buddy wakefield

I have realized that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it.
That we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
That if my heart
really broke
every time I fell from love,
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.
But hearts don’t break, y’all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9 – 1 – 1.
Tell them I’m having a fantastic time.
—  Buddy Wakefield - “We Were Emergencies
Let it go. Leave it alone. Let it pass. Let it be. Laissez-faire. C’est la vie. What’s done is done. Hang up on it. Land the plane. Don’t get on that train. The bus has already left. This too shall pass. Shake it off. Cut your losses. Bust loose. Break free. It’s water under the bridge. What goes around comes around. Go around. Get over it. Get it together. Get a grip. Get moving.
Keep moving. Move on. Move forward. Forward.
—  NewYear’s resolution as told by Buddy Wakefield
‘Healing’ is a wounded word. It identifies with the mind to keep coming back for more; rising from falls we keep taking in vain just for a reason to stand. So I asked my friend, “what’s a different word for healing?” And without hesitation [he] said, “staying present.”

As I suspected.

—  Buddy Wakefield

Listen, I know there were days you wanted to die

when the sky was so clear
you’d stand obnoxious underneath it
begging for stars to shoot you
just so you could feel at home.

I know about the ways you misplaced all the right words,
stockpiled every important social cue you ever missed
from the first time you learned you were wrong,
waited to make it right
once everyone stopped watching.

I know you let them beat up your beauty in bed
because redemption was still alive in you, howling relentless, gathering strength.
Felt like ecstasy when they pounded it out of you in the hard dark.
Those days of dead weather
got all strung together
and they spoke for you,
wore you down to telling everyone here it was a good life
so you could run back into the wails of your windfight.

I know the parts of your past that haunt you the most
are the days you weren’t being yourself,
and I know that’s why most of your past haunts you.
There were so many who found you out,
and they were right.
You were good.

So
un-
numb.

—  Buddy Wakefield, “Healing Hermann Hesse”
I’ve been lonely for a long time now, hoping anyone who I perceive as better than me will scoop me up on a night kite rescue mission and love me so hard that I can finally forget about this feeling left over from all the years my blood was boiling. Dear Gravel, it doesn’t work like that. If anyone ever loves you that hard, hard as you’ve been dreaming, chances are you will not believe them
until you accept yourself.
—  Buddy Wakefield, Start
It’s just that I coulda swore
you had sung me a love song back there
and that you meant it
but I guess sometimes people just chew with their mouth open
so I ate ear plugs alive with my throat
hoping they’d get lodged deep enough inside the empty spots
that I wouldn’t have to hear you leaving.
—  Buddy Wakefield.

You know mercy
whenever someone shoves a stick of morphine
straight up into your heart.
Goddamn it felt amazing
the days you were happy to see me

so I smashed a beehive against the ocean
to try and make our splash last longer.
Remember all the honey
had me lookin’ like a jellyfish ape
but you walked off the water in a porcupine of light
strands of gold
drizzled out to the tips of your wasps.
This is an apology letter to the both of us
for how long it took me to let things go.

It was not my intention to make such a
production of the emptiness between us
playing tuba on the tombstone of a soprano
to try and keep some dead singer’s perspective alive.
It’s just that I coulda swore you had sung me a love song back there
and that you meant it
but I guess some people just chew with their mouth open

so I ate ear plugs alive with my throat
hoping they’d get lodged deep enough inside the empty spots
that I wouldn’t have to hear you leaving
so I wouldn’t have to listen to my heart keep saying
all my eggs they’re in a basket of red flags
all my eyes to a bucket of blindfolds
in the cupboard with the muzzles and the gauze
ya know I didn’t mean to speed so far out and off
trying to drive your nickels to the well
when you were happy to let them wishes drop

—  Buddy Wakefield, excerpt from “Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars”