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There is a point when tears don't work to wash things away anymore. Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.

Buddy Wakefield

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Buddy Wakefield
Age: 50
Born: 1974
Born: June 4
Poet
Shreveport
Louisiana
Tears
Broken
Point
Grabbing
Away
Wash
Work
Breath
Things
Breaths
Fingers
Anymore

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But I still show up for gentleman practice in the company of lead dancers, hoping their grace will get stuck in my shoes.
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How honest is it that we drink until we are dehydrated?
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If I didn't have so much of this life all wrong I would have gotten it right by now.
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Stop congregating in the valley just because an echo sounds good when it agrees with itself.
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I choose to politely ask myself to step aside if I am in my own way. If I do not get out of my way, I choose to call a friend who will have me removed.
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Stop inviting walls into wide open spaces.
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The truth is that this universe is gassy and unpredictable. It still has not said excuse me for The Big Bang. Sometimes we expect too much instead of practicing enough or receiving in us just the right answer. You, the Staggering Answer
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What children and the landing of a plane most have in common is that 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.
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A trajectory of misery – at this point – seems intentional. We have all the information we need to see clearly. We are no longer unaware toddlers on the landscape of consciousness. It is no longer cute to crap ourselves.
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I don't care to be good, Sheriff. I care to be whole.
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Everything is out there. That's why they call it everything.
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If you've never been rocked back by the presence of purpose this poem is too soon for you. Return to your mediocrity, plug it into an amplifier and rethink yourself.
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If we were created in God’s image, then when God was a child he smushed fire ants with his fingertips and avoided tough questions.
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