Is that a new boast?

March 9, 2016

Don’t mean to be a braggart but, of the athletes competing,
I’m in a 54-way tie for 96,706th place worldwide after 2 rounds
of the 2016 CrossFit Games. [tips hat] Afternoon ladies.
Sound of Awesome Thank You
Also, Write Bloody is releasing the paperback of Stunt Water on March 15th.
If you buy any book directly from The Merch Page between now and March 15th
I’ll sign it and personalize it for you or for whomever you’re buying it.
Just be sure ya leave a proper note with instructions before checking out.

*Details for the book release in Venice Beach TOMORROW (Thursday) are on The Tour Page.


    Fact is,

    March 4, 2016

    not enough people have seen my pelican sweater today.



      March 4, 2016

      Write Bloody is releasing the paperback of Stunt Water on March 15th.
      If you buy any book directly from this merch page link
      between now and March 15th I’ll sign it and personalize it for you
      or for whomever you’re buying it. Just be sure ya leave a proper note
      with instructions before checking out.
      Stunt Water paperback
      And now back to not selling people things…


        A first

        February 24, 2016

        Awesome Thank You Poster


          Abridged Gospel of Lightning

          February 18, 2016

          What paper planes and empty seats most have in common
          is that they are best made by children still learning how to ride things out.
          There is a lot to be said for practice. And propellers.
          Don’t sit down for this. Not yet.
          Everything in turn until we become invisible
          like a death-do-us-part party
          and even then—

          Dear Big Britches and Elbow Grease,
          Ride with me.
          Sleeves up. Top down.
          Wild-eyed and astronomical,
          the balance of being young
          still creasing into our laughter lines.
          Let everyone else refer to themselves as an old soul
          if that’s what they need to smile. But we

          the awe-stricken and lightning-struck, we know better.
          Every moment is a brand new baby, Baby.
          Every vow is a brave new voice.
          Thank goodness
          your voice still calls me Home.
          And Work.
          And Pickle Sticks.
          As in, “What the hell did you do that for,
          Pickle Sticks?” Please,

          let this life be proof
          we are working
          for the indestructible source of yes.
          We are paid
          well in the ways we arrive at each other.
          And we rest
          knowing everything is easy in orbit,
          not just the sun, Sunny Buns.
          This day too. Let every last one of our days be proof
          that don’t stop accepting is our only instruction
          because we won’t stop changing
          is the only truth.

          The truth
          is that this universe
          is gassy and unpredictable.
          It still has not said excuse me for the Big Bang.
          we expect too much
          instead of practicing enough
          or receiving in us just the right answer. You
          the staggering answer.

          The truth
          is that there is very little difference
          between a brilliantly written horoscope
          and a baby mobile shaped like the Milky Way.
          There is a day
          for every last star
          with exactly the same outcome:
          falling asleep, side-by-side
          in our prime time pillow-talk show,
          maps to the music of midnight
          while the rest of the world goes static
          magically marked in firefly parts
          across cinematic patches of looking glass. Look—

          I do not know if I will be able make you happy
          on the 8th day of our 17th year
          or on the 4th month of our 3rd decade
          because I’ve never been that far.
          But you can know for sure, I am already doing my best.
          You will always have my best.
          You are the home I point to that lives in my chest.

          The truth is
          what children and the landing of a plane
          most have in common
          is they are best made by a line drive
          of pilot lights guided
          through a single tambourine
          across the day we met
          in a field of wet
          metal hands on the Gospel of Lightning.





            Loneliness can be so goddamn blunt.

            February 14, 2016


              Cuckoo with a side of closet

              February 6, 2016

              Oh dear. This dude is Coco Puffs. As are every one of the Republican candidates. I understand there’s still some time left before psychological evolution disintegrates the logs on this guy’s fire, so I’m gonna patiently remain with my finger on the compassion button. But if you subscribe to the spiritual abuse and misinformation he is feverishly scrambling to pass forward, and we’re “Friends” here… let’s check in with each other posthaste. Private message me. I got you. Untangling yourself from fear-based beliefs can be a crippling endeavor.


