Emotion As Motion

Emotion is not the motion of an age old locomotion
Emotion is the motion of the moment in the movement within each momoent

For emotion is of the present. That which arises from the past has its roots in the memory and is just a motion of the memory and not emotion
To know emotion is to know the motion, to know the motion is to enslave the emotion to the shackles of a memory repeating itself

Emotion maybe like that of the awareness, that is aware and yet never repeat nor clig on to, to repeat the same or mask the same in the name of a different meme, a concurrent name

Emotion is neither devotion nor an explosion of commotion
Emotion may be like the ocean, that is ever flowing and is neither taken from nor added to and yet is in motion of its own notion

Born out the ocean, every notion returns to the ocean and so is the emotion
Born out of emotion, every motion of the emotion returns to emotion to experience the very emotion, to represent the present within the present

In the present, there is the presence of emotion
And maybe when I am able to be aware of the this presence, the presence of the absence has a different presence within the presence of this emotion
To be emotion, to live in the emotion with no recollection of the presence of emotion, maybe then, I may come upon the nature of a very different selfless emotion
A selfless emotion that is not of a self nor of the self and is of the very emotion’s motion

For the emotion to be emotion, there is no I motion nor the me motion nor the myslef commotion
In the awareness of the motion of this Me, Myself and I’s locomotion, I may come acorss the very I that is after the motion of this emotion
An by inquiring this very I, I maybe like the ocean and dissolve all the notions of emotion

Maybe then within me rises and arises the emotion
Like the fire that doesn’t burn itself
Like the water that does’t wet itself
Like the wind that doesn’t feel itself
For each of them know not of their presence and yet are present in the present’s presence
So, I be the emotionless emotion within the motion of the emotion




Bored and smeared of my boredom
I have created my own wardom
To create to destroy, to destroy to recreate the same, stealing from another, I have become the dictator to the idea of the other
The other as the nether, the feather for my existence, my sustenance, my deliverance from my own mold, my own hold, my own past
My past that is so vast, I no longer see it as my past and only and a mast to crush, to flush the present through the past

To be better from the past, recreating the past and referencing the past
I have built a present that is not the present
Lost in the past, past of the past
Unable to be aware of the present, my very being has become a sword that have sworn to enslave my mind and thus every action of my mind

Time as my comfort, time as my reason for seeking security
Intertwined in this twine of time, within this predetermined time
Predetermination as my determination, my destination, I am just a procrastination, procreation of the past

Swinging from one bringing to another dinging, unable to look at my own upbringing, unable to look at my own current ringing within
Religion as my escape
Division’s as my new scape
Philosophy as my therapy
Ideology as my mythology
Reliving the others past through the books, through the scriptures, through the idea of better knowledge
Adopting, adapting the experience of the other, the other that is of the past, to avoid looking at the contents of my own mind
I now arise as the seeker of the knowledge, speaker of the disillusioned porridge of this past knowledge

With a new mask, new cask of the mask to hide behind, to abide by the past, yet reliving the past inwardly, through the comfort and security of the pre-established norms, accepted worms
I am just another short term germ seeking leisure in the pleasure building my stature, my caricature

A mind that is imprisoned, however self imposed beauty of this prision might be, is still a prison
A prism of the prison, held onto, withheld within, fed from the walls herein

My mind, divided to feed its prison’s prism, creating a hallucigenic reality, residing for eternity
Living in relativity, supporting it as actuality, bonded, bounded and confounded by the the threads of the opposites
It finds comfort of one over the other, one from the other
recreating, procreating and desecrating itself in the idea of its prism’s prize

Contained within the threads of my mind, of my own reality, making each thread my reality
and reality of this containment as an actuality, I roam the streets of my imagination and seek those that support the greed of those that disagree and agree

absorbed in the self, building a self for a self calling it a self, a pointless point, a self justification view point to justify every point within this habituated habit of the self
I escape what is, chasing my own tail as my only rail

Maybe when I realize, when I release my hold on the past, my mold of this past’s mast
I may come across that which is, that which is not of the past and includes the past, not as a hold and to behold of the unfold


Living in the I of the Eye

Eyes looking for I’s and I’s looking for Eyes
making the I from the eye and I within the eye
creating, procreating, marketing the eye of the I
I am neither in the eye nor in the I and thus neither shall I live in the I

Living through many eyes, unable to connect to any of the I
clinging, swinging from this clinging and springing from this upbringing and singing this ringing
I have become the very tradition of this wringing

Traditions as my renditions
Traditional renditions as my conditions
Conditions as my contradictions
Contradictions as my reasons, Reasons for treasons
Treasons as my seasons and so many prisons
I have become a malfeasance to the very essence

The mind’s many ways making many stays.
Many stays for many strays, for any strays and for many sways
Every escape with no prescape
Forming the makeup of the cape of the new scape of the I of the eye.

