Poetry by Chris al de Vortex

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His first wife was a blonde hooker, and he was her bellhop pimp, back in Wichita, Kansas. Bob did time in reform school and prison. If Charley got too out of his mind on speed and booze, you could give him some money to go get beer.

Bob progressed in painting at the local University, and under his promptings, Charley would also attend lit classes. College was not to get ahead — it just seemed a cool scene. Home movie elements, such as in the above-mentioned BKB , will likely be seen quite differently in years, perhaps joining Woodstock in their document of hippie life.

His visitors included some of the Hollywood mavericks like Dean Stockwell, as well as the usual Beat suspects and Dr.

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Tim Leary. A good deal of this is documented by Beat photographer and artist Wallace Berman, and can be seen in Wallace Berman: Photographs. Why are you a bad artist? Such is the text of Branaman, in this case appearing on a seriagraph.

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Bob is dyslexic and his misspellings are part of his text, whether on the page or painting. His childlike reports suggest both Peter Orlovsky and the lyrics of Iggy Pop. This entry was posted on July 15, at am and is filed under Marc Olmsted with tags branaman. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.

You can leave a response , or trackback from your own site. Thanks for your insightful appreciation of Bob Branaman. I agree he is a treasure, both as an artist and a person. Sheila Laffey. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account. You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account.


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Notify me of new comments via email. Notify me of new posts via email. Create a free website or blog at WordPress. Rusty Truck. Share this: Twitter Facebook. Like this: Like Loading Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:. Email required Address never made public. Name required. Post to Cancel. Not only because of the girl who lost her sight carving ivory elephants to slip into red rosary pea-seeds.

Or the daughters in a small town awakening from naps—stuttering, twitching, arms flailing, uttering strange sounds: hysterical epidemic. To see the mother falling, splintering our looking glass. For her to fall again.

To lift her up. For her to let me. Vuorwro would suck souls from ears, putting a straw inside the skull; the only protection was to have water in your room at all times.

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My girlfriend, Saami too, keeps a shoal in a glass by the bed, her rainbowed four-winds cap a mantle that she said she would kill Diermmes if he touched it. We are hooves, my girlfriend and I, reindeer in blood; even when our hearts rest they still are filled with aurora borealis, our arteries that bound with ice.

In Saami, north means where the water is, not where a compass needle is sucked. This is my story, my connection, my culture, my heagga , I share with you this afternoon.

Mills :: In Death the Anal Passage Reveals Signs of Sodomy :: nothing is sacred when it comes to the [queer] body a body on a slab [queer slab] cold slab to be examined [prodded and poked] Roger Casement was hung [not in that way] in a body executed, swinging [queer] a traitor [a hero? I am 35 as I write this and you were killed at You will never be 35 and I will never again be Those are the facts, which do not change no matter how many times I try to reform them in my mind.

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I like that you faltered. That you failed. You wrote shit sometimes like I write shit sometimes.

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You went to prison for defacing library books and I spent a night in jail and one long year going back and forth to court for throwing a glass in a bar. You just cut up books, which they thought was worse in s Britain. But then you succeeded. Then at the height of it all: Kenneth killed you out of jealousy or rage or unchecked mental health or maybe all three.

Authority is always foolish in the world of your plays. Less worried with truth than appearance. You worked to chip away at polite society—at cups of tea and manners and all things British, which I kind of love which is why I watch endless documentaries on the Royal Family. I wonder what you would make of this world we live in now. Authority has become an even bigger joke, if you can imagine that but I think you can having written lines like Recent figures show that the mad will outnumber the sane by the turn of the century.

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In the last century—yours— my goldfish died so many deaths— so many fish. My first act of grief was for a fish or was it a lizard? Of course, I also think of him— Kenneth—just a boy—watching his mother die from a bee sting right before his eyes. How do you ever recover from that? Of you unscrewing the lightbulbs and then lowering your pants. How I might take you in my mouth— how you might return the favor— how my ass might feel pressed into the tiles—my skin filling each crevice as you deepthroat me harder and harder and how we each might taste to the other.

And now how we shy away from public sex. Can U host?

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As if there are no other options. And I think of being in Paris in the fall with my husband for our anniversary: 14 years. Gary Oldman played you and was even kind of handsome when he did, which you would like. Yes, the same man who played you played him, which you might not like. Kenneth bashed in your head with a hammer—they say it was nine blows and then he killed himself with pills. He actually died first, which somehow makes it worse, I think. All that blood.

You were still warm.