Co-Vwhatever

 Just a few photos to remember the start of a great pandemic :) 

always reminding us how cool they are

and foggy

the docks have changed

but...

the 'hmph, i expected more' stance

yum

mmm, dinosaurs and legs, yum

the fun never ends

i know most people post while on the trip themselves --- but one thing i noticed over time is the 'later on'... sometimes i miss the little things in a photo on a trip until months later when I'm scrolling through - only to find penis graffiti or Zane flipping me off...
so here they are - Austin, Seattle, Portland, New York, Colorado, L.A. a couple of times, and all the in betweens

in this one Houston looks like Gotham as i returned from Los Angeles in the middle of the night ...ewww creepy  downtown was deserted (and no, no filters were used, just a la natural fog and lights)

Check It Out

Go there, be square, buy a ton ----


https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=dp_byline_sr_ebooks_1?ie=UTF8&text=Tracy+Lyall&search-alias=digital-text&field-author=Tracy+Lyall&sort=relevancerank

coolest chic ever

http://www.jensincero.com

northwest

seattle, you are my new god - i can't wait to see you again!

last fall

i miss me babies and i miss the words... thank you new york for having me, even if it was only fleeting..

placentas in jars

Sal is always drunk and showing up at Mike’s.

Ruthie is home; she shows me jars of kombucha she is brewing.

Like a big placenta in a jar. Green tea kombucha, ‘it’s a fungus’.

Ruthie digs out a piece of the placenta and places it in a plastic bag to take home with me, ties it up. Now I can make green tea, sun tea, and jar kombucha for free.

Ferment 7 days and begin again.

I take the kids home. They always rebuke homework, in magnet programs.

I get them to do their math by going shopping at the thrift store.

Two hours of digging in used clothes, labeled by male or female and occasionally colors but unorganized. They scream at the thought, until now, until the ‘thrift shop song’:

‘I’m gonna pop some tags. Only got twenty dollars in my pocket.’

When I pick up Zane from school, he’s excited about losing a tooth –

said it popped out into this girls afro.

Chelcey begins texting me from the university bookstore.

One after the other, “don’t reply yet”, she says.

I’m gathering 15 novels together. Twenty years of school;

ever since the community college course years ago,

sitting on the San Jacinto River, backdrop of industrial smokestacks,

the World War II Battleship, and the sound of the ferry.

The toll of its horn as it carts the vehicles back and forth.

Miles away, near the Houston/Pasadena border – the underground tunnel used to leak, drip river water down its tile walls, curved and rusting.

When we were children, we used to hope the tunnel would cave in while we were driving, crack and drown the old steel cars; water pushing against the windows, wondering how long before it came inside, wondering how long we could hold our breath before we were crushed by the cement worm.

Long before I realized ‘near-death’ meant – no one cares if you’re lying on a sidewalk somewhere, they will walk past, unless they can get a piece of ass out of it.

Chelcey lives in an apartment in the inner loop:

• the firemen and coroner are next door
• it smells incredibly bad
• the old lady next door has been dead for several days and they just found her body
• the cat is over here at my house
• I’m going to have to leave because of the smell, stay the night somewhere
• I can give you one of my cats to keep the dead ladies cat company
• No
• I think I should go with pink instead of purple. For the restaurant, pink underneath. It’s a bit more modern. Do you think I’m too old for pink hair?
• Like manga. It’s horrible here, I have to get out, glad I’m working a double.
• They know it’s too late to get rid of the smell. You’ll have to burn the apartment down.
• No
• I will
• No
• Someone needs to burn down the whole neighborhood. And get rid of the cops. Just riot and kill. Clean up the streets, know what I mean?
• No
• Fine. You’ll come around one day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

mom

Sometimes I take on the persona

of my mother,

The one who never knew

poverty & insecurity among middle-school peers.

The mother of vacations –

pale flesh, cute fat toes, chubby cheeks, and “perfect family”,

dishes with lids, color-coded and labeled system of perfection,

clothes neatly folded

swim wear, beach toys, and sunglasses.

He wouldn’t keep her at the house by tampering with the car today.

She wouldn’t be insulted at the office

by the old men and the old men’s sons of old money

dominant money of the oil elite

oil, gas, lumber, rodeo.

She expresses her freedom through smiles and “ok’s”

as we wander off with bikes or sand buckets.

