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.

Friday, November 17


haunted by that "merrily,
merrily, merrily" song,
"life is but a dream" refrain

Jesse James Krupert November 2017 number four "blue ridge mountains"

[actually been bumpin the Sunshine Sessions more stripped down demo version of this song but the internet failed in having youtube copy of that, so in its guise is the studio version, more engineered to feel less authentic]

I come from the foothills
not the mountains themselves
(at least not this lifetime)
(but multiple generations back up the line got mountain goat tendencies)
(multiple continents)

the foothills are perfect launching pad
bc we know how to disappear into the mountains
like mystic guerrillas (I Self Lord And Master)
but also got knowledge of oceanic (re)baptism
(re)charging those depleted metaphysical ions

last summer we was at the ocean
& I sandbarred my ass out
& all these herons started swooping all around me
& ppl on shore were looking & pointing
but I was ducking down to allow herons to swoop in close
energy was crazy (ocean+large bird knowledge+primordial connections)
but then a jetski-bro mechanically progressed into the scene
& caused nature to flee from man's idiocy as much as possible

when I got back on shore
fam asked "did you see the dolphins?"
& I hadn't (no glasses makes aging dirtgod a more-blind seer)
but there was dolphins all up behind my ducked down ass
staring at the herons

my dead father used to say
piedmont Va (southside VA) was the best
bc you wasn't far from the ocean
wasn't far from the mountains
blue waters to nature-baptize ya self
blue ridge to camouflage away from man's idiocy as much as possible

PL34S3 M0R3 C0NT3MP0R4RY...

please, more contemporary
native art in museums,
plus less ill-got artifacts

Thursday, November 16

Jahida Jihadah Krupert November 2017 number three "saqi sharab de de"

[Munni Begum is famous sanger of ghazals,
so I writ a ghazal fa y'all]

sitting inside these boxes, slowly losing my mind
soaking up nutritionless information, self-abusing my mind
memes trigger lols (but not IRL), amusing my mind
manufacturing more "social" data, further binding my heart
so that disconnected connections begin confusing my mind

furies and broken psychologies, blinding my heart
worries and anxieties, grinding my heart
disappearing into the woods, finding my heart
neighborhoods of civilized living disgusting my gut
focused on surviving, minding my heart

glyphosate mind-state, rusting my gut
refined sugar plantation dose rate busting my gut
fermenting resistance, re-adjusting my gut
intestinal congresses refusing my mind
forgetting what I know, trusting my gut

TH3 B3ST 4DV1C3 D3V1L 0N...

the best advice devil on
shoulder ever gave me is
still "burn all bridges you can"

Wednesday, November 15


ATM withdrawal for
four-day disappearance to
recharge depleted heartfire

Jebediah Jenkins Krupert November 2017 number two "piece of wood and steel"

building art from the constant detritus that is life
nothing is stable, all is built upon faultlines we don't see
human existence is a wreck (waiting to happen)
we plow ahead, secure in our entered state, oblivious to the wreckage which always lurks
lost in thought lost in sought lost in ought to bought (lost in naught?)
and then in one loose second we lose our imagined control

[insert personal visual of scattered debris, including piece of wood and steel at this part, to tie triggering song to rambling prose]

and after the shock
after making sure still alive
we gather up what is still usable
make art from the more beautiful scraps
and leave the rest of the rubble and wreckage behind

to exist is to survive
to continue to imagine stability
despite no historical evidence in support of that psychology
to attempt to pretend everything is okay
"You tried to tell me what was right, and I told you what was real"
right and wrong have little to do with survival
the myth of stability we tell our children
to give them the confidence to learn survival
before the real world closes in on them

the space to play
"I just thank the lord for hands to play..."
before work closes in


unsustainable human
leisure guaranteed to one
day be reclaimed by nature

Monday, November 13

3SC4P3 T0 TH3 C4MP3R...