Many lives lost, many knives were toast
Through the hearts of the human and the minds of the maiden
forgotten, forbidden, forsaken, my mind is cultivated in the cult of the belt that melts into the felt of the mind, calling it my mind
Repetitions, remembrance, repetitions of this remembrance, making my memories to crave for the same hickory creating the fine thread for my traditional culture

Cultures as vultures to feed, to breed on my habituated and habituatory divisions
Divisions as provisions to make more separations
Separation’s in the name of identification to a different vulture, different Stature, different caricature
Each division creating competition in my mind, dividing my perception and fighting within the divided perceptions within my mind

For now, my divided mind has become a knife between life and life
The very knife that strives to be the strife of the life
And this, I label as life

A life that is formed through the eye, that arose the I from the eye
Maybe when I pluck the eye, burn the I of the eye
In this absence a different presence may arise, a presence that is of a different I and a different Eye of the I



Desires Of My Mind

Desires in search of attires to bear the fruit of satires for my attire to make more desires
Unable to be aware of the nature of this mire
I weave the quilt of guilt as my belt to uphold up my pants of rants

Lost in my desires, engulfed by my fashion for new attires and enslaved by the mind behind my minds barbed wire
Unable to wake up, I hick up through my life of desires as a ream of dreams

In the pursuit of a dream, in this leap of my sleep
I have become a brute to loot, to scoot and to recruit more sleep

In this sleep, I weep, I sweep, I peep through the sleep
Dreaming, I am awake, awake within the dream of the sleep, seeping through life’s dream within the dream of the dream
I make up my own beams and screams of dreams

Confused, camouflaged, bruised, and abused by my own mind
I excuse myself of the self as a separate self to help me with the accused, with the amused

Within time, within this twine and within this train of this intertwine
I measure my treasure, my pleasure, my tether to live through the weather of the tether

In the name of together, for the sake of the heather of the other
I hold, to be bold, to uphold this mold, to live in my own blind folded mold
To behold this fold within the fold, I am sold to the wings of desire and to the streams of dreams

Wandering, meandering, plundering and laundering my plundering to make my I a hardening
I am just gardening a little more darkening to keep me asleep in this nether
To make me afloat, to look for another boat, to look for another ship of relationship
And never to unzip, to take upon the judgeship
For the judge ship is another kinship to use as a flagship to wonder of my next battleship

Ships I change, whips I arrange
But for the scar of the ships whip, I am always in range

With Scars I am full, through the stars I am filled
To maybe someday, maybe one day, I may wake up, not from the dreams or through the desire within the dream to shake up
And actually wake up

Maybe within that movement of the moment’s movement, I may invoke, provoke and evoke





Like the time, I was born, I dint know I was born
Maybe, when I leave, I wouldn’t know I have left
Maybe, such is the nature of birth and death
And everything in-between is not mine, it is of the other, it is the inherited thought of the other to the other to another

So I ask myself, how can I rejoice of my birth, that which I dint know
How I feel sad of the approaching death, again, that which I don’t know
For both the sadness and joy are of the known, are of the inherited thoughts

Maybe, such is the nature of hate and love, fear and fantasy
Maybe, it is someone else’s fear, somebody else’s definition of love that I made it mine
Maybe such is the nature of relationships, it is someone else’s thoughts I have made it mine and started adapting, adopting, acting them, passing them on to the other to relive another day

Maybe, so is the reason that each of us is called a person, meaning, a mask
For each of the masks I mask myself in, I task myself with to bask in my many masks

