American Beauty (1999) // The Virgin Suicides (1999)

All the girls say they are women. Woven

like terry cloth. Straddling groins to watch

sternums gargle moans. All the men never

stop singing, “Because,” by the Beatles.

Crossed. Mouth gaped. Confusing sap

for home. Even, I, caught in the snare

traps of Calvin Klein spandex, lap up sweat.

Delighted blood was tantalized by sculpture.

Storytelling, in American standard definition:

rose gardens, tragedy, no blacks faded in.

Copper girls like me don’t get a character

arch. Some skulls splatter mid dialogue.

That’s the mirage of the screenplay. Imitation

meat. Men appearing as if they will hold

themselves accountable.

               //

Of course it is the boy’s decision, to cut

the silk strings webbed to his cleats. I forgot

who the fabric belonged to, he’ll fracture

his jaw to whisper. Lawn mower precision.

Coached by fathers with as many ex-wives

as lawyers. Teen girls, obsessed with pink,

must adore dying for the bad boy band

mullet, I guess. & Only suburban moms

can covet God with no perspective

of their childhood–of the man she leaked on

top of, that allowed four girls & a father

to happen. Apparently, depression finds women

while football field grazing in jockstrap juice &

glass shattered collar bones. It’s nobody’s fault,

men who narrate girls to travesty will say,

while masturbating into yearbooks

during their funeral calls. Girls just dive

towards the grave. Hatchet buried in

their wings as accessory.                                                                                                      

O how romantic.

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