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.

Saturday, April 5

PP: Part Twenty

One of my aspirations towards richdom is to have a custom junkyard, where I seek out individual pieces of car machinery to sit in a field and turn to rust together, all for my personal psychological benefit. I grew up with some friends whose family owned a junkyard, and I loved kicking it there. We used to party there all the time in high school, because if you can get drunk as a teenager somewhere where rednecks might put fake cop lights on top of a 4x4 and come in driving over top of somebody's car by accident because they were drunk too, and all the teenagers who don't know the place take off in fear because they think it's a bust, and all that's left is you, your close friends who know the deal, and the kids who came in the car that accidentally got crushed by the homemade monster truck, you're not really gonna party elsewhere. My point is, this motherfucker would've easily been in my custom junkyard of retard feng shui. Without a doubt.

This was just sitting in an alley off Jeff Davis Highway in Richmond's scenic dilapidated southside sector. I like them old school battle-tested metal machines that still look pimp but have that all-over half-crumpled look, like they've been through nineteen accidents but dudes just pound out the dents fairly well, maybe Bondo parts if it's too godawful, and keep on pimping that matte black finish and mag wheels.

We took the kids to the Christmas Parade in Farmville last December, and it was an uncanny warm day (thanks global warming), which made taking Polaroids of hot rods with 20 inch black rims all the more fun. That's the new courthouse in Farmville in the background, looking all normal bricked and shit. The old one, you could climb on top of from the building beside it, and when I was a teenager and hung out with the other delinquents ruling the foozball table at the arcade on Main Street, we'd climb up there and get stoned. Stoned on top of the courthouse... those were the fucking days. Now I'm refinancing mortgages and taking kids to ballet practice and hobbling like a gimp with the bone disease after playing a game of 21 in the park.

This handpainted minivan was kicking it in the parking deck by the Downtown Mall. You never know if a joint like this is a younger hippie chick or a 30something dreadlocked hip urban mama with some nappy-headed chilluns she made with some soccer dude from Brazil or if it's just some weird over-the-top poet-style gay teenage boy. But it is always funny when it's just sitting there, doing nothing but having flowers and vines painted all over its ass.

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