                Madly in love

                January 22, 2016

                At the Concert for New York City in Madison Square Garden
                five weeks after 9/11
                Richard Gere stood in front of millions of viewers and said,

                We have the possibility
                to turn this horrendous energy we are all feeling
                from violence and revenge
                into compassion into love into understanding.

                The crowd booed him, loudly,
                as if to say,  Hey,   Buddha Boy,
                we will not be caught dead acting like Jesus Christ.
                As if to say peace is not an acceptable answer 2500 years since proven by Gautama.
                As if Christ only published books he wanted us to thump instead of experience.

                Granted, compassion  is a wounded word. It gets
                banged around in the junk drawer.
                It is not an entitled driver,  would not survive in California.
                Compassion is often the last player picked.  So maybe   Richard Gere
                should have used the word equanimity, or awareness, or rest
                to suggest we curb the poison of reacting so fast.

                But journalists  insisted  Richard Gere’s proposal for love and understanding
                was the wrong time, wrong crowd, wrong message.
                I remember being 27,
                watching this,
                feeling like some fathers don’t tell their sons
                I am proud of you,
                like an entire city had learned to chant the
                language of a well-disguised suicide
                dressed in clever headlines and stagy news reporters
                who failed to mention
                that a French man
                named Antoine Leiris
                lost his wife  and the mother of his child,
                with whom he was madly in love,
                to the terrorist attacks in Paris last week.
                It was no more excruciating than what happened in Beirut, or in Baghdad,
                or in the West Bank during the same 24 hours.
                The difference is that five days later
                Antoine Leiris was the only man
                who posted a love letter for his son on the BBC,
                an open message to those responsible for killing his wife,
                looked directly into their hungry little pain-bodies and told them,
                I won’t give you the gift of hating you.

                “Pussy.” “Pathetic propagandist.” “Candy-ass liberal.”
                The insults that followed Antoine’s moment of peace
                made me realize
                if we are ever gonna play our cards right
                we have got to want to see everyone else’s hand.
                Everyone here at the table,  look:

                wounded a word as it may be –
                can see   all of it.

                Anger —
                is only concerned with what it thinks is fair,
                narrow like the barrel of the NRA,
                like the blueprints to Russia’s femininity,  to China’s childhood,
                to North Korea’s private parts,  to the bruised music of the Confederate Flag states
                still singing  like a drunk Englishman in a Tibetan monastery,  loudly
                loudly, Hey! I’m the Over-Compensator — The Great Annihilator.
                Cross me and you will know my pain.
                In each of us
                lives a  small man  with a   good heart
                and an ego the size of  Hitler.

                The velocity of these tiny histories repeating has pierced a hole
                through my blindest spot,
                pulled everything out from behind it   and shot. Shot.
                There was an Isis in my behavior the size of New Orleans in 1859
                telling sick jokes that my heroes thought were funny.
                I saw the feet of my grandmother calloused to the point of brick
                from walking a sad path aftermath
                of revisions  and excuses,
                wearing spiritual fatigue and dogma tags
                while I loaded maps to courage on my smart phone and bookmarked her obituary
                thinking there would be a better time than now to understand
                why she lost her goddamn marbles.

                Why are we not fighting fire with water?
                Compassion will not make us lazy.
                It is okay to cross these borders.
                It is okay to stay awake
                to love our own ignorance
                enough to look at it square in the wise guy,
                in the bright side,
                at the parts you are terrified to acknowledge
                because of the work it will probably cause you,
                because there is a chance you have been your own terrorist.
                There is a chance you are a failed relationship.

                There is a chance
                that every single day
                you are part of the reason
                millions of animals actually weep before slaughter
                and you do not get to make up for it by watching adorable YouTube videos
                while stuffing your face with their death.

                It is more than mere cliché
                that – through these bodies – we are all rooted to the same source,
                that we have arrived on this planet to experience form.
                Now that we’ve had some time to do that, please,
                let us reintroduce the idea
                of questioning
                Excessive packaging.
                Fining people
                because they didn’t have enough money in the first place.
                Everything  impractical
                to the eradication of suffering.
                Like denying refugees.
                Like putting a fence around freedom.

