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, October 11

Domestic Terrorism Sonnet: #2

Wanting to be saved from the terror of less rules,
the masses sacrifice liberties like flawless
red heifers, purified and safe in stubborn mule's
thinking: a lack of laws enables the lawless.
A well-regulated militia, now replaced
by over-regulated citizens, force fed
a brand name of Freedom - faded and long-defaced
by life-long legislators, from white collars led.
The masses are not spineless, so much as massaged
into an inactive ease; through promises, pride,
and patriotic fervor, their fears are assuaged
by fork-tongued wizards pulling the reins on this ride.
We stomp down anything placed within our set course,
forgetting that our muscles make this teeming force.

Monday, October 10

Domestic Terrorism Sonnets: #1

The Y2K hype machine was unrealized fears;
when man's small calendars roll over with zeros
in abundance, millennial fever appears...
prophecies analyzed by self-adorned heroes.
The meek inherit the Earth in most end times fables;
yet two thousand post-Christ years clicked off collective
mental odometers with no turning tables,
nor Apocalypse by a God who's selective.
We continued to work, but the seeds were planted,
and fertilized by natural cynicism;
still, mainstream thought flows took our freedoms for granted -
our fear's fruits dormant, needing a cataclysm.
One well-planned attack triggered the harvest of fools
wanting to be saved from the terror of less rules.

LOUNGE PLAYER: Tejas


ZZ Top is most widely known for their MTV-era synthesized mega-hit shit like "Legs" and "Sharp Dressed Man", but that shit got played out unless you wanna strut around like Jimmy Garvin in some sequined pants on a Saturday night. But that was my first exposure to ZZ Top, being I was a young buck back then. Holy fuck is the older shit better. Even their newer shit, like the last few years, is better than you'd expect from some old dudes. I guess Billy Gibbons does drugs again, and not hyper goofy dance drugs but introspective heady drugs, which is the basis of all great rock-n-roll.
Tejas is their classic for me tonight, good simple wine-drinking (screwtop wine, not corked bottles) music for a drizzly night, hating on bills and hating on bossmen and hating on it being Monday when finances and obligations force you to at least pretend to be nothing more than a weekend warrior, but you know come tomorrow, you'll blow off work early and go sit by the river, going elbow-deep into a 12-pack, hoping to not get arrested for driving while blind because of stupid mothers against drunk drivers lobbying power.

Saturday, October 8

MX-du Renga #1

cool october sky
cut by a comet slicing
across the treetops

handed down by starlight streek
the wiz dreamed music beats

beer circles clover
jukebox awaits its moment
likewise rocking horse

kids grow faster than wild hops
hipness waits for teen ego

hoops spread from vintage
skirts the past in circular
rim shots reel the edge

slam-dunk love affairs began
in courting parlors - old school

chain link hoops chink loops
lyrical asphalt clatter
basketball matters

lone kid lacking athletic
prowess sits still silently

praying mantis casing
resting in your palm open-handed
stillness that centered

god and experience make
conflict in non-animals

resolve to listen
steady breathing with your mind
taking thoughts and time

truthful worry and a grin
a watchword in the darkness

dwelling in shadows
are parts of yourself you don't
always recognize

smearing paint pressed in your hands
streaking down your arms tired

rest comes with old age
at least that's what's promised by
people who hold reins

old in the way of greying
assisted living buildings

[suzy, paola, dave, raven... in no particular order of participation...poetry is stupid]

Friday, October 7

Wrestling Tanka - Set Two

[Bump on Rhodes]
If Dusty's red splotch
could talk, it might say: I have
dreams too, Amer'ca.

He conceals them behind a
crimson babyface - focused.
~~~~~~~
[Four Horsemen]
J.J. Dillon lets
his resentment of Ole
into his promos.

Ole lets his hatred of
ev'rything stifle his life.
~~~~~~~
[The Great Kabuki]
Staring at sailboat
paintings, Kabuki waits in
the small hotel room.

Gary Hart will return with beer -
probably Lone Star bottles.
~~~~~~~
[The Von Erichs]
Fritz Von Erich drives
around his ranch, always in
the Texas sunset.

Four young gravemarkers needing
not much math - his legacy.
~~~~~~~
[CLAWHOLD!]
The Iron Claw is
a perfect finisher - cruel
submission or pin.

A single fingerless black
glove adds to the move's aura.
~~~~~~~
[Dewey Robertson's Lament]
Missing Link pauses
by the black curtains; should he
carpool with the ref?

It would be fast, but Race and
Murdoch will have beer to share.
~~~~~~~
[Classy Freddie Blassie]
Freddie Blassie looks
down at us mortals and laughs;
we ARE pencilnecks.

Cigar ash burns in night skies
while geeks seek internet shoots.

Tuesday, October 4

MX-du Renga - Explanation

Haiku, which is what I mostly throw up on this blog-foolishness, is actually a derivative of a the beginning of a longer form of Japanese poetry - renga. There all sorts of things you can google up to get a better peabody poindexter understanding of it, but basically, the concept behind renga is a three-line verse of 5-7-5 syllable structure (haiku), followed by a two-line verse of 7-7 syllable structure (tanka), back to the three-line 5-7-5, back to two-line 7-7, and so on. Folks would get together in groups and write these things, with each person only seeing the previous verse to base their verse off of, eventually creating an overall piece of structured chaos. Renga can be considered by some to only be true with 100 verses, but I've read of 40, 54, anything really being renga.
What we started doing was getting together the weekend before a new moon to get drunk and sit around and bullshit, listening to music, and writing this shit, passing around notebooks. There are those who were very serious about this in history, bringing large notebooks of haiku and tanka verses to put in the best positions during renga parties. We are of the looser crowd, freestyling it, and not being all rigid. Thus, our renga's only requirement is that we do it around the kitchen table, and it end with a 7-7 verse. I'll be putting these up along the way as we do them. I won't even be trying to have any sensible punctuation though, as not everyone thinks about that when passing a little shitty notebook around the kitchen table while getting drunk. Like you even care.

Wrestling Tanka - Set One

[Chain in trunks gimmick]
Old ladies fretting
at the blood of their hero
while the slick heel smirks.

Crowd, face, villain, ref - all locked
in the square dance of kayfabe.
~~~~~~~
[Ox Baker]
Stop men's hearts twice in
life, and sport wild bush brows to
be Big Ox Baker.

At night, the Spirit of The
Bus'ness fights two ghosts; he snores.
~~~~~~~
[Tully & Gino]
Gold-trimmed sunglasses,
some technical prowess, and
a cokehead's swagger.

In the blink of His eye, their
God would claim them as His own.
~~~~~~~
[Jimmy Snuka]
Flashes devil horns,
soaks in crowd's awe, and transforms
into Superfly.

"I love you," in Hawaiian;
aerial splash onto flesh.
~~~~~~~
[Macho Man]
Gone insane with style,
launching longhaired elbowdrops
in Louisville's lore.

Flying, lethal axehandle
making Southern tempers flare.
~~~~~~~
[Harley Race's kneedrop]
Perpendicular
angling of the legend's leg
added leverage.

Aerodynamic afro
and sideburns made more hurting.
~~~~~~~
[Ernie Ladd]
Well-spoken black man
bending The Man's rules for his
gain threatens the marks.

H. Rapp Brown's favorite pro
wrestler wears the crown with sass.