gjw?si=7e702cbfbdce4cd4

Counting steps between sidewalk cracks...

You're walking behind me, and I hope you don't walk too fast.

We're sitting beside eachother in class-

not a word spoken, but the blink of an eye is another note passed.

Sweet, Secret Love, I know it's not enough to count,

but never before has it seemed so fun to drown.

So if you're bored, it's raining, and I know how to dance.

If you're bored, I'm here, and we could take a chance

on this Sweet, Secret Love.

It’s strange. He was so violent, so animal, but I couldn’t see him as anything less than alive.

I couldn’t separate the blood on his hands from the love in his eyes.

I found a murderer, and I couldn’t wish for him to die.

(a part of the story I'm writing that irritatingly decided to rhyme)

There's oil below America

and it's purple mountain majesties

have you ever seen such royalty?*

but the land of the free, went down

with the Monarchy

There's gold on the coast of America,

over the wall of desparate bodies.

Past the amber waves of grain,

and homes of the people that used to reign,

America's destiny lies past the plains.

There're shadows below America,

The shining city upon a hill of dead.

And the one who made it to the top,

climbed with hands, and now they're

covered in red

But there's life and love in America,

a patchwork quilt of history,

and there's so many things wrong with America,

but it's home, and its where you'll find me.

I live on America's golden shores.

I grew up by the sea;

and every day just a little bit more

of America says goodbye to me.

*royalty is refering to the Mountains, and how beautiful they are, not the oil.