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.

Tuesday, June 21

45s on 33 – #77: “Rattlesnake!”

These dudes stood over top of me, repeating their black-red dark prayer, over and over, and I started to realize the main guy’s vague resemblance to the future me, thus an even vaguer resemblance to myself. “Take it off him and put it on me, the master of all creation.”


The refusal to allow body natural fetal reaction to this amplified anxiety attack against innate character had caused my heart to turn into a stone fist. The next step was I could feel the rattlesnake blood begin coursing through my body, like a shot of morphine starting at the chest cavity, except no dopamine opioid effects – just straight cold chill of snake blood beginning its infiltration of physical existence.


I do not mean to disparage nature snakes with the rattlesnake metaphor. Nature snakes, though freakily alien to us hominids, are not inherently bad. But when it is applied to snake humans, where the worst of both species somehow transmogrifies into horrible aberrations of inhumane (and unsnake) behavior, it seems to be inherently bad (if good and bad morality actually exists, which is also questionable, to be scientifically honest).

I could feel the snake blood mixing with my born fire blood, and wondered if this was an equivalent to the congealing of spirit that Ellabell had spoken of earlier. There was no time to analyze it too deeply though, as the cold reptilian invasion coursed sneakily up and down my spine. The entire time I attempted to struggle free, but the hands holding me in place against the stone table were unrelenting. All I could feel with all my five known and two or three unconfirmed senses was uncaring coldness, of the great stone slab and the strong ignorant grips, but worst of all that cold, creepy rattlesnake blood inside my own body.

My only hope was my beard, those hairy tendrils of supernatural wisdom, but no sooner had I thought this than the changing men, these assassins masked in black-red darkness, took a blade to my beard, and hacked it off into an untidy clump. Years of acquired existential thought gone in one disgusting stab.

Instead of thinking externally, I kept it internal, shielded from the outside world, and I remembered young naïve country Raven, he of the rebel flag t-shirts and broken bones and barely unbroken home. Not sure why I thought of that other than associating these men with that rebel flag, and still being shook by their open use of [n-word], and being retrospectively shook by the casual nature of that flag in my youth, and how the meaning had been charged so differently in the past decade.

The snake blood was starting to meander into my appendages – arm, leg, leg, arm, and head beginning to feel surges of cold, surges of no longer caring (far different than not giving a fuck, in fact the moral opposite, again, if morality actually exists), and I thought back to that young Raven.

Or perhaps I was not thinking of him but he was there… it is hard to be sure what is reality and what is not in those time tunnels. But in terms of reality, I had a strong realization of why that young Raven appeared, and the purpose he brought. So I focused all my thought like laser beams, internally never externally, so that these men couldn’t hijack my actions with their own cognizance of my intentions, and realized hair was my only hope, specifically the rattail young Raven wore.

Through power of thought, I shot memories into hair at the back of my head, growing a rattail out my crown at exponential rate, yet impervious in the black-red darkness to these demon humanoids. Hair is grown from accumulation of experiences, which is why learned elders of any species always have long greying hair, which is why my beard was such an affront to these men. But it was not that great a logical trick to instead grow this rattail from memories of experiences. The rattail trailed off the edge of the stone table, and grew downward like a vine to the floor of the tunnel, where it touched raw earth, true dirt still warmed by the heat of the inner-core of Earth. That warmth was literally grounding.

That Earth fire came up through the rattail, dirtgod blessings, and entered my individual physical biosphere, and I could feel the cold blood stop spreading, beginning at my head, then my arms and legs from furthest point out inward, and finally there at my torso. The leader of these men was chanting louder, more frantically, “Take it off of him!” but I could hear fear in his voice now. My body started to burn with the fever of organic being fighting off outside infection, and their grips started to slip. My life, as I knew it, was being saved by natural rattail. Snake blood invasion was being fought off.

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