Branaman!
I sing thee praises on thy birthday, stealing
my tune from your friend Ginsberg.
Branaman!
Prana man!
Great gleeful spirit of thunderous laughter
And Jovian benevolence!
Painter, printer, sculptor— Deliriumist—
Maker of hypnotic moving movies—
Art Beast with flying eyebrows—
Grandmaster of Introductions at Any Opening—
Storyteller weaving name draperies
Into time tapestries.
Branaman!
Manna man!
Survivor of sadness, sorrows, Death, and stupidity—
Father and son, grandpa and chick magnet—
Always hopeful womanizer,
With hundreds of snatches in digital harem electronic stash—
Die hard pussy fan.
Branaman!
Kansas man.
Previous incarnations include but not limited to:
7th grade music scholarship winner, reform school prisoner,
Wichita hood, estudiante en la Universidad,
Bona fide North Beach Beatnik as seen in famous photo outside City Lights,
High Priest of Haight Ashbury Oracle who taught R. Crumb to draw,
Big Sur Tribesman raising a family living off the land,
L.A. movie man, shit-assed junkie fuck, and there’s so much more to love…
Branaman!
Will get good deal on car soon.
Will drive Shiri to Oakland with tear in eye.
Will dismiss demons of disease and age.
Will get a piece of the Dragon’s Ass, and, alas, always want more!
O, Big Heart of Sunlight,
Great big mind of heart,
Branaman,
My friend.
Rusty Truck 