Or maybe it was me who was free –

no one to climb into my bedding.

my sister – always cartoons and sodas.

my children crash the waves

sit in the sand

Zane says, ---  “Life is like a wave –

                                       you either catch it or you don’t.”

yum

Crawfish season in Houston - 'nuff said

(excerpt from Antidote)

(His scarf, skinny junky arms, clammy hands, and leather jacket.)

- I remember guys like you. The metal kind, you prefer blondes and breasty beasts while I'm thin and titless, (and they are beginning to ban the physique of women like me in some countries). I'm the English major, you're the rock star and I'm a f*&king clown. Sexy doesn't come easy to girls like me, strutting nipples of a 12 year old boy....

...Like I said, you're a rock star and I'm a f*&king clown…

You'll find me in the back of the bus, off to the side at art shows, on the front row at concerts, in the dark alleys, roaming Wal-Marts at 2 am. People like me don't even go to clubs because we aren't sexy enough. We mar ourselves, maim and war with our minds. (F you rock star.)

It's a junky Christmas; I should have done a background check on this one, the I-pad card swipe in the club - name, social security, and license – hold on a moment. Silent but deadly. My own prefab delusions withstand hurricanes from the Gulf, tornadoes in the Midwest, the wet insulation of the roof causing the ceiling to droop, to crash in suddenly as if a surprise. The shingle needed to be replaced. Programs of the world are designed for lowering expectations. They begin in our youth, in poverty, in 9 to 5 routines of socially constructed slavery, in ads promoting the miraculous drug of consumerism. You too can be happy if you have the finest clothes, the latest technological advancements, the boob jobs, face puffs, lip injections, tummy tucks, butt tucks, alcohol, cigarettes, fastest car, largest home; watch how the masses crumble with anticipation, scrabble with attainment, push and shove for just one more hit of the goods. Then come the guns, the thievery, the medication and the nightmare pill.

We pack up and drive, drive as far away as we can from the negative madness that is Houston. Fuzzy blankets, pillows, coffee, and whatever we can cram in a bag. The house will smell like shit when we return - four cats battling for domination, for control over the litter box, and pooping on floors.

Kira mumbles 'Iron Man'. I'm thrown back to high school, mid 80's, the weekend with the church, the gym, and racquetball. They left a handful of preteens alone in a gym. We snuck off to the racquetball rooms. Yes, I kissed him, my first kiss, it sucked he had nasty breath and chaffed lips, I did it again wondering why television made such a fuss over two people pressing faces; halitosis and slobber. I told him to swallow, chew gum, and maybe we'd just hold hands. We spent weeks on the phone, late night conversations with me doing all the talking. Silence. He'd say, listen to this, play Iron Man. Duh duh duh duh duh... 'I…am…iron man'...the words drag and linger. He always ran out of things to say and Black Sabbath filled the void.

Richee; it’s like high school with a 40-year-old incompetent junkie. He brings 45's of hair bands; those metal 80's of bleach blonde. I'm like a tit-less clown again; guys notice me when I make a scene, scream at someone, get kicked out of the bar. I play tomboy on the yellow bus at camp, smoke cigarettes and try to act 'cool'. Zip the hood up higher and think maybe they'll appreciate me for my voice, my song or my literacy. My freak show is like GaGa without the cute. The prepubescent possibilities wear off after the aging, the wrinkles and cavities – not marketable by Hollywood standards. 

He plays the 45's on my record player, his clammy hands and metal head scarves, his highs. He watches Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, too arrogant for small towns, too deceptive for trust. He doesn't talk, doesn't answer questions asked, doesn't care to lie next to me. Days later, after my constant attempts to text him and connect with him, he says, "You don't know me." 

"No shit, well it helps if you talk."

(R.I.P. Richee - sorry man)

Kira

A mess in the kitchen with the dogs should be the title of my new piece. Of broken promises and forgotten checks. Of slaving for weeks and then denying you promised me anything, denying you could have given more. We were lost in the moment. …. in the home=made gin in clear casks along walls, fruit floating along the top of the clear and forbidden liquid. The wedding party that never arrived. Jim built a fire pit and we gathered around. For warmth, stupid conversation and ways to adjust to the ever changing threat to our meager existence. Where they begin building bizarre inner city planned communities of condominiums and homes side by side like brick pile ons. With their windows open they fake as if they've been there, they can relate to the suffering, the reggae love songs, the temple songs, the songs of death and war and separation – songs of isolation. They deny their existence while their kids play ball in the streets, make fun of other girls, climb into inflatable balls to roll around in the man made park with a man made pond and spouting spring. The taco truck park expanded.

