I read somewhere that Juicy Fruit,

that flat enigma of condensed nostalgia,

is still chewed by fifty-three year old

human resource managers in towns

that border Delaware. It tastes best

in winter on the beach when the ship's

deck is cleaned by animatronic flies.

This is why no one believes in love anymore.

We can still feel it in our toes, the emotion

lifting the ceiling towards the giant swans,

but the idea of love has vanished like a smell.

We carry within us our "lowly origins,"

or is it our "lively organs?" Something or other

is wriggling through our ribcages letting us

know that children are better bought than born.

There's nothing glamorous about muck,

even if it's well lit as in Film Noir.

But, yes, I have seen people sitting on curbs,

planning temporary revolutions to coincide

with Macy's yearly white sale. I've seen

their jewel-like flames cracking apart and tried

to steal the shards to get me high.

Beauty and terror—terror and beauty—

those would be good names if I ever

adopted a pair of puppy schnauzers.

Truth is, I have in some private moments

felt the power of the Shekinah lurking in

an empty Aunt Jemina-shaped bottle,

but being hungry always makes me

too distracted to write anything profound.

I'd rather just damn the pancakes

and stuff my face with soy bacon.

The moral hedonists are hiding under the boardwalk.

I know because they control my libido

with their holy lasers, and write my official

biography with rebranded cryogenic sperm.

The noble purpose needed to achieve completion is,

as you imagined, kaput. I'm sorry,

I borrowed it when I ran out of baking power

and wanted the muffins to rise.

I'm also, of course, sorry to hear

you've become a grotesque mirror of your mom.

But it's really not so bad. Is it?

At least, your mother knew how to clean a coffee pot,

which is more than I could say for your dad. 

link to sharon's poem: