I want tacos. Boatloads of Tacos. I'm talking racks and racks of tacos. Don't judge me. Or do. I don't care. I want crunchy hard tacos, fresh corn tortillas, and fluffy flour tacos. Baby-sized street tacos? Bring 'em on. Blackened Mahi Mahi, grilled salmon, Bang Bang shrimp. Come on. Crispy Tofu? Yup. Veggies? You know it. Make them over-flowing with toppings. Fresh lettuce, shredded cheese, diced onions, cilantro, thinly-sliced cabbage, (i'm serious, slice it thin or you will endure a severe side-eye glare. I'm not joking. Do it.) and shredded cheese. Did I mention I want shredded cheese? Sour cream? No thanks. Save it for the guy with a baked potato fantasy. Hook me up with that salsa too. You know how I like it. Don't skimp out on me now, things are just heating up! Hot sauce. For real. This is a hot date between me and my tacos. Time to spice it up. Is this getting too real for you? Ok. No problem. Let's cool it down a bit. Squeeze some fresh limes on top. Damn, that still sounds hot. Company, you say? Your probably thinking I want my closest friends and family to join. No thanks. I'm not sharing anyway. An audience? Maybe. None of this live-streamed nonsense. Take me to a studio with stadium seating, high-quality lighting, and camera guys. The whole shabang. I need a wheelbarrow too. Roll me away into the sunset when I'm done feasting. Cue applause and tears of joy. End scene.

Today I live,

tomorrow i may die,

But if i do something worthwhile i may leave a legacy behind.

Life isn’t fair,living it is truly a struggle,

sometimes we might fail despite the best of our attempts, but if we try, there is more then enough hope to survive.

#poetry #life #motivation #inspiration.

©Alipoetry, All Rights Reserved.

It’s not that zealous Confederates were the most pro-slavery. For many, “states’ rights for all” sounded more convincing than “slavery (for anyone who can afford it).” Yes, the wealthier the citizen, the more slaves he owned. The middle class would’ve owned one or two slaves, and the poor wouldn’t have any at all.

So Jefferson Davis’ marketing team had some work to do. How could they rally the people, even the poorest of poor, against the growing anti-slavery voices in the north? They put their heads together, and each one echoed, “It’s a free country, isn’t it? We should be able to do whatever we want. Even own slaves!”

“Yeah, but...” said that one guy who’d been fidgeting with a paperclip the whole time, “what if you don’t own any slaves?”

So this “Yeah, but...” was the key to rallying the people because it gave both the lower class and anti-slavery Confederates something to fight for, something which sounded very American: the right to do whatever.

The “right to do whatever” concept (read: argument for secession) was the peanut butter, Southern ideas of chivalry the jelly, and rampant racism was the bread that held it all together. The pretty lunchbox hiding it all was the new catchphrase: states’ rights. Whoever owned slaves could fight for owning slaves, and whoever didn’t or wouldn’t could fight for the idea of doing whatever. Lost Cause? More like Clever Marketing Strategy.

Here’s a hard fact of life: it doesn’t always go your way. Nothing ever does. Life, is a sequence of overlapping decisions that pile up until one day, like Damocles’ blade, it comes crashing down in one fell swoop.

It was late last year when I decided on this path. You don’t just have a want to be a killer, you have a need. And I, had a need. So I went on the prowl.

I was rather fond of Asian countries. The climate was good--China in particular. So I went there and found my first victims. The officials knew something was up but, fearing panic, sought to cover it all up.

After all, having a serial killer on the loose was no laughing matter. It’d hurt the local tourism industry. The economy would be devastated. So they kept quiet. And I killed more, and more. There was a sadistic joy to watching it all unfold, these actions of mine like a snowball tumbling down a hill. It was too late. They tried to corner me, but I’d escaped elsewhere. Planes were a godsend.