MLK used to be for the underprivileged, for the black americans, and those separated from the whole of white society. It's where my ex and I rented our first house for less than 800 dollars. And I was working at the HEB down the street. My gin and tonics from the Lounge, you know, the Aristocrat Lounge where I drank gin and smoked Marlboro reds until that one day, the day I was sick to my stomach and knew, knew that something was amiss, not right in my body. So I crawled into bed for days, came out fighting, telling my ex that he needed to die and crying over the goddamn entity I could feel growing inside my womb. I could not remove her, knew she was special, was to be born on a high holy day. The first day of Rosh Hashanah. My ever loving egg grown to fetus grown to exploding from my womb in a mess of after birth. And I cried again. For all of us; for those of us born and forced to live in this beautiful reality. For me and my mother who cannot stand me. For you who needs scholarships to graduate from the most prestigious of schools.

And I curse those around me; need you to keep me sane. Need you more than breath. My god child; my first born. Please don't forget me; I'd die for you.

(thank you Chris for being there for me all this time - i'm glad we met last November, i depend on our nightly conversations)

“You make a great Mona Lisa – but you’re not one of us" he says

they will break me down.

Their glitz, glamour, cherub fountains, Vegas strips, and plastic surgery

The flickering bulbs and rush of traffic. Asphalt, high-rise, monuments, pole dancers, slot machines, mixed drinks, and posh hotels. The whirlpool Jacuzzi.

All the glamour of 90210.

The judges line up like game show, like who wants to be a millionaire, who’s got talent –

a specimen of (is this a prize breed?), the cattle prod –-

they’ll inspect my ass, thighs, teeth, stock. Am I prime stock? Grade A prime beef? For your liking or taking. Is my pussy tight and smooth – a playboy model for the mansion. Is my skin exquisite enough for swimming pools and movie stars? My luscious tan and youthful plump.

Comparisons will be made – to blonder, taller, fuller breasts

DNA sampled

A nightmare.

As I’ve grown accustomed to doughnut shops on back alleys downtown, cheap gasoline, and drunk lovers. Learned to take moments watching the sugar dissolve in my tea. Read the books of ‘mon ami’ as I lie in his bed with bugs. Little scars on my leg, he’s out cycling, in a race I knew nothing of.

Grown accustomed to being nobody and no one –

Crushed, overlooked, off to the side for sex or pride and revenge –

“damaged goods”, they say.

Maybe that’s’ your next big heartfelt hit, ‘damaged goods’

The girl left behind like butterfly effect, flies to the body bags of decay, kittens or dogs tossed out on the freeway – thinking, ‘who would do that?’

‘why?’

even the simplest things evade me – that warm bellied body, (full bodied taste) on trips out of town. The lie still why do you need sex with every touch of the hand, the caress of greying hair, the cock ring to keep it sturdy.

Assets, assets, and bank accounts in an elitist world --- I am ill adapted to

(complaining I use profanity while on the phone in the back corner of the coffee shop)

you drive expensive vehicles --- and I have to say, I love drinking craft beer in a dark Irish bar throwing darts, my shoes off – as the bartender lights the outdoor heat lamps, you’re buzzing and staring at me; that look of mild intoxication and adoration. So I throw a bean bag and your glass shatters on the brick. Do you think these people would give a shit if we were living a high school drama; a punk rock fantasy novel? That maybe all the money in the world couldn’t buy intimate pulp fictions of imperfection in their nip and tuck, chauffeur, news articles, reviews, and camera flashes, flashes, expensive tastes and questionable ethics.

Imperfect,

Tainted,

‘damaged goods’

after the party’s over

as if they would understand --- grocery shopping for chocolate at 2 am cuz im moody and sad, beer tasting, sweaty summer on the couch Netflix movie, rearranging the closet, changing pillow cases, throwing out old toothbrushes, cleaning the studio, and awakening in the middle of the night to look over and smile sleepily as we pull our bodies close--

for warmth,

for life.

valentine's is for lovers

Even though you’re just sitting there handsome, silent and motionless,

I’ve created sitcoms for you in my mind –

You – the John Holmes lover in my big, cheesy porn debut,

holding your monster-truck up to my dirty, open mouth

eyes coked up in slits, nude and oily wet.

- A rock-star with your hair slinging

while striking your flying V guitar with the seduction and angst

of a teenage speed-freak rebel. Yea, you contributed to rock history,

so all those small town punk-rock smelly tattooed boys can piss off,

you got a page in Rolling Stone, with your shades on.

