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.

Monday, November 26

parade of things

I can has a haikus that says "creosote footsteps" from this day crossing some raggedy creosote tye bridge somewhere in Buckingham. I made weird WorkingMan logos with found spikes all over the place and got high with a lost old Buddha black man in a literal cave. (Note: caves are actually cool as fuck. Don't believe the haters.)
The more mellow Motorhead version of "Ironhorse/Born to Lose" is pretty much the shit. The community my bird tribe wanders is cool I guess (not much) but not enough chicks rock tank tops with frilly edges and expose themselves during drunkenness. Hippie chicks expose themselves sure enough, but there's something beautiful about the recklessness of the redneck biker chick that I find more alluring. (lolol I guess redneck recklessness is a more organic nakedness to me.)
My child River is tapped into some things beyond this earth. First time I took her to Raven's Roost (a personal power spot, obviously) she did this pose very seriously along the ledge, and called it her "Thanksgiving statue". Then she flew off to the moon and came back with her hair more golden than before. It was a chill day.

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