                It is not because I am paranoid or weak or unconscious
                that I feel fear rapidly moving through us
                when I sit on a bench downtown,
                in CNN’s airports, on a bullet  train.
                It is because scientists have confirmed superbugs
                that cannot be killed  with the antibiotic drugs of last resort,
                sending modern medicine  back to the dark ages,
                that we may rediscover a sustainable cure for the cancers
                living in our broken records, like revenge, like wildfires,
                like the eyes rolling back in our booing heads
                until the collective misery of us
                has compounded so deeply into everything
                that it is easier to go ape shit,
                or sell off sanity for more content,
                than it is to stay sober and work through this—
                this bully-mouth madness and its chatty-ass friends. Social media
                is a full-scale bulimic, binging on arguments that cannot be won;
                raging family of ipecac, perforated throat burn, constantly bringing it back up,
                soaked   in stomach acid. We are a gagging chorus of pills
                pretending toilet tears don’t count  just because we used our fingers.
                The language of our knuckles is bloody
                and sick of hearing itself speak
                in thaps,  in splatters,  in stains;  wants to write essays on disarming the murder
                in our words  at the Tower of Babel
                Wants to write essays on why to bomb religious wars
                with porn  and make-up  and liquor
                instead of precision-guided civilian killers.

                It is okay to turn off the television’s loud reprisal.
                It is okay to turn down the radio, to drive in silence, to the sea, to the see:
                The oceans of care we keep for this world
                get so landlocked in our chest
                that when the answer
                tries moving   over all the God dams   built across our flooded hearts
                to surprise us with important questions
                it might look like we are spitting back
                entitlements at the earth.
                Stay still.  Gather your wits,
                find their ends,  pull out the slack and say clearly:

                Yes,  Compassion.
                Call me a cliché.
                Stick your violence in my meditation.
                The worst you can do to me
                for not joining the gangland war on Christ’s behavior
                is shoot me in the look on my face,
                the one that says I am not afraid to understand you.

                In A New Earth,
                Eckhart Tolle describes us as the noisiest humans in history.
                Some things  do not need to be fact-checked.
                Stop backing up so loudly. You screaming siren on a cell phone.
                You heavy-footed upstairs neighbor.
                Bloated bodies of anger  belting out boos
                the size of Madison Square Garden  rejecting Richard Gere,
                who I know very little about,
                but who I suspect, like most humans, is part saint—part fraud,
                and who reporters had to admit
                rebounded rather nicely
                by simply acknowledging  that what he had to offer
                was  apparently unpopular right now,
                Like taking away your child’s assault rifle.
                Like the color white.        Like the color brown.
                Like acknowledging the man in Nigeria who found the cure for HIV.
                Unpopular    is compassion. Like a savings account in Greece,
                like the topic of trafficking Stockholm Syndrome
                all the way back from New York City
                to right here down the West of me

                where I am determined
                to see all of it
                because I don’t get to go blind again,
                not without printing the word coward  in holy brail
                on every pen  I will ever use  to point out
                how pain  cannot digest love.
                It works the other way.   My body
                no longer loves writing poems  for public consumption,
                but I am still right here behind its habits,
                stacks of grinding teeth
                and a mashed-up forehead of rolling credits,
                working to see all of it, which
                I suspect  is more productive   than giving you the gift of my hate.

                ***Everyone welcome Monday January 25th at 7:30pm (PST) to the online face-to-face Anything Goes 90-minute Q&A with Buddy Wakefield. It’s simple to sign up HERE.


                  From Wallingford to Los Feliz

                  January 21, 2016

                  Just now at the grocery store
                  ME: I know you. We’ve met before.
                  HIM: (shakes my hand) Moby.
                  ME: Oh hey. Buddy. We have met. In Seattle… [You remember, the years I accidentally did all those drugs listening to your music.]
                  Hotel Blue


                    Anything Goes

                    January 19, 2016

                    NEXT MONDAY! ANYTHING GOES Q&A.
                    Let’s hang out face-to-face live.
                    January 25th at 7:30pm PST.

                    This new site by one of the founders of The Revival turned out beautifully.
                    I’m excited to participate and tell you every detail,
                    but gonna keep announcements short and sweet to avoid info overload.
                    The website does a great job of showing the possibilities.
                    Art Coach Logo


                      All the likes

                      January 9, 2016



                        January 4, 2016
                        Was out for a stroll on New Years Day when this kid jumped out…



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