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, July 12

Nagoya Basho 2017 Honour Tanka Day 3: ISHIURA (1-2)

oh Ishiura
why won’t you eat your fish broth? 
you are so tiny 

the McLaren sponsorship 
claims you both are light, speedy 

but this is not a 
car race, Ishiura, it’s 
giant men thrusting 

these are not refined pistons 
of lightest aluminum 

your super sleek lime 
green McLaren’s not smashing 
into coal mine trucks 

fish broth or sports car? - perhaps 
cultural question’s at hand 

young Ishiura 
perhaps doesn’t recognize 
fish broth’s tradition 

(I am projecting here, from 
outside, as life scientist) 

an island nation 
literally surrounded 
by the sea (and fish) 

at one point in history, 
this meant secluded culture 

now is not that time - 
globalization has made 
the whole world the same 

not entirely, but enough 
so that I watch same day sumo 

my chunk of rural 
America is known for… 
I don’t even know 

we used to have tobacco, 
and slavery, and work 

I don’t smoke, have no 
interest in slaves, and hate 
working for most part 

Ishiura has 
rejected traditional 
bulk of his fish broth 

Ishiura instead has 
accepted sports car promise 

Raven Mack rejects 
tobacco and well-defined 
class roles and “real” work 

Raven Mack instead watches 
sumo wrestling and writes words 

in sumo context, 
tiny Ishiura appears 
an annoying gnat 

he flies round as Aioyama 
swats him away with broth hands 

despite this fish broth
disdain, Ishiura has 
never ranked higher 

his sports car sleek sumo style 
has achieved some successes 

but is there time for 
sports car to overtake fish 
broth before the end? 

another chunk of ice shelf 
broke off, adding to sea’s broth 

continue our mad 
float towards oblivion, 
all fish broths be damned 

where I sit, slavery is 
gone, so is farming, and “work” 

work has no purpose, 
I pretend to produce while 
waiting to go home 

there I watch silly sumo 
and write pointless words in bulk 

my sports car escape 
is this, also rejecting 
my needed fish broth 

my mind a processed mess of 
nutritionless food for thought 

I have no thinkpiece 
about sumo, fish broth, and 
sports car sponsorships 

there’s only escapism - 
denying reality 

outside’s a wasteland, 
neighbors fly confederate 
flags, my grass is tall 

no one sponsors my madness - 
pale blue broke down minivan 

tomorrow, I’ll drive 
back-and-forth to purposeless work, 
waste most of my day 

get home, consuming cultures 
in digital increments 

none of this is real - 
primordial hearty fish 
broth traditions dead 

I’m so fucking hungry, but 
can’t remember how to cook 

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