You were the schizophrenic staring at walls, talking to paper towel rolls

and Styrofoam cups down and out – need a mother lover recovering alcoholic needle-pusher,

detoxing on 30 year old couches with beer-gutted men and skanks like me.

You were in an Alice Cooper cover band,

harbored in the desert, chasing scorpions growing your beard out,

eating organic, passing around pictures of you and Alice

to other 40something washed-up musicians in hotels,

selling insurance, working at auto-shops.

You sat at the bus-stop in a greasy mechanics shirt, head in your hands,

no ring on your finger and losing your hair.

Then you were that young, skinny and compulsively lying Canadian

cowboy with snap-up shirt and jeans dancing beneath the fog and lights

at the ancient discotheque, with young scenesters hoping to be famous

in an oil town of industry.

Later, you bought Italian shoes, put in hair extensions, wearing polyester

I did not dry-hump your leg; you were everyone’s dance-slut.

You were the peeping tom at the gas-station next door

watching me pump my gas – 1, 2, shove the nozzle in deep

wait, pull it out and drive away.

You take notes near the window, in a yellow steno-pad.

You were the rock-n-roll hot-rod cruising bachelor

in 70’s Starsky and Hutch sunshades. Yea, dynamite –

I play hooker, you give me a free ride.

The beatnik son of god, doing yoga, strumming out a tune on your steering wheel

parting the waters of my thighs with your free hand,

you burn a bush better than Moses.

The wind whips through my hair; sink down,

90 miles an hour on hot pavement.

There’s a big-bang in my gut – I birth 3 uninhabitable stars that become planets.

The aliens create monkey farms, come down to mate with them,

attempt human match-ups and tattoo hieroglyphic messages down my spine.

You are beyond mankind – within the orb of my chakra of … (f*&#)

and it’s been so long for me that your little tiny weenie

is like -- Godzilla -- fighting off gill headed fish creatures,

breathing hot flames and trampling ALL of Tokyo.

Yeah, you’re probably just some stupid idiot,

but I’ve turned you into many things in my mind.

       

(p.s. thanks for the 2006 show in houston B-Head, it really changed my life.

p.s.s. these are ALL yours... get a lawyer.)

people buy art

  http://www.tracy-lyall.portfoliobox.me/tracy-lyall

in the industrial trenches

If I could be just like a young babe, curling my toes on the couch,

playing with keys, sunlight through the window strikes. Rain.

The darkness. The secret sermons in basements

where they hid from the women, the 'eastern stars', the southern hair.

The lodge was solace and deception, You saved flavored tobacco in pipes, in the garage.

Always garages, of metal and trinkets and toys for the elder men.

Always crummy foods of packaged and processed, the spam, the Cheetos,

the canned and waxy vegetables. I look away. You mow the yard.

What is that black, that void when I close my eyes and all is lost beyond the grave?

I must have died during the birthing process.

Left a hole large enough to escape from and yet never returning to.

This flesh born of my mothers, this skin grown in a womb dish like a baby pup,

the wad of goo growing arms, growing legs – when does life begin?

When the sperm hit the egg; it never became anything.

Like snapshots of summer, stacking in our subconscious.

Lemonade stands and death in the streets.

Fire hydrants and 4 a.m. Gunshots, the drunks around the corner up all night

high on cocaine and shooting guns into the air.

My father was never a country boy but pretends he was, on the edge of the mechanical city,

the industrial suburb, the steel nights, the pipes breaking.

The air is thick with working gloves, safety gear, and sweat.

They slave in the factories, like animals tied to posts, strapped to machines to feed their babies.

The lies of the founding fathers, keeping us locked in the trenches, keeping us at each others throats. The sweat of the grandfathers at the chemical plants, the wrench turners, the odorous clouds,

they push me down to their level.

He has a book book cover over his I-pad, tells me how him and his wife still read,

how he carved a hole in the book to propose. She likes science fiction. They compliment each other;

he explains interlocking puzzles.

I tell him how my grandmother has become infantile, her generation of meticulous categorization.

How the twenties bred an organized state of placement.

File cabinets were labeled, coffee cans, labeled bins, bowls with names,

and specific items for a specific purpose.

Back when the goods were sparse and to buy a couch or table or something other meant – forever.

They kept their household belongings forever.

Even their spouses.

Til death do they all part.