While the art world is still looking for a new Banksy to appear on a random overpass somewhere. I have been creating public art for for years in the the "Global Village". The Internet is public domain. My blogs, sites, posts, videos and apps are my art. Performances occur online within social interactions now and forever.
That is my "way", TAO.
Welcome to Autonomic Tour
Autonomic Tour 2002 - 2015 :; (00iami00) Alter Art
Having pumped our panic buttons and pedal metal down the throats of freeways then crashed like heavy glass ashtrays into our own homes broadside with department store force and a gas can, distended stomachs and God’s holes…
Having shown off our momentum for yawning as a clever way to denigrate deeds of kindness… Having created enough minimum wage faith to distract orphans from the exit rows then thrown holding pattern parties in their honor only to present each other with our own names on gold plaques bolted to a fountain of toll booths used to get dressed up up in our go go go and gone uninterrupted by the signs that serve to encourage calming down… It is good to know I have finally been loosening my grip on the expectation that our thumbs will necessarily oppose each other in the next life.
There is a next life. And it is my understanding we will not necessarily be binge-drinking bros wearing Greek lamp shades paying for friendships based on how pornographic our breath smells. I will not necessarily find myself rationalizing with computer gamers and overly polite customer service robots about how much life is lost on alternative realities or how much violence peaceful consumers cause. The results of our language cannot be programmed. There is no proper way to hide the rampage with whom we have been banking. There are no words thick enough to conceal the transparencies in these stories we have crafted out of loopholes and nothin’ but net.
The next life is being offered to us daily via live streaming satellite by entitled white rabbits and tragedy addicts dragging their fingernail file cabinets across records of the damage my nerves have done. Inglorious preachers of a sensational game. Sensations and games are at the root of why we are walking so inefficiently, warped 45’s with credit card swagger charging up a sad sad path like Ray Charles singing Seven Spanish Angels to the bottom of the barrel in broad daylight.
Stop congregating in the valley just because an echo sounds good when it agrees with itself.
A trajectory of misery – at this point – seems intentional.
We have all the information we need to see clearly.
We are no longer toddlers on the landscape of consciousness.
It is no longer cute to crap ourselves.
Get the sticky off your buns and roll with me.
Brush the hair from your eyes and comb over.
Stop paying the dentist for a night guard if it’s still allowing your jaw to pulverize the truth. The truth is: We feel fine. Right now. We are a point of complete, not a soundtrack to the next life. The future gets no say in who we are. Thank you for laughing at the joke several lines ago about sticky buns. That was sweet. This is nuts. Listen…
Having listened to the parentheses of passive aggression and made far too much bracket in response, incriminating ourselves as sucker punches and suckerfish, soaker hoses and preying on the dead weight of fashion-forward food for overpopulation… Having inflicted the most amount of pleasure with the least harm done then called it progress… I am still, without fail, eligible to remind us that there is a reason the future gets so agitated by our advances. We are not built to barge ahead of ourselves in false fast-forward on a flat fifth wheel made out of spokespeople for progress who fly off the handle whenever anyone taps the breaks. Throw it in park.
Gauge the pressure. Renunciation is not a frigid concept. It is okay to abandon the tackle practice of having and crashing and having and crashing through this circuit board of carrier pigeons carrying torch carriers over an orchestra of strung-out sixteenth notes composed with a matchstick that struck out and broke off but did not burn up. If the future keeps finding us in these uncomfortable positions they might mistake us for honest before it’s actually true. How honest is it that we drink until we are dehydrated?
If my throat turns to carbonated leather and you hang me like a lucky foot from the rearview mirror while barreling down the freeway, toll booth after toll booth, in a heavy glass ash tray, wondering how the hell freeways got to be so goddamn expensive, remember this: The White Rabbit is said to be a symbol of human beings who are pompous and belittling toward anything they deem less valuable than themselves, yet they grovel to accommodate anyone from whom they stand to gain.
To what end are you gaining?
I’m not speaking to our governments.
I’m speaking to the way we govern ourselves.
Make your stopwatch live up to its name.
