A Small Choir Replies to Minh-Huyen's MySpace Bulletin
Minh-Huyen may never ride a bull.
We can't derive exactly where her
bleakness bleats. We've lied our
teeth to slush concerning what we
did, shit, Friday night, so many --
We shook ginger into teenage winks.
We gabbed acorns across our desks.
Sara and Jes had giggled the pizza boy
out of boxers, while Minh-Huyen said
she'd watched TV, saw Boy Meets World,
but no one heard her, so she just
stenciled triangles into the wood.
We wanted to entice a creamnecked mink
who got sleepy as cinnamon and said
large things about the things we lacked.
Minh-Huyen, we said dumb things about
Paul Simon writing songs for his faucet --
We scented ourselves with documented gaps.
We stole baggy clothes from jailed folk.
We heard the funk of the flannel lady
screaming to joggers at the bus stop,
and we heard our capos clamping
as we sang high and hoped for saltwater.
And we can't say still that we would raze
a secret cornfield and spackle it neon,
buy you a bull or tip you a shot,
save you any toys or touch your tongue --
Hearts like ours would fail to wrinkle silk.
You own the sea we've attempted to film.