escape to the camper,
freestyling southern gothic
futuristic oral myths

Junior Johnson Krupert November 2017 number one "instrumental"

I've done disappeared into every dilapidated corner & crevice of Virginia
born & bred (& taking that thoreau at walden thing about a couple square inches to heart)
easy to slip off to eastern shore's 1970s freeze frame
or wander the Blue Ridge landscape, chasing the clouds (sometimes in hydrocodone fog)
or slide back thru my homeland/wasteland of southside VA - that venn diagram of what used to be 804 but is now 434

[Did you know that if you divide 434 by 14, as if you were making a sonnet, you get 31? And that if you choose to count syllables in syllable-ass counting style, the two stanza haiku/tanka form is 31 syllables? So if you compose a 5-7-5 haiku with a 7-7 tanka, and then do 14 of them in a sonnet, it is 434 syllables? And that if you are born & bred Southside Virginia wanderlust wildbird poet who might think of doing such things in handwritten style on a notebook so that the 14 tanka stretch across pages so that the sonnet is entirely impossible to actually type in any readable by printed matter ways, it's a beautiful yet unknown poetic combination form called The 434?]

but where to go once all the local going is gone, & no longer make the blood fill your metaphysical penis?
disappear into the world? it seems impossible
I'm just a simple countryboy with skynyrd lyrics in my children's names, not meant to walk the streets of Istanbul (or Konya)
or walk through the Maghreb or Sarajevo (or Tirana)
or chase my wanderlust where no one talks the way I do

or mb the impossibility is the psychic fences put up, the same ones that cause ppl weaker than me
to think nationalist frenzied thoughts & to believe this place truly is an exception
rather than just another place where ppl do what ppl do
like everywhere else on Earth

maybe I am meant to be in Kabul
not flying under the radar
(because the literal implications of such a phrase in that place are wretched)
off the radar, not flying, idling
as unseen as possible
(& mb it is not possible to disappear there, please do not internet me with explanations of the realities of places we are not at because of things we have read about things which we do not know firsthand. this age of know-it-all dominance of knowledge is not one I believe in philosophically. if I cannot get it's dirt on my hands, I do not accept it as pure known truth. this is a dirtgod theory, that there must be microbiome & rhizome tendril connection to KNOW. sterile stainless steel white background wiki-knowledge does not infuse depth of realness.)
{but even if it is not possible to disappear to Kabul for example, there are so many corners and crevices on this giant Earth planet to do so, where even as whatever it is about me that makes me stick out I can blend in and disappear. where is my destiny? I don't know for certain, but I do not feel like I have walked through that place as of yet in my life.}

[Ahmad Zahir only lived for a prophet-like 33 years, who only spent about a decade in the 1970s actively fucking shit up with music, but cranked out over 30 albums in that brief period, feeling the muses deeply. It doesn't take long when you're truly tapped into that creative microbiome/rhizome/universal flow zone of Creation.]

Jerome Jack Krupert Nov 2017 intro

(manufacturing drama manufacturing busy manufacturing falseness)

the muse was once a sensuous siren serenading me away from daily doldrums
out to see of nonsense gibberish
endless expanse of words words words words images nonsense
I couldn't navigate it all, ever (still can't)
but it was always there

now the muse feels choked, silenced by microscopic digital nanoparticles
branded as progress, clogging my every thought with unnecessary distractions
hijacked consciousness contemplating commercial tangents
personal trajectory depressed
heartbeat of anxiety, wondering for what the blood pumps
hyper-pulse towards holographic horizon never more than one right swipe away

digital nanoparticles manufacture data
which devils mine for details (keys) to gain access to our psychology (neurology)
and implant their fear-based metaphysical fetal position syndrome technologies
into our minds

the gut is a chorus (kin to the muses) saying "NOOOOOOOO!"
in that indiscernible tingle linguistics way science has yet to decipher fully (foolishly)

the heart is the frontline, where gut's resistance to brain's ignorance is held at bay
hopefully (hope foolishly)
but how to trigger the muse? can brain force the gut to talk more often (or at all)?

