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.

Tuesday, June 7

45s on 33 – #91: “Tragico Destino”

A powerful dark cloud emitted, swallowed my consciousness whole, to where all lifely colors were momentarily lost, but then within the darkness I was able to focus (whatever part of “I” was experiencing sensory perceptions, which is probably questionable at this point), and there was an older form of Raven Mack, in what looked to be an office space, not a speck of dirtgod to be seen though, which unsettled current me trapped in prison of present moment. This was a form of me? Some of the same shit that bedazzles my present haphazard life was cleansed, framed, polished, and displayed in this office territory very foreign to current camper cave oracle studio mentality (where I create my Heart Stars).

Futuristic Raven Mack stared at monstrous chrome silver computer contraption, finger pecking language. I thunk, “Well good, I am writing in the future,” but I micro-scoped in and it as missive demands to others to write words to finish his (mine) projects. I read over his (mine) shoulder as he angrily chastised  perceived lesser-thans, who it seemed were in a manufactured creative labor to him (me). His tone was foreign and off-putting to present me, and yet he still signed off with “peace, Raven Mack” (as if that atoned for his demeaning behavior with actual words in the message).

I scanned the grey scaled room for signs of color, but there was none – just sterilized greys and pasteurized off-whites and unconscious-realized blacks, meaning the darkness seemed to have swallowed me. Obviously this was disconcerting.

Such unsettled blasts of two-and-two togethering a seemingly potential future did not prepare me for when future Raven Mack turned around in his rather nice ergonomic office chair. He did not see me, as I guess I wasn’t present there (which makes logical sense as I am present in my own time) but as he turned he looked in my vague direction. His eyes were stunningly devoid of any soul, blanked out though still obviously functional. This blasted me with deep molecular fears, as some mornings I’ve seen vague hints of that same look, when the fog has thickened and is taking a toll on me, “up and atom” in the morning but not feeling motivated to be living the life I follow, and looking in the mirror to blank eyes, no longer alive but only going through the motions. It always struck me as too similar to chicken eyes, not just the ones from my back yard flock but when you pass those big rigs on the interstate with one white body stuffed into each metallic cubicle cage, and they just flop there in transit to their own slaughterhouse demise, resigned to their tragic destiny without even questioning it, not even realizing it, just fucking stock fodder for other creatures further up the pyramid to live off of.

But this future me had not fogged out eyes but those eyes of the believer – one who has accepted the tenets of some false philosophy and has the grey-glazed eyeballs of scientific delusion. I’ve always considered myself a somewhat woke motherfucker, so to see this future me as textbook antithesis to my own notions of who I am (presently), it shook me, I cannot lie. It shook me hard enough that the dark cloud vision started to choke me, like water into the lungs but a spiritual lung not physical.
Pale orange life preserver appeared in far left periphery of my choking vision, and got brighter until it took over, and there was Rey-Rey again. His face was concerned, and then the red maple from my field fleshed out around him in the background.

“What the fuck happened? Why you on the ground in psychic seizure mode?” Rey-Rey asked. I couldn’t put words together (probably for the best) nor could I even think them together correctly, so Rey-Rey’s ability to penetrate my thoughts with comprehension was no good. An unthinking brain cannot be read.

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