The Exemption of Theft is the Acceptence of Me

everybody wants to take everything from everybody else
except that everyone isn’t everyone
everyone is someone
and i don’t want to take anything from anyone
except
everything has been taken from me
and
i don’t want to everyone else to see
how limited it is
that
i am
so i must take something…

we all are emotionless
in that distance
we feel that separates
each of us
from each other

i loved in that moment
but love wasn’t returned.
a bad investment
but perhaps, i was divested from
love
in the first place

everybody wants to feel something
as long as they are feeling it with
someone else
the self isn’t the self
it is the moment
that you can steal from somebody else
but what you are is
seen afar by somebody else
and what they felt
has been taken from them
by somebody else
what i felt
was loss
and what i compared it to was loss
that was a gain for everyone else
except me

 

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One Comment on “The Exemption of Theft is the Acceptence of Me”

  1. Ryan says:

    Koan, ko·an, noun \ˈkō-ˌän\ : a paradox to be meditated upon that is used to train Zen Buddhist monks to abandon ultimate dependence on reason and to force them into gaining sudden intuitive enlightenment.

    Your poem is mystical and beautiful, Tom. Everything evaporates; even as it stands, here and now, it’s fluid, nothing is fixed- least of all the illusion of possessions.

    “Give it all away. Why hold on?” I keep asking myself, falling into the trap of materiality, which is esp. enhanced by Marxism. But even (or esp.) Marx had his mystical side: “all that is solid melts into air.”

    And so what’s the point? In sixty years we’ll all be dead, and our writings, etched into the blogosphere, will remain for future generations to decipher and construe. And who cares what they will think, as we’ll be disintegrating into the universe. Posterity and commemoration is a narcissistic dream, which which the ruling class uses to further oppress and exploit the 99%. Whether by extracting “donations” for some tax deductible charity organization, or by trumpeting, or canonizing a narrow definition of culture as “civilization”, history and it’s construction is complete shit.

    I am presently reading Neil Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon, wherein two main characters argue about the ethics of two civilizations in history: the Aztec and the Spanish conquistadors. The spaniards are remembered for raping the Aztecs, and other indigenous people in the Americas. But we loose sight of the fact that the Aztecs rounded-up thousands of neighboring villages to sacrifice for some Super Bowl-weekend celebration to their gods. Memory is a controlled substance.

    The only potential value our writings have, is that they make us happy; we write because we must, right? The drive is almost sexual: creative juices are pent up until they explode from us, spilling out onto the page (or keyboard). We write for ourselves, and for our friends (like you and me). Hopefully, our writing can even aspire to some good in “real world”, outside of inter-personal musings, by illuminating patterns, and beauty, with some sense of morality and justice.

    I love your poetry, tom.

    “A revolution without dancing is not a revolution worth having.”
    -Emma Goldman


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