Sunday, October 10, 2010


Indiscriminate language
drifts slow as air from a tender mouth.
His hair as fickle as straw.
Eyes as constant as emotions of a mother.
He dances like his body was disposed of years ago
on the banks of a river away from visibility
of monetary hands that sought to give pity as staple
amount of nourishment.

I cannot decide whether to touch his feet in respect
or run to speak to a stranger about his delirious character.
I stand - my sweat, the only bodily function that complies
to the man's coming. My thoughts clamor in an unorganized choir
like I hosted wall street on the strands of memory
that relates to uncertainty. But when his taut cheeks
and eyes moving on their own existence
reach the space of conditioned greeting,
I want myself to come back
but I have separated my sight from my body
and I am stiff as a sagebrush waiting for rain.

His hand slid through air like a freight ship crossing ice.
The scent of a sickle having cut a peony garden
rose into approaching night wind.
I shut my eyes to demoralize my senses
from his enveloping sight.

When I open my eyes as natural
as having my first view of pale hospital lights,
a garden that an even a demon or god on a throne
could not create was at my feet.
I heard my name as if it was not mine -
just another strain of grass
lifted from indifferent soil
where its substance is as clean
as the mother who conceived meaning.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Good Morning Life

In dawn's first light I sit on my balcony to watch the fire fight.
Gleaming red spills historic battle scenes on a page of ether
washing previous ink blots away for new visuals.

I'm up to it.
Waking sleep from it's slumber to be cast in mosaics
mouth squabbling with gravity, lungs grasping for a glimpse of the living, fresh and unbridled.


©Krishna Volk 2010

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Before It was Said

Listening to clicks
of the water heater settling
after a morning of introspection
on the white side of cedar leaves.

I never blink when I want to become.
There is no noise to emulate
when you sit in a still puddle
and wait for a lotus to sprout from the top
of your head. If I stay where I am,
I am at the end of a destination.

It would be desert without shrubs
or sand: motion of leaving
and returning to the time when my name
was about to be spoken by my mother –
her existence wanting nothing but an utterance.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Knife in The Road

First and foremost,
this musing is like scratching the surface off of burn toast,
beneath is verbose- expressions of self until I turn ghost/

Become the spirit in other words, the best is yet come,
a path is unravelling before my feet and my vision is like the sun/

Viewed without protective measures, patience awaits a focus,
who's clarity grants nourishment like Egyptian crops do swarming locusts/

So the fork becomes a knife in the road directing quotients,
the sum total of each step makes a merger of drops and oceans/

It's murder like flocks of crows, of the person with a proverbial stock in woes, allowing unity of all that's known to bring light into my chromosomes/

And not just I, we all share that common thread,
which extends throughout our spine, tethering to living above the head/

That's beyond the mind, living what's all been said,
when we're born a second time, meaning falls from within the dead.

©Krishna Volk 2010

Friday, August 27, 2010

Time Delayed a Hundred Lifetimes

In my heart there is a love that speaks to me from the silence of night,
sleep deprived I indulge in a taste just as ripe//

Much like a light is to eyes finding the way,
yet to walk straight on the path until one is met by the day//

The same feelings erupts, the bubbling is heartfelt,
expression in effervescence can make ones heart melt//

Feel the streams of comfort as the flow from the hands,
each moment expands in it's passing, lifetimes in grains of sand//

©Krishna Volk 2010

Thursday, April 1, 2010


I don’t need sirens
to be heard. I have spoken
enough. I have entertained listeners
until they can’t hear my words.
I have locked the multitude
of made-up history in its own vision.
I would rather sit here and listen like a page
would for its identity to form
as symbols blotted the vast
unspeakable blank.
As soon as a phrase
was almost written,
I would tell myself
how I will never stand
still – how I can never be
and perfect in the same body.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Concept in Escape

And by the way, i let my mind wander and it flew away.
It"ll rue the day when it makes a re-appearance,
as i've become accustom to it's absence, it only lives on in my spirit-

but nothing more, as its thoughts were not me,
I'm no longer facing my opposite like a pair of knock knees.

I walk straight now like one sails the seven seas,
when it's surface immitates glass with a view that's streak free.

What's in you is in me, and its the same vice versa,
so why not ascend heights together and guide each other like sherpas-

until we reach the peak, which posses views like a machete-
in reference to clarity, by this journey we we slay the yeti.

And dont think of this as something obscurity holds dear,
its as normal- as days past when we all respected our morals-

like a guild of theives would die by a code of concealed keys,
that were usually unseen and caught sheen when unsleeved.

Essential credo, active like working ventricles,
work out many miracles, wide spead like spraying aresols

which render living art like watching the human play,
imbibing the joy expressed- un-like that thought that got away.

©Krishna Volk 2010

Thursday, March 18, 2010

The Dark Inside the Frame

The dark inside the frame
is a print of a memory
remaining on the pull
of our attention.
It could reach outside
if it wasn't concerned
about its shape.

It curls, believing in its self -
moving through what it was
moments before. Sleep is a dream
that it will never remember.
Its form has no patience
for stillness. Waiting
would give it breath, but becoming
alive would allow sight.
As soon as you see yourself,
you are not there.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Soul Sentiments

Picture this, a scene from an epic,

beamed with a light so intense that it triggers epileptics-

into the modern day, fine art with a modern sway,

reaches out and touches the dead speaking to them inaudibly.

Whispering winds animate atrophied limbs,

when the sublties of all that is lovely begin settling in-

and taking root, the root cause of joy speaking in mute,

spoke quietly of itself like air passes through flutes.

Beautiful; pictures worth a thousands of words living on easels,

spring to life like soil life when light lays waste to the evil-

that being the darkness, colors of grey give a shade it's carcass,

in the wake of it's destruction divinity choirs a string of notes like a harp is;

That's what the heart is.

©Krishna Volk 2010

Friday, February 19, 2010


The lines on paper
tell the fiction of words.
I can not restrict the shadows
of their symbols no more than I
can take away my birth.

There are colors that deepen
with syllables, and shades
that fade with tense -
I could take away their lineaments,
but even empty branches wait
for a cipher to name its home.

I will hold them
that they may slip away -
press them to a sheet
that they may disappear.