RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition who publishes zines & physical books & electronic books & music & photography & digital art & just generally whatever feels necessary to survive this deluded earth thru Rojonekku Word Fighting Arts survival systems (Version 69, establish 14 Feb 1973). Comments encouraged.

Tuesday, March 28

contemplating outstanding...

contemplating outstanding
warrants from mountaintop chill
while crows caw freebird lyrics

freestyle sonnet #083: CONTEMPLATING THE NAVIGATED MINE FIELD

Surviving the mine field, navigating waste lands 
of "my mans" & "moms" with little guidance other 
than blind perseverance & unseen helping hands 
perhaps ancestral, or gods, chance, or another 

unexplainable means to still be here, alive... 
Surviving the suicides, both instant triggered 
as well as slow ferment of self-destructive drive. 
Somehow outlasting the lottery math figured 

as solid foundation for generations, plus 
in-laws of diminishing returns compounding 
the madness. Building bridges with hardscrabble truss 
piecemealed from the rubble, all while self-doubt's sounding 

fraud syndrome warnings (complete with riffs from "Freebird") - 
to believe sense can be made of this mess? Absurd. 
comprehend only as much
as... well not even that much;
dumb as the day I was born

Monday, March 27

shooting my shitty poems
into the aether, stabbing
at pink fog light pollution

[HH3os] The Son of Bastard: Thank Me Left Foot Later trio

(1st round match-up 10 of 27)

Internet fucking around with opinionz for u really is played the fuck out now that economic realities of reality don’t match economic realities of mythology, and the shinefaces channeled all the paid gigs through their channels, and even that shrunk so now the only people who can afford to freelance gig it are mostly shineface, so we get the diminishing returns of elite points of view, and somehow if you’re unlucky enough to, you stumble into obscure 1998 blogspot corner of the internet and hear some dumbass expound on some dumb shit from back in the day but not even back in the day but after the real back in the day, leading up to now, which is entirely fucked.

Tyler, the Creator – Bastard
(released December 25, 2009; #32 on 2010 Pitchfork Albums of the Year list)
When I was young, I would’ve loved Odd Future, and I actually did love Odd Future a bit, and still do certain portions of what once was OFWGKTA, but as time has gone on, the novelty of shock rap loses its shock. Also it’s like Battlestar Galactica the new version – once you gone through it once, you know the trick endings, so ain’t no need to keep fucking with it. Like, you’re not gonna go back and revisit Tyler having rape fantasies (unless, like I said, you’re young, and perhaps a nihilistic white teenager). As you age, that youthful nihilism is suddenly replaced by a more realistic and Earth-based “fuck all y’all” which has no time for rape fantasies played out over dope beats. In fact, the shit sounds boring. (But the beats are great!)
ONE STAR!

Drake – Thank Me Later
(released June 15, 2010; #42 on 2010 Pitchfork Albums of the Year list)
No need to talk shit about Drake, as that’s been done to death. Yet somehow, he still exists, and is considered a rapper, and when he drops something new (as he recently did), the culture as seen manufactured within digital realm pretends it is noteworthy.
I posit the same poison culture which has given us Donald Trump as President gives us Drake the relevant rapper, though. There’s nothing about him which has earned relevance. (Record sales are irrelevant to being a rapper; that’s the realm of marketing alone.) This album (was it his first? I don’t know) is pure trash, but it is a type of trash that could be marketed to tween girls as a way for them to feel down and hardcore. OMG! He says curses! OMG! He’s not scary-looking! OMG! Drake! This I feel, is the entire essence of Drakehood – a maxipad commercial for those on the cusp of actually needing tampons, but maybe not quite there just yet. He is a starter package, which hopefully led to tween white girlz (even if boys, or not white, but you know what I mean) get into better (meaning actual) rap music, although I have been alive for 44 years, so I know how fucked a poison culture Amerikkka is, so more than likely there are former tween girlz all growed up, getting married, who special request the DJ play a radio version of old Drake song in between their white ass family doing some white ass dabs and white ass whipping of nay nays. Fuck. This. Poison. Culture. Zero stars.

Big Boi – Sir Lucius Left Foot: The Son of Chico Dusty
(released July 6, 2010; #4 on 2010 Pitchfork Albums of the Year list)
I never fucked with this album much, which is sad, because it’s pretty good. The beats are on-point – that weird experimental but strip club-safe style that Dungeon Family really locked down in later years. I never really paid attention to how wild Big Boi’s style got, too, because Andre 3000’s crazy ass always stood out, wearing zoot suits with Chief Wahoo McDaniel head-dresses and shit, but Big Boi is a weird fucker with his linguistics as well.
Example: The “You Ain’t No DJ” song, featuring Yelawolf. The best is kinda crazy, yet completely appropriate in shitty rundown strip club where you don’t feel safe having the dancers touch you, but you get drunk and lose your fear. (Imagine what they’ve been through to lose their fear of you.) And in terms of delivery, Big Boi is wild. I never realized until this song got repeated like 19 times (by me, driving home from Lowe’s with plywood stuffed into an old minivan to finish building a composting outhouse because YOU KNOW HOW WE DO) how much Yelawolf’s style, when dialed in, is direct result of listening to a shitload of Outkast. I don’t mean that as a derivative sounding diss either, because when Yelawolf is dialed in, he’s pretty fucking great.
Sadly, all that realizing made me bummed out too, because Griselda Records got signed to Shady Records, meaning Westside Gunn and Conway got signed. Like all aging heads, I love me some Westside Gunn, but fuck, if you think about pre-Shady deal Yelawolf dropping Trunk Muzik, and then everything he dropped since then (which has mostly been trash), it makes one worry. That’s the fucked up thing about Art (with capital “a”) – you want your favorites to get paid, because we are trained to believe we are rewarded for how good we do shit by getting paid, but all too often in Art, when someone gets paid, their Art loses its capitalness, and becomes lower case as fuck. Which takes us all the way back around to Outkast, and this Big Boi record, which – though no-five star classic all-time banger – is still pretty fucking good, long after Big Boi had to really give a shit to be good. Despite conventional wisdom, that’s not so easy to do. THREE STARS (and honestly he could’ve just read old notes from high school science class and beat these other two albums… well, maybe not Bastard, but definitely Drake).


THE WINNER: Duh, Big Boi.

freestyle sonnet #082: DREAMS OF COMPOUND EXPANSION


Dream situation with expanded compound means 
labyrinth laid out with native white quartz from vein 
running beneath feet; means medicinal herb screens 
hung from more hooks to dry out; means hard-to-explain 

connection to direction without "smart" device 
of electronic nature is strengthened; means paths 
to walk piedmont foothills following imprecise 
yet perfect track of the wild grows; means space for maths 

to be calculated which existed pre-English; 
means palpitations of anxious domesticated 
heart can calm for breath or two, to help extinguish 
fight-or-flight fires "civilized" arson created; 

means taking just care of land just as land takes care 

of you through acts of biospherical welfare. 

(The Bird Tribe - meaning my family - currently got a GoFundMe going to try and purchase the land surrounding our compound, to work into the compound and make a plant sanctuary for my ol' lady's herbal practice, and an extension of my illegitimate arts, and also to keep from being broken into tiny plots of power gridlock. Please visit the page, and drop five on it if you can.)
trained to snitch upon ourselves,
to protect pretend freedoms
more myth than reality

Sunday, March 26