RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Monday, April 7

PP: Part Twenty One

Red, black, and pink classic, sitting on the grassy bank beside a back road near Truxillo, where a bunch of my family further down the family tree all are staked down at. This is the sweetest unkempt ride I've run across thus far in my Polaroid meanderings. Usually folks go with all pink or pink with white, or two colors, but rarely rock the tri-tone, especially not devil red, evil black, and pussy walls pink.

I am not sure if there was hydraulics on this ride or not, because the tires are small but not flat, yet the bottom of the bug sits on the asphalt. The checkerboard ska hood and strange-looking luggage rack on top tripped me out, and I imagine a young wannabe art school dude who drinks PBRs and wears a porkpie hat (or whatever those old man brown hats that those types of dudes wear) when he goes out duckpin bowling on Thursday nights with his boys.

The blue patterns on this old sedan were a strange beautiful mix of uncleaned waxjobs or primer or sanding the original paint or I don't know. But it was fucking mesmerizing. I had blown off work though and ate three hydrocodones that afternoon, wandering around Waynesboro in my truck, so my vision may have been slightly distorted.

This is my mom's truck. She has been proud to own a for-real big ass truck ever since she got it, and she's flipped it on it's side twice since then. In the background, barely visible, is the basketball goal I spent tons of my youth on - plywood backboard, shitty recycled rim, all put up on a telephone pole scrap gotten for free from the electric co-op. Ahh... memories of wonderful Meherrin, Virginia - the home of banjo plucker Roy Clark, and a retard named Raven.

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