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You Live In A Glass Box

You live in a glass box,

Cubed, like a still die

That’s never been cast.

You move

But only on the surface,

Do not roll or tumble.

Mime well, enough to draw —

In range — wandering eyes.

I put out my hand

And touch glass.

Ice? Glass. Because it never melts,

The glass is clearer than a tear

Drop, so you won’t be seeing

Your reflection any time soon

Under all those lights.

And your breath will never get

Warm enough to blind you

Which means

You’ll never feel with your hands.

No one touches you yet

I allow everyone to touch

Even myself for

I live in the wild world

Wrapped in wadded tissue paper

Clouds, cigarette smoke clouds

(Which encapsulate the air of night)

Clouded thought clouds

Produced by gods trying

To act like humans, creators

And destroyers like me,

Dancing Tarzan’s primal dance

In a jungle where no one can

Hear me scream either

While I breathe fire,

Loin cloth and lips flapping

To the West wind, which is

Dammed before it reaches you

With its stench of sweat


You live in a glass box,

I live in the wild world.

Some people call them

Heaven and hell,

But not respectively.



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