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.

Friday, October 23

Friday Love/Hate

I love having very un-country music like the Tego Calderon I stole from inside the internets the other day, pumping on my backyard speaker that's covered with a tarp, although the tarp is getting a little ragged, and having the music pumping and walking around my big back yard with its various contraptions of passing eyeball attraction, in a pair of overalls with no shirt on even though it's October but warm so the ladybugs are bouncing off my goddamned arms, messing with my chickens. We had caught and repenned four of the five guineas, but one was on the outs still, and apparently he was king guinea of their little flock (aka Tony), so for a couple days, they've been all out of wack. But at least they weren't disrupting the chicken flock, and their egg-laying action. Today, I had decided I'd had enough of the guineas being split apart and making that damned guinea noise, so I set up a piece of bird netting against the chicken tractor, with a scrap piece of plywood against one corner, knowing I could walk around the tractor, with the loose guinea walking around ahead of me, trying to stay with the other four inside. Once he got to the plywood wall, he'd be like, "What the fuck?" because guineas are not smart, and then he'd flutter around, trying to fly through the chicken wire into the tractor contraption, and get tangled up in bird netting, I'd grab an edge, fold it over, and then try to figure out how to untangle his ass. And it took a couple goes, but the third time he got ensnared, I wrestled him into submission, and worked his little retarded turkey looking ass back out of the netting, and put him in the tractor with the other four. Now they can get to laying the groundwork for next year's garden, and make theirselves useful for something other than eating all the goddamned scratch and shitting in their watering can.

I hate the tightness of finances I've dug myself into right now. Life truly is a bitch, and then you die, but I'd like to work a little something more into the in between part. Money-making activites drain me, because the things I've got experience to make money with, they suck the life out of me. Seriously. I'm a coughing ass bitch with foreign particles built up in my lungwings now, plus my knees feel like I travelled the roads as an American indy Hayabusa for a few years. I figure, at the age of 36, certain parts of my body are working like a 49-year-old. But not my yoshi. As solid as sixteen, bro. My brain is too sensitive and feels the pain that it shouldn't think twice at, but my libido is strong. This is because, no matter how stressful the day is, I make a daily practice of thinking of a sexual situation as I go to sleep at night. I don't remember my dreams, so maybe I have awesome sexual dreams every night of my life, but mostly I just think real hard upon as I go to sleep, in the hopes I will wake up and live like Tom Byron all day long. And if Tom Byron got the AIDS in one of the assorted porn industry STD scandals, then I don't want my Tom Byron day to be like that one. I want it to be one in the '80s, when women still had hair on theyselves and a guy could wear longhair and not be required by social law to have some strange sculpted doohickey facial hair.

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