We are not late for an important date.
We have simply shown up too early for the next life and forgot to knock, forgot that the future doesn’t want us to arrive. It knows that if we do, it dies.
As if people on stilts really need you to offer them more gravity.
BUDDY WAKEFIELD is a three-time world champion spoken word artist featured on the BBC, HBO’s Def Poetry Jam, ABC Radio National and signed to Ani DiFranco’s Righteous Babe Records. In 2004 he won the Individual World Poetry Slam Finals thanks to the support of anthropologist and producer Norman Lear then successfully defended that title at the International Poetry Festival in Rotterdam, Netherlands against the national champions of seven European countries with works translated into Dutch.
In 2005 he won the Individual World Poetry Slam Championship again and has gone on to share the stage with nearly every notable performance poet in the world in 2000+ venues internationally from The Great Lawn of Central Park, Zimbabwe’s Shoko Festival and Scotland’s Oran Mor to San Quentin State Penitentiary, House of Blues New Orleans and The Basement in Sydney, Australia.
In the spring of 2001 Buddy left his position as the executive assistant at a biomedical firm in Gig Harbor, WA, sold or gave away everything he owned, moved to the small town of Honda Civic and set out to live for a living, touring North American poetry venues through 2003. He never stopped.
Born in Shreveport, LA, largely raised in Baytown, TX, having spent most of his career based in Seattle, WA, now claiming Los Angeles, CA as home, Buddy has been a busker in Amsterdam, a lumberjack in Norway, a street vendor in Spain, a team leader in Singapore, a re-delivery boy, a candy maker, a street sweeper, a bartender, a maid, a construction worker, a bull rider, an incredibly slow triathlete and a facilitator at Quantum Learning Network. He loves peanut butter, power napping, chopping wood and Vipassana meditation. Wakefield is a writer, elated son of a guitar repair woman, wingman of Giant Saint Everything and pays attention.
An author at Write Bloody Publishing, a queer activist and an original Board of Directors member with Youth Speaks Seattle, Buddy is published internationally in dozens of books with work used to win multiple national collegiate debate and forensics competitions. Wakefield, who is not concerned with what poetry is or is not, delivers raw, rounded, disarming performances of humor and heart.
“Buddy Wakefield!” –Norman Lear
“Buddy Wakefield…” –Mos Def
“Buuuddy Wakefield.” – Amy Poehler
“Buddy F*!@#^g Wakefield.” –Ani DiFranco
“Buddy Wakefield” –Flavorpill
“Budderfield!” –Amber Tamblyn
“Wakefield!” –Utah Phillips
“Buddy Wakefield.” –Gregory Alan Isakov
“Buddy Wakefield?” –David Cross
“Buddy Wakefield.” –Saul Williams
“Bobby was it?” –Tilda Swinton
“Buddy Wakefield is an unbullshit artist… and he’ll make you laugh your ass off while he does it.” -Gabrielle Bouliane
“Buddy Wakefield is a honey badger. Lions will go completely out of their way to avoid a honey badger.” -Don Beck, Theory of Spiral Dynamics
In her book, Words in Your Face: A Guided Tour Through Twenty Years of the New York City Poetry Slam, New York Times best-selling author Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz named Wakefield “the modern poetry slam role model.” She wrote, “…[Wakefield] sold everything he owned and toured the country, living out of his car when he wasn’t crashing on couches. He was not the first slam poet to do this and certainly not the last, but he was definitely the most high-profile, and he really set the stage for what I like to call the ‘Troubadour Movement’ in slam, the whole desire simply to tour, to reach out and be with your community.”
MORE ACCURATE BIO:
In the Fall of 1984 Anchor Bay Entertainment released a movie called Children of the Corn while Buddy lived in front of the corn fields near Niagara Falls, NY. This traumatic event (coupled with extensive exposure to Kenny Rogers and Lionel Richie) may or may not have led to Buddy becoming a sensitive poet wuss who plays marbles in the trees, listens by watching and keeps fingers on pulse. His interests include cephalopods, untrembling and cheering on exhausted runners. HI MOM!