Poetry: Ellyn Maybe

ELLYN MAYBE: An Irresistible Force ‘Ellyn Maybe is an irresistible force. To read or listen to her poetry is to be gently and completely crushed while simultaneously inspired and charmed. The honesty with which she so exquisitely reveals her vulnerabilities, desires and pain is beautiful and rare.” — Henry Rollins Bluerailroad, in our proud tradition of publishing the work of great poets including Mark Salerno, John Doe, Sean Heaney, Exene Cervenka, Edmund Martifice and others, is honored to publish a handful of poems by the great Ellyn Maybe. Ellen has been enriching the Angeleno art world with her mind and spirit for some time. Her work has been included in many anthologies and she has had quite a few books published. Her fans include Greil Marcus, Henry Rollins, Jackson Browne, Earl Grey and the entire staff of Bluerailroad. She has toured internationally as a solo artist and with her band. Her latest musical project is a duet called Ellyn and Robbie. www.ellynandrobbie.com For all things Ellen and her beautiful poetry: www.ellynmaybe.com http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Mjf1EuJ37w THERE WERE TWO GIRLS WHO LOOKED A LOT THE SAMEThey had eyelashes that looked like a hula skirt made of coal. They blinked. Once they were happy. Twice they were bored. Three times it was a comedy of manners. They had a husky voice for the schoolyard and a girly voice when no one was listening. They laughed at the same jokes. They both thought Steven Wright was hysterical. They knew many show tunes by heart. One would burst into All That Jazz, then she’d nod and the other would launch into The Ladies Who Lunch. They both loved Kubrick. They both loved Truffaut. One could quote from Dr. Strange Love. One could quote from The 400 Blows. They stayed up all night watching All About Eve, Mildred Pierce, Annie Hall and Lolita. Over and Over. One wore rouge. One just blushed. One wore lipstick. One bit her lip. It looked like they wore glasses, but really it was a telescope. The astronomy was tangible. Both could fly. It was matter of fact. They were night owls, they liked crème brûlée and they could fly. They mostly walked, they weren’t flaunters. They studied the Renaissance. They saw themselves writing sonnets and painting on ceilings. They thought the body was 90 percent water and 10 percent confetti. Of course they should celebrate. Of course they should swim. They kept calendars from every year the world had been breathing. They knew where the first tear had been shed. When the first apple had fallen far from the tree. They went into melancholy as deeply as joy. They memorized sce nes from A Streetcar Named Desire, Death of A Salesman and The Iceman Cometh. Then suddenly it was Gidget movies, American Bandstand and Grease. They wanted a bite from each world. One day they went shopping for mini skirts. One was twirling. One was somber. The happy one said in a Noel Coward twang “ta ta, I want men to like me for more than my mind.” The other said, “you’ll get more than that. They won’t even notice your mind.” The happy one looked pathos in the eye as if she knew which horse would win at the race track. Men stuck to her like she had a fly paper ass. She talked about Cicero and physics and after half an hour, looked up for his hypotheses. All he said was, “your clothes off or mine.” She gulped. She began speaking about the use of cinematography in Days of Heaven. Rhapsodizing on Magic Hour technique. He said, “do you believe in giving head or are you not that type of girl?” What kind of girl was she? She wouldn’t lie down and play dumb. She was about to talk about allegory. Suddenly the somber girl said “you thought life would be a picnic. True, many carrots have been brought your way, but your face says it all.” The formerly happy girl said, “what has life been like for you?” Suddenly the somber girl is trading witty quips with the same guy. They look blissful. They are talking of music. Humming to each other. Laughing. Formerly happy says, “when does he interrupt to proposition you?” Somber says, “he never does. No matter how happy he is with me, he’s never that happy if you know what I mean.” Then they simultaneously squealed, “You’ve got it better than me.” Happy said,” it’s a guys world.” Somber said, “it’s a mad world too.” Their anger gradually dissipated by the sheer absurdity. Suddenly they looked identical absolutely the same radiant/defiant and everything in between. © ellyn maybe   I HEARD WHAT SOUNDED LIKE A SONG It sounded like la. I started to hum with the knowing melody. Suddenly the voice got louder and it didn’t sound like la anymore. The voice said live. I looked around and there was Joan of Arc. She said Leonard Cohen got me right. Music is the highest calling. She said live. I know it’s not easy being a woman who knows the difference between Gene Kelly and Gene Krupa. Miles Davis and Miles Traveled. I know how men make women wear armor of all kinds. It’s natural to think of blowing out your candles. When you read Tennessee Williams, many things go through one’s mind. It’s hard to watch angels go to bed with wings and in the morning it’s ash. Dreyer got it right. T he soul is in the eyes. Close-up. She said I’m a trick candle. They think they extinguished me, but I never completely go out. Live. My body is not my soul. Of course not. I know martyrs from all times and seasons. We play mahjong in Heaven, we read comic books. We are not 24/ 7 serious. That’s what really scared them. Every them through history is afraid of what’s brimming and can’t be controlled. When she spoke, smoke came from her mouth like the grate of a Manhattan street. Like a dragon. She nodded it’s my DNA now. My descendants wherever they may be. They will recognize each other. Of course we can tell the chain smoker’s from the saints. We are not naive. Everyone wants a puff of immortality without having to die. Death is a passing fancy. Still for one glittering moment, I wanted a knight in shining armor to rescue me. Like Guinevere and Lancelot. But I was King Arthur. My hands were tied. I assure you, I miss the grass I used to walk on barefoot. My feet were so much dust so quickly. I was a girl who played hopscotch. I was a girl who picked berries and had little girl crushes. I was a little girl. Live hung in the air like the notes you hear after the opera is over. The reverberations last forever. © Ellyn Maybe People there are people who hold an abridged tablet of the ten commandments in the space between their teeth and jaw. there are people who come into a room with stardust on their breath like a lullaby of backward halitosis. there are people who hold the planets together by clicking their achilles heels three times. there are people who skywrite without an airplane without a net. there are people who twirl a room like a rodeo for the sheepish. there are people who have bowling parties in their pajamas while the rest of the world seems like a pin waiting for an angel to step out onto the dance floor. there are people who seem to have eyeball upon eyeball like gumballs in an arcade of vision. there are people who walk into a room a thermometer preceding them. there are people who wear their weather like perfume. there are people who know the cuckoo is the state bird of most states of mind. there are people who went to the same high school and spent each recess in the lost and found room uttering their phonetic name. there are people who will have conversations deep as deathbed soliloquies and never speak again. there are people who make whatever street they’re on Telegraph Avenue 1964. there are people who write a shopping list in hieroglyphics. there are people who look up at the sun 8000 times a day and lack an eclipse. there are people who drag questions from the tongue like photos one second before the crisp of a fire. there are people who ask nothing and your heart sits like a blank check in a bookstore that sells only elegy. there are people with a little past behind their ears. there are people with a newscast on their eyebrows. there are people no matter how many apples they held teachers resented them. there are people who ring many doorbells but won’t let themselves in. there are people who light candles half the week and swallow swords the rest. there are people who memorize the footprints made by the snow. there are people who dine on shivers. there are people who chew on icicles all year round. there are people who pray with the nostalgia of baseball. there are people who laugh at life openmouthed like a kiss. © Ellyn Maybe