The mask of the male, the mask of the mother, the mask of the female, the mask of the father
to create a cask for the masks to fit, called relationships
Like a fish in the water, unknown of its water, I swim under the ship of relationships, carrying, storying and marrying my masks

For in these masks I makeup my life that I call mine to relive to revive the marriage of my masks
Making Life a knife edged with good and bad within which I find my pleasure of the strife

Maybe, one day I may realize that Life is neither in the good nor in the bad. Neither in the light nor in the dark
And that day, maybe I let not the opposites be a requisite for life

For the day of departure may arrive within any moment
The moment of suffering can move in within any movement
I let not my power over the other be my own cower

The mask of Suffering is real, as real as the body
The task of my perceptions are real, as real as the perceiver
The basking of pain is real, as real as the memory of the pain brought into the moment within the movement of its elegant expression

I cannot change you, I do not want to change the you nor the world
I do not want to wait for the day of my departure to realize, to actualize, to mesmerize the beauty of life beyond the walls of my masks

For the end of the rainbow is near, very near
So maybe I sacrifice the me, to be born form the ashes of the me’s me
to give freely, to outlive that which I give to maybe relive really

For the path of truth has no path of the fruit
It is a path I have to unmask and face it on my own two feet
to stand up to the habit and to the uncomfort where no other stands, where no other walks, where no other marks
It is a path that I create for myself and myself only to walk alone, all alone
For I am that has no claim for I am is always alone


A Formless Me

A formless Me, forming me from the dormant me, a storm of me
For a new norm of me, swarming me, deforming me, transforming me to reform me
for I am just a free form

My destiny unseen, My nature unseen and My Journey unknown
so why be an attorney or play this tourney
For maybe, my path is that of the thorny

Each thorn picking out the nectar in me, each sector in me, the very protector in me
To warn me, to be born in me, to reborn within me,
to quench me, to drench me, to bench me
to storm the trench in me, to reform the thirst in me

I am neither thirsty nor testy
I am neither warm nor the norm
I am neither the thorn nor that of the worn by the thorn

The worry is of the body, the body’s mind
the fear, the near, the steer, the dear, the smear, each is that of the body mind, the body’s minds grind
The grind is a rat race when I have a face for the race, for a space, for a trace of the grace and disgrace

I let not the body hold me a prisoner, prisoner shackled with its treasury memories, fed by the exemplary stories of the fairies
For I may be the frontier, the light year, that chandelier, that spear that lights up the heights of my mind
And yet, I am neither the light nor the height,
Neither the frontier nor the interior are me, they are the me of the body’s me

So I be free, let the body be free, let the mind of this body be free, free of its own sweet pain and gain
I let me embrace, embrace the birth place
The birth place of the space, the face
For I have no face, no space, no trace of this interface

And I maybe, neither the form, nor the formless
neither time nor timeless
neither the One nor the None

For I roam on the wings of time, into the abyss of space, with the knotless thought


A Recycled Me

Maybe my memories are like that of time, recycled over and over
My experiences like that of matter, creating my reality as my actuality through my memories
And my thoughts are like that of space, vast and yet are a result of my memories and experiences
Weaving the very fabric of the me I call as me

I am a fictionary element living in the dictionary
Defined by the Dictionary, confined by the images and intertwined by the images of my mind projected onto my mind

Cycle after cycle, recycled by my images
Revived by my images, recited by my images
I have become an image unto the image of my image

Unknown beyond my image, I am just a bond between my images, responding to my images, reforming my images
from the memories that memorized me, from the stories that mesmerized me
And yet I am surmised by the rise of the these prized memories

For the sunrise, I think I agnize is just another way to glamorize my image of the sunrise as my apprize for a rise

Aided by my images, graded by those images and shaded by the images within my image
Persuaded, degraded, barricaded and intoxicated by my images
I lead an experience of the past thinking I am fast not realizing that I am just a cast

A cast in the movie, created by the cast, for the cast to uncast the cast that cast the cast of this Mast I call me

I am the actor, I am the doctor, I am the redactor and the very common factor
For it is the I am that is the image of the I am that I think I am

This I am made me an I am for I am to show me My I am, to know me I am
So maybe, I am and I, and the I of the I am may loose its luster and its muster
to be free of memories, to be free of experiences that create memories that create the thought of My

And here, I wonder……