I have disappeared into music since the beginning
Sunday mornings with albums playing loud as parents navigated hangovers (or dad was still drunk?)
were the most peaceful memories of back in the day
eggs & sausage cooking, stability in the moment
soundtrack loud enough plenty of room to run wild with play
music always been the muse caller
thus hoping to pierce the fucking nanoparticle veil again

all of this of course means nothing too. digital publication of words is no longer exercises in true nonsense gibberish because the nanoparticles have polluted us all to believe everything is important, all must be curated, share every piece of info openly. we have been trained to self-snitch and aid freely (without pay) in the manufacturing of data, to be mined by the devils, to access our metaphysical spaces. still though, fuck it. I’ll share these shards of fogged out hope stabbing through the invisible net that has entrapped me, stifled me, slowed me down to where false concerns occupy more of my grey matter than ever before. the bots have gotten to me, and sometimes they even seem sexier than the real thing. that’s why the sensuous siren song of the muse is gone – I am digitally domesticated, trapped inside an electromagnetized fence, afraid to escape because of all the predators they have told me await just on the other side of lolololol meme.

this is november 2017 jerome jack krupert

SP1R1T W4RR10R D3PL3T10N...

spirit warrior depletion
hard to stop since digital
nanoparticles so thick

Monday, November 6

Monday, October 30

Thursday, October 26


true loungers share space with
goats - this has always been true,
for at least twelve centuries

Park Bench Review: 38°01'09.6096", -078°28'54.6168"

This is an official dirtgod park bench review. Today I am reviewing the bench in Belmont Park just to the right of the main entrance by Druid Avenue, the opposite side from the basketball court, between the sidewalk entrance and the first trash can walking right. Above in title are the latitude/longitude coordinates. I choose to use the stars for navigation though.

IMMEDIATE LOUNGE-ABILITY: For no real reason other than to give my 13-year-old time alone at home to secretly listen to god music on Spotify, I parked my minivan by IX Park, and walked around Belmont, while drinking a doogh. As I walked up Elliott Avenue towards Avon Street, I thought, “Oh, I should go do some quality loungin’ in Belmont Park,” but I had finished my doogh already, and I would obviously need a beverage to occupy my fiddle hands while bench lounging. Luckily for us all, Brown’s is right there (Charlottesville’s home to for-real fried chicken… You can literally get a free piece of chicken with ten gallons of gas on their old ass gas pumps), so I went it to cop a beverage. They had no mineral waters, though I imagine it won’t be long, as the strong high credit rating arm of gentrification has ran roughshod through much of Belmont already, so I got a Deer Park instead. Between Brown’s and Belmont Park, there appeared to be active gentrification going on, with an uninhabited house having bushes machete’d by men who appeared like they really wanted to look like Gogol Bordello but still maintain good employment. But still, as I walked into Belmont Park, it was chill, there was a crazy kid at the picnic tables talking numbers really loudly in a potentially troubled way (which I found soothing to be honest, because let’s face it, the numbers of this world are troubling if we really get down to it), and I had walked past strong fried chicken smells to sit down. Leaves were gently McTwisting off the trees, and single parents were with their kids. The bench itself was metal, but spacious, and though the metal was cool in the autumnal air, there were unpainted spots from sanding, either by actual proliferation of constant parade of human asses, or perhaps the city did it to remove graffiti lacking in conventional approval. I do not know, but the imperfection of the bench was comforting, because I myself am fairly imperfect, and thus I fit well sitting there. Immediate Lounge-ability was a 17 (out of 23 possible).

