FuckYeahBuddyWakefield

thebutteryslickness:

by Buddy Wakefield

Flockprinting is an aggressive electrostatic action
Using severe heat to force finely chopped fibers
Onto patterns of fabric
Ultimately resulting in
Soft touch

When they told you that this was your assignment
You flockprinted straitjackets and suits of armor
So I asked if you wanted to trade jobs
Because damn, baby
That
Is poetry

And yeah, these arms fell backwards
When ya did it
Chest outstretched
Open to the way your palms upturn me

I knew you’d be good
I just didn’t know how good

Even before we met
When the assignment was to draw words
With their own literal meanings
I would write out each letter of the word LOVE
Using winning halves of wishbones, melted Crayons
And the toe tips of the great dancers who’ve quit dancing
Because I don’t give up on shit like that
I always knew I’d find you

Even before we met
When the assignment was to partner up in ice water, and keep our heads above it
I’d watch boys with girls take the shallow end of the 8th grade
Like
Suckerfish
Swapping skin deep aquarium air tubes
Trying to make each others shivers fit
We don’t swim that way
Never gonna

Flockprinter,

You have been a long time comin’
And the clouds have rolled you in slowly
But I ain’t mad at the upshot sky
Rain
It’s my lucky number
It’s the author of release
It taught me monsters are easy to come by
So I went out and found the beast

Before we met
When the assignment was to incomplete myself
With sad songs and recycled insults
When I was spun out eyes bagged teeth fist first in lust and considering Jesus
You were there
You have been the whole journey
And I ain’t got nothin’ against goin’ home

You, Flockprinter

Ya look good in yer tidal wave
Toe to toe with the mean blue moon
Head raised up like a lighthouse

You
Are
Buttercups spraying out the mouths of doves
Fireworks stuck in the air
You’re a freestanding landing pad held together by choir claps
You’re a god
Not afraid
To walk with the saviors
Who ride monkeys around on their backs
Kicking up mercury
Spreading upward openly
Carrying breath
Well

You are
An 18-stringed guitar heart
Sparkin’ off roots
Dancing out of the river’s edge

You walk
Like a free country
With an affinity for thick skin

You live
Humming to the tune of let loose like a railway
Banging through the middle of Novocain
An open-winded underwater fire escape

Flockprinter,
You have, now are and always will be
My reflection of individuality
Carried out by the acoustic drift
Of a snowflake

Living with a fingerprint

And I
Am
Rumble motion jawbone
Waterlogged with ink spots
Smiling ear to ear
Armed with backbone and busted zoo gates
Promising you
From the bottom of my harmonica pocket
Forever
You will never have another lonely holiday

Even now
Where the assignment is to live without a destination
I end up with you and the rain, released
Both
Flockprinting stars
Between me and the beast

I know troubleshooting yourself in the foot
and acting as center of your own universe
is a tricky dichotomy to deal with
but, yes, you ARE the center of the universe.
If you werent
you wouldnt be here.
So as the middle of space and everything floating in it
it is your job to know
that the emptiness
is just emptiness,
that the stars
are stars,
and that the flying rocks
fucking hurt,
so please
stop inviting walls into wide open spaces.

I know everything is out there.
Its why they call it everything.

I know there are times
when you will lay your head to rest
and have a moment of brilliance
that grows into a perfect order of words
but you will fall asleep
instead of painting it down on paper.
When you wake up,
you will have forgotten the idea completely
and miss it like a front tooth
but at least you know how to recognize moments of brilliance,
because even at your worst
you are fucking incredible.

So return to yourself,
even if youre already there,
because no matter where you go
or how hard you try
or what you do
the only person youre ever gonna get to be
and I know it, thank God,

is you.

— excerpt from Buddy Wakefield’s “The Information Man” (via efeblum)

breelevende:

My Facebook cover photo :)

I know You’re momma didn’t raise no sissy,
so it’s best if I believe
that You’ve bounced back and been born again,
but in the bottom left corner of dreams
in the dark spot
where it gets windy and hollow
I can still see you flailing,
eating knuckle cake,
full torque and tender,
heart pounding from being pulled under,
feet bleeding from bracing for endings,
tongue dying to curse Forever
because promises murder us backwards
when people like me don’t keep them.

— Buddy Wakefield, “Giant Saint Everything” (via wearetherogue)

You don’t give love in order to get love. You give love in order to become love. I didn’t write that. And I don’t know who did. But it’s fucking awesome…This is for anybody this holiday season who is in it - the sticky tar pit of it. And, uh, you might feel a little defeated and can’t see the escape routes, sitting on the edge of their bed with the wind knocked out of their heart. People can tell you anything they want to about time and space and how it’ll get better, until you realize it for yourself. You just gotta feel it out. Don’t give up.

— Buddy Wakefield (via thedearesthunter)

They say laughter is the best medicine
So I wrapped my arms up in a swing set chains
just to see if I still have funny bones
I do.
They’re aching now.
Like a foot
lost to a trap

— Buddy Wakefield (Live for a Living) - P61 (via hnamed)

unlearn-me:

GPOY. My brand new tattoo (#10).

“Hope is not a course of Action” in Buddy Wakefield’s handwriting.

Done by Joy at Euro Tattoo II, Rockford, IL.

(Sorry about the picture. It’s from my phone.)

loverofstories:

This man. So much.

He doesn’t land well, hates landing.
It reminds him of not living up.

— “Healing Herman Hesse” by Buddy Wakefield (via unlearn-me)