France, Italy, South Korea. My, my, I was a rather prolific killer if I do say so myself. And with each passing day, more and more corpses pile up, waiting to be cremated. At this point, I was untouchable. Invisible. There would never be a panacea for a serial killer like me.

One by one, each country fell as I slipped through seemingly airtight defences. Govetnments setting bounties of billions to end my reign of terror. But some refused to believe I existed. Some foolish people. They fought against ideals that could have saved them, but no, they were stubborn. To them, I was a myth. Something falsified, made up. Others didn’t take me seriously. They believed it’d never be them. Why would I, a prolific killer, pick them of all people?

There’s a saying, killing one means you’re a murder. Killing a thousand makes you a hero. I’ve killed far more than a thousand. Yet, it seems no one is keen on deeming me heroic. It’s fine, not that it matters. Heroes are always remembered that much is true.

But you and I both know, legends never die.

My reign of terror will continue as I see fit until you halt me. But until then, I, Covid-19, will continue my slaughter.

Immunity. That’s a funny word. It gives the impression that there are absolutely no effects on those who have it, those who have been handpicked by fortune and nature. It didn’t take me long, though, to realize being immune doesn’t mean freedom. It doesn’t mean impunity.

It doesn’t mean you can’t be hurt.

I stand up from the plot of grass where I’m kneeling beside my sister’s gravestone and wipe the tears from my eyes. A chill runs through my body as a breeze hits me, a bitter gust laced with the hints of a snowstorm brewing in the distance. I push my wild hair out of my eyes back behind my ear and look down the line of grave markers; there are my two brothers beside my sister, my mother beside them, my grandparents in another area of the graveyard.

My six month old daughter.

I didn’t even have enough money for a proper casket for her.

The anger surges through my veins, turning my blood to ice and making the cold November air even more intolerable. Didn’t they say children were safe? Wasn’t the plague supposed to pass by the innocent? How could my whole family be so susceptible, so ravaged by this disease, and I be so unaffected?

The doctors called it some sort of superbug, something that’s evolved far beyond our current capacity to understand. Then they studied me, and they called me an unholy incubator for the next generation of human-borne viruses. They tried to quarantine me and force me to stay in some padded, plastic bubble room, but I couldn’t let them do that. They told me I’m a danger to the public and to the people I come in contact with.

Well, that much I’m counting on.

I turn from the gravestone marked Lillian Mitchell: March 23rd, 2020 - September 17th, 2020 and make my way slowly back to my car. Well, not my car. I’m...borrowing it. The owners wouldn’t want it back anyways, not if they knew the Angel of Death had occupied it. I’m doing them a favor by keeping it.

I had to sell my own car a while ago; with all the hospital payments I was making, I had to sell pretty much everything that wasn’t nailed down, and even then I didn’t have enough money to pay the rent. My landlord ignored my pleas to wait for the life insurance money to come in, and kicked he kicked me out. Wouldn’t even give me my deposit back.

Didn’t matter anyways—the insurance money never came. The agent said there was nothing they could do because it was an Act of God, whatever the hell that means. There’s no way this disease is an act of any god I know. If infecting people and getting them killed mere days later is god-like, then I’m about to become a deity.

~

I step into the property management offices of my old complex and make my way to the office of Mr. Nate Euler. He’s sitting behind a nice looking desk decorated by an arsenal of degrees, licenses, and training certificates—the prideful sack of crap. It’s not like he’s a university professor or anything.

He turns around when I come in and rushes to put on a mask. The mask has crudely designed comic characters printed all over it; it looks like he cut out his pajamas or something to make it. I laugh internally. The fabric won’t stop anything—it didn’t with my family.

“Ms. Mitchell, I didn’t realize you’d be here. If your looking for the garbage you left behind in your apartment, I had to toss it—”

“Oh no,” I say with the most fraudulent smile I can muster. “I appreciate you taking care of that for me. I’m sorry I’ve been such a pain recently.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” he says with a scornful chuckle, though I sense him lowering his defenses. Good.