RIPPLES OF AMBIANCE: In the distance before me was Carter’s Mountain, plus a pretty nice sky, and the undulating foothill bosoms of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and being Charlottesville is foothills itself, the basketball court was shielded from my view but the goal was not, and some kid (I assume) was throwing some insane looking multi-neon colored ballish thing up into the goal over and over, and it looked like it surged from the well-manicured Earth itself. I could see where Monticello Avenue goes downhill and splits into four-lanes to become Scottsville Road and shoot under the interstate, and little ant-like cars were driving over there on that little bit of Monticello Avenue, and that’s a chunk of asphalt I go down, and how often did someone sit here at this very bench and see a distant microcosmic Raven Mack zip by, inundated with my unseen insanities, which ultimately mean nothing when viewed from that distance? Behind me, at the house where things were being made progressive, I could hear white people white people-ing, but it was easy to ignore with Earth titties laid bare before my eyes. Ripples of Ambiance was a 19 (out of 23 possible).

CULTURE OF BENCH: Belmont itself was a working class neighborhood, which is the nice way of saying regular people lived there, who then became poor people as capitalism began to fail us all, and now are being replaced by wealthier people. The process of gentrification is happening all over. Where I parked – IX Art Park – was a wacky urban park next to the projects where they had big graffiti murals and concerts and it was free, but then they just tore out one mural to make way for a giant microbrewery place in the warehouse space, and also there is word the property taxes will now be enforced which means it can’t be a free art park so much, and there are hipster businesses galore but no one from the projects is ever there, nor does it feel welcoming to POCs or poors and most definitely not to anyone who is both of those things.
Belmont Park itself has existed for nearly a century, so there is deep lounge baked into the grounds there. A crack distribution ring got busted there a number of years back, which let’s be honest, that’s usually a sign of quality all day lounging going on if people are selling drugs at a park. Even now, post-gentrification, if it is warm and you sit at Belmont Park, you’re gonna see a lot of chill comings and goings. Me and my boy Deric played dominoes there a couple of times, and it made perfect sense. But that sort of forces the issue on discussing gentrification as a philosophy – if people have put in the time and labor to make a place chill, don’t they deserve to not be property-valued out of that power zone of lounge? It is easily conceivable that someone would open a “farm-to-table southern cuisine” restaurant in the abandoned warehouse formerly known as IX Art Park, but would their fried chicken ever compare to Brown’s? Of course, the clientele for a farm-to-table southern cuisine sit-down restaurant would tsk-tsk at the idea of getting gas where you get your chicken, thus would not be as excited as normal folks about getting a free fucking piece of chicken with 10-gallon gas purchase. Belmont, and Belmont Park has a strong culture of bench, but also we are talking about where the townies lived that were looked down upon by Thomas Jefferson from his Monticello perch, and on the opposite side of the small city from where he built his much-revered University of Virginia. People who are forced into the shadows of more impressive psychic statures tend to learn the survival skills of the lounger, and create sanctuary in that shade. The flipside of that is eventually the more impressive psychic statures, which also have more impressive ability to be approved for loans, start coming in, calling in for more space. By consuming sanctuary, they mistakenly believe they have built it. Culture is cultivated, slowly, over years (and generations), until the microflora of chill permeates even the ugliness. You cannot hack that away with your good credit machete, and keep what you like while running off the undesired uglies. Your privileged machete kills the culture that is there, a symbiotic one that cannot be parted out like code inside a robot.
Thus I feel the culture of bench at this particular bench is deep, but endangered. I’m not sure how you protect metaphysical truths like that, because the law is more about words and most of those words are written in English which is a great language of conquest and exploitation, so we may be at a loss here. But for now, Culture of Bench rates as a 14 (out of 23), scaled down due to instability of that culture in current socio-economic trends at neighborhood (and city) level.

TOTAL SCORE: 50 (out of possible 69). Not a bad bench at all. I’m likely to return, probably more than once, and it’s a bench fitting for daily lounges, should one desire such a thing (which they should, in my opinion).

M4G1C4L D1SC0V3RY...

magical discovery
of indigo milky caps
congregating under pines

Wednesday, October 25

Monday, October 23

Sunday, October 22