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.

Wednesday, May 8

May the Three

freestyle sonnet on bench seats (word to Matt C.)
smooth masculine maneuvers sideways in parked cars
were made easier across long leather bench seat,
but we live in a time of cupholders as change jars
not man and woman (or whatever) making sweet
beneath the stars; in fact where the fuck went the stars
clouded out by overcast reflections from street
lights clustered all civilized around homes and bars
and stores and shit and filth but cleaned to neon neat
beacons of sustenance but quickly falls apart,
much like the vehicles of today, buckets dumped
full of failed humanity, lacking unclogged heart
yet full of self-importance, flabby chests well-thumped
with pride for the slide into decline and despair,
in a clean plastic ride, where only eagles dare

freestyle sonnet on New Coke (word to David D.)
the old traditional ways are classic, never
forget them (nor end your support) but the greatest
thing ever created throughout our endeavor
to bring you some great shit is also the latest,
and it’s certainly mostly the same, so it seems,
but also totally different completely,
trust us, see we’re splitting one game into two teams,
and maybe more, so that any choice discreetly
goes back to one source, one sole provider of shit,
and you’ll be so stoked to ingest our crap you’ll brand
yourself unable to accept alternates, lit
in the brain with identity attached to stand
proudly with one debilitating choice above
another, two (or more) the same, one hate, one love
freestyle sonnet on Grampage (word to Chelsea M.)
old man of Chernobyl, after eating homegrown
vegetables for twenty years, developed powers
magnified by internal fission of his own
molecules, altered by the iodine showers,
thyroid devoid of standard man limitations
until he stormed like a tornado through locales
across east Europe, creating devastations
across multiple borders, destroying morales,
disgusted by modern morals, or lack thereof,
waving his radioactive cane he’d hand-hewn
from a twisted juniper bush his life-long love
had planted, before tumors took her far too soon
for his liking; in his anguish, he decided
to smash all cultures where atoms are collided

freestyle sonnet on moonflower vines/luna moths (word to Nathan S. & Sean T.)
moonflower vines intertwined with wrought iron where
I recline as sunshine goes dark while the earth turns;
moonrises are less regular, I sit and stare
at stars’ bright light, which through “heavenly” fabric burns
navigational maps for both man’s heart and mind,
whether crossing oceans or making decisions
of more personal natures, yet also inclined
to follow lunar calls once the moon has risen
is the perfect white blooms of the vines on my porch,
attracting the attentions of magic, large-eyed
moths flocking to these blossoms as if a fire’s torch;
the scene pollinates my thoughts, with truth I commune;
glorious vine, moth, and I, all slaves to the moon
freestyle sonnet on M.C. learning to drive a stick shift (word to Matt C.)
restricted license afternoon crawl in Datsun
late model, longhaired driver not wearing seat belt,
fuck that, tortured rock-n-roll genius rides shotgun,
they pass fat-gut cop fishing for citations dealt,
blue lights flashing, pull over into loose gravel,
“license and registration,” “sure, here you go sir,”
cruiser snitchbot reports back that driver’s travel
is legally limited to work and back, “your
aware of blah blah blah Mr. Mack?” “yes, of course,
can my friend drive us home?” “well... I guess that’s okay,
but if I catch you again, you’re fucked with full force,
get out of here, consider this your lucky day;”
I’m back in passenger seat, saying, “let’s go... quick,”
my friend looks to me and says, “I can’t drive a stick.”

bonus freestyle sonnet on self-publishing I guess I don't know (word to Raven Mack)
self-published sucker existing on the edges
of respectable decisions, not knowing when
to clutch at safety’s comfort, pull back from ledges,
“you don’t what’s too far ‘til you’ve gone there,” I’ve been
motivated by madmen, both by blood as well
as environment, born cheap beer-bent and hell-bound
except hell ain’t real, just fairy tales old folks tell
to keep my wild ass in order, calm the sound
of fury internal, I’d burn the whole world down
if I could - scorched earth, start over, reset caveman
molecules back to the essence, when life was brown
not green, not a falsely sustainable gameplan
where “righteous” fuckers decide what constitutes health;
y’all can wait to be told, I’m doing it for self.

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