“Well,” I say, brushing my hair back with a sideways smile, a smile hidden by my own mask, of course, “I know you have a rough job and it’s been hard dealing with all the crazy cases this year. I’m sure it’s been wearing on you.”

He shrugs and sits back in his seat, his ego apparent in the way he moves.

“Yeah, for sure. It’s not as easy as you think, all the idiots I have to deal with. Whole world is going down the crapper, if you ask me. It’s probably better that your family isn’t here to see it.”

I suppress the fury that’s beating against my chest and force my eyes to maintain their indifferent look. It almost makes me throw-up to continue with what I have to say next.

“Anyways, I just wanted to say thanks for helping me through the moving-out process. If you’re free Friday next week, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

Mr. Euler widens his eyes in surprise and rolls himself in his seat closer to me.

“Well I can’t say no to that, can I?”

I grin, hoping my eyes portray benevolence rather than the burning spitefulness that’s consuming every cell of my body.

“I should hope you wouldn’t,” I say, leaning forward so close that I can see the individual blackheads on his nose. I pull my mask down and place a gentle kiss on the round, exposed part of his upper cheek, then take a flower from my bag and leave it on his desk. He doesn’t know it yet, but he won’t even make it to next week. I’ve given him much more than just that flower, a million-strong army that’s just invaded his body.

I turn to leave the room but give his desk one last look, at the pinkish flower resting by one of his trophies. It’s a shame to leave something so beautiful so close to this disgusting man. He definitely doesn’t deserve it, but I want it to be the last thing he sees before he dies. I want him to remember what brought him to Hell’s gates.

It’s a lily.

I’ve got a dozen more in my car.

I'm a girl

a girl who exaggerates her problems

just like everyone else

a girl who tries to fit in

just like everyone else

a girl who can't fit in

just like everyone else

I'm a girl

who is so much like everyone else

who tries to be so much like everyone else

that I don't know who myself is

only that I'm a carbon copy

of the next teenage girl you see walking down the street

except that I'm a carbon copy

that didn't turn out quite right

so in the end

I'm a girl

just a girl

a girl who tries but fails and keep trying because there's no other option

because not fitting in isn't an option

not anymore

because I changed from that fifth grader

who strived in every way to not be like everyone else

but I didn't change like everyone else

just enough to be on the outside looking in

a girl who can't hack it

not enough to fit in

a try-hard who can't try hard enough

so here I am

trying and failing and trying some more

because I have no more options left.

The Motherlands

I am African no I wasn’t born there but my souls feels like it should be home in Africa my heart beats like a drum with Africa I am an African

Because she is the cradle of our birth

And nurtures an ancient wisdom

I am an African

Because she lives in the world’s shadow

And bursts with a radiant luminosity

I am an African

Because she is the land of tomorrow

And I recognise her gifts as sacred when Africa weeps for her children my eyes are filled with tears when Africa pays homage to her elders my head is bowed in respect when Africa mourns for her victims my eyes close for prayers when Africa celebrates my feet come alive and start dancing for I am African her brown eyes watching over the motherlands her people greet me as family teaching me the meaning of an African community I walk in her pathways and become part of footprints in history the beautiful wildness quenched my spirit beautiful Africa sparked the creation the first great nation We Africans

We, the migrants of opportunity

We, the leaders of the fair and free

Welcome us

For as we join as fragile friends

So we prosper in the end For as you gain so we have lost

And what we give once came with a cost the true migrants of opportunity we stand proud and free We Africans

We, the dancers of our freedoms

We, the voices of new seasons

Reunite us

For our culture is our rainbow put on display our genes are forever aligned in Africa’s DNA for my suffering left tears in the motherlands eyes the gold buried under the pyramids reflects our ancient golden history proud Africans we all our so celebrate with us as the past meets the present and history shall continue to be written African I am proud to say Africa is my motherland she is my grace ...

Do all palindromes go both ways?

Is something I must ponder

Watching HannaH kissing EllE would be a thing of wonder.

