Thursday, November 19, 2015

Buddy Wakefield - Artist/Poet

///anything.is.art.on.autonomic.tour/

Buddy Wakefield - Artist/Poet


Buddy Wakefield - Sheets

BUDDY WAKEFIELD PLAYLIST (CLICK TO EXPLORE 21 VIDEOS)



    THE INFORMATION MAN

    From the CD “LIVE AT THE TYPER CANNON GRAND” (2009)
    with Amy Steinberg

    Live at 9:30 Club in Washington D.C.
    Courtesy of Righteous Babe Records.

    NEXT LIFE SOUNDTRACK


    November 10, 2015
    Gonna read this piece tomorrow night at the event below
    because I sure like performing it but never did much to get it out there.
    If you’re in L.A. you should come. The line-up is holy f… fireworks.

    Wakefield



    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.

    Easter Egg

    BIO


    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.

    Buddy Wakefield - Classic
    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.

    QUOTES

    “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!

    No comments: