Tidal Waves

Maybe

it’s a lily we dreamed Into creation

and maybe it's a life like a willow,

a place to go in hard times

and unaccounted moments

of vivid reverie.

Our hands tangled together

are roots connecting

and spreading life

into the ground between us.

I throw myself down

on your beautiful blades

and plead not for mercy

but for more, more, more.

To fall beside you out of breath

looking up,

memorizing the curves in your torso,

paralyzed in saturated moments

as beads of honey and night sweat

tumble down your back,

leaving behind the pattern of comets

to collect in pools

that become tidal waves.

Decade

A thing of beauty

without a place to be real,

but real it is regardless.

The sounds of prose

and octaves

rise in me any time I wander

the garden of your words.

Fatal flowers like free verse flowing

The glowing of my cheeks

and forehead

from beneath my skin

caused by a sudden spike

in temperature

tells me what I already know,

you have crept into my bones

and tattooed corresponding sonnets

to my soul.

I could go on loving you

for another decade, effortlessly.

Origami

September is coming up fast

Like a break in the clouds.

There's more devils inside me

Than god should allow.

We use what we remember

And touch to create,

Come for me sweet wretchedness

Take away this loving hate.

More vices than choices

More thoughts than voices

I walk on,

Unsteady

Down thunder road.

I go on,

a time travel

and the universe unravels

Making origami from the faces I know.

Jake Badger 2009

Modesty

Circles make modest the mistakes

worth making twice in a lifetime

and vodka makes modest the tears.

The shutters of a house now dark

as it is silent,

Are drawn carefully and precisely

as to ensure the quiet perfection

of it's contents.

And I am noisy as the day is long.

But I can build myself a body

from the ashes,

Falling now like snowflakes

in the streetlight.

My afterthoughts all flutter away

and I bid them farewell.

Parting truly is a sweet sorrow;

but sorrow none the less.

I am better off left to my devices,

which are predictable,

than to my thinking,

which is not.

The ink on the page

is one in the same,

as the ink on my skin.

And parishioners of a dying religion

wish only to understand,

before being understood.

I find myself among the grasshoppers

in these early morning hours,

Praying like hell

From beneath their wings and arches.