And EvE and AnnA making love

Would make me smile and say

It's such a lovely thing to see

Palindromes that go both ways.

And BoB and OttO making out

In tender soft embrace

As PiP comes in to join them now

And LoL takes up his place.

But wait,! This story could go bad

I never thought it through

Its MoM and MuM and NaN and DaD

They're palindromic too!

Ah, well I guess they're people and

Entitled to have fun

As palindromes and go both ways.

Oh, No! Here comes a NuN !

Doc Mayfield pulled into the parking lot of the Middleton Cemetery and killed the engine. He sat there for a minute gazing across the green lawns, interspersed with headstones and angelic statuary. Climbing out of the truck, he winced as the arthritis in his left knee gave a little holler. He tolerated most of the aches and pains which accompanied aging, but the darn arthritis wasn’t always easy to ignore. He supposed he might have to use some of that Icy-Hot stuff, but Lord, it smelled so bad!

Reaching into the back of the truck, Doc retrieved a small plastic bucket, containing gloves, a whiskbroom, and other small yardwork tools. He also grabbed the small bouquet of lilies he'd picked up on the way here; lilies had always been Aggie’s favorite.

He approached the familiar headstone with reverence, as he had almost every week for the last thirty-five years. Setting the bucket down, he leaned over and removed the stems of what had once been fresh flowers before replacing them with the bundle of lilies. He was careful not to drop the old stems, but instead folded them and placed them in his jacket pocket—he would deposit them in the can by the entrance on his way out.

He grabbed the whiskbroom from the bucket, and lovingly brushed the surface of the headstone, then slowly traced the words with his fingertip.

Agnes Lucille Trindle

15 Jan. 1943 – 18 Jun 1961

Fly With Angels, Beloved

Often, especially when he was younger, seeing her name engraved on this stone had brought him to tears. Her name should have been Agnes Mayfield . . . and it shouldn’t have been here at all. Although he had come to terms with his grief many years ago, he still missed her every day; he always would.

“Aggie my love, I’m sorry I didn’t make it out to visit you last week. Between delivering a foal on Wednesday night, and surgery on a dog on Thursday morning, it was just too hectic. I know you understand sweetheart.”

He pulled the only weed he could see growing at the base of the stone, and using the spade, he edged the entire plot where she was buried. Her grave was the most well kept one in the cemetery, due to his weekly upkeep, and it saddened him to think how so many folks had no one to do this for them.

His mind returned once again, as it did every time he visited her, to that night many years ago, when his future father-in-law had come to the door, tears streaming down his face. The news of the accident had shattered Doc’s world forever. The worst part was, he had no one to blame except maybe God, and somehow his anger never seemed to impress God much. He even found his faith hadn’t been completely destroyed . . . and once the anger had been replaced by acceptance, he had even started attending church again, if only intermittently.

Doc had discovered a sad truth on that long ago day—losing your soul mate permanently divided your life, into a before and an after. Once, he had been a carefree young man looking forward to becoming an animal doctor, with his wife standing by his side; now he was a lonely old man who found solace in treating the animals of his friends and neighbors, and in his surrogate family at the clinic.

“I think I’m going to give young Peter a raise. I’m pretty sure he intends to ask Amanda Donner for her hand in marriage. A young man with matrimony on his mind needs all the financial support he can earn; besides, he really is the hardest working young man I’ve ever hired.

“I gave Grace some roses for her birthday yesterday, and you’d think I’d given her a gold mine. It warmed my old heart to see how much some silly flowers meant to her, and it made me realize yours were getting old, after a missed week. I hope you like these new ones.”

He stood, and as the muffled popping of his left knee disturbed the stillness, he glanced at her gravestone again, then reached down and picked up his bucket of tools.

“As always, my sweet, sweet dear, I’ll see you again, when God calls my number. Until then, I love you.”

With that he turned and slowly walked back towards the parking lot, and the quiet ride home in the truck.