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.

Monday, December 11

JJ Krupert Dec 2017 number one "i don't care"

being of the age demographic of mid-life existential crises, I have heard of many a younger wilder dude turn to their singer/songwriter phase of career, where lol they do quirky mellow jams LIKE IT’S MELLOW BUT NOT REALLY MELLOW BC I HAVE NOT MELLOWED BC I AM SO REAL TOO REAL FOR MELLOWNESS except a lot of time it’s fake bc honestly I had my mid-life crisis like most doomed fucked ppl (around age 25 at the latest, bc we have shorter half-lifes due to radioactive lifestyles). usually this type will do the songs they wrote plus mix in some not well-known old jams (blaze foley for example) or re-purpose mellow folk rock classic from AM radio memories at grandma’s house into something ironic and new, kinda. majority of this reeks as posturing to me, but I am perhaps biased bc born doomed and the beauty of quality singer/songwritering is it is perfect for wrecking into guard rails (aka the Jim Croce rule) and then you pick the best song for your funeral which was likely spare changed among the community to afford (“Box #10” by Jim Croce).

why do I say all this? no idea other than Wino is Wino and he is the king of this singer/songwriter transition and it is impossible for me to believe he is inauthentic. last I remember he got busted for meth in Scandinavia or some shit, and I guess I could look up what’s happened since then but that would mean googling information I don’t already know, and one can read all the fucking information inside the digital libraries of collective knowledge and still not know a fucking thing. I know for almost near certainty that Wino was not drinking stolen Riunite and smoking dirtweed in the woods sittin’ on milk crates behind the 1985 Big Star grocery store in Farmville, Virginia, but idk, listen to this song and he might have been. even if he wasn’t, he knows what the fucks up.

JJ Krupert 2017 Dec 2017 intro

(to 2017)

the month of paying our consumer tithe to the Gods of Capital, who are more relentless than ever
music (as always) soothes our struggles, and at one point an industry was made of this aural salve
the industry has been lost to algorithms
transition from industrial to digital
invisible smokestacks, psychic limbs lost instead of seen ones
welcome to the dystopia, I hope you enjoy your stay (of physical execution)
this past month of Krupertdom in my life has been melancholy
transition from warm to cold
light to dark
(& fuck has it ever been dark)
(a deep dissociative darkness)
(with a wandering rootlessness aching at my ankles like soul-thritis)

as you get caught up in this capital frenzy, remember
fuck the devils (& their wretched unforgiving maths)
you don’t have to buy shit, ever again
support art (not troll gatekeepers)
directly, always directly
indirect costs are for two-faced devils
the heart should not be concerned with overhead

(unrelated to krupert lists, but related to music, I am making music again, with multiple people, & though my flows remain as off-kilter and disjointed as ever, I am thankful for art because it continues to save me from death and hopelessness and despair, and that is the fucking point, no?)


shadow dweller panics from
being exposed to normal
world's judgmental lights too much

Saturday, December 9

Wednesday, December 6

Monday, December 4

Friday, December 1

twitter renga #1117

 (a renga written over the month of November on my main twitter acct)
feeling better and better about leaving it all behind, promptly starting over easier than repairing broken shit 
too many mistakes entrusting humans to act with integrity train horn and crows cawwing cause strong riverside siren song 
"though he's named 'raven' he's far too goddamned human," the crows was saying the train horn followed with "WHAT YOU ARE DOING IS POINTLESS" 
for real though - a folk's responsibilities choke all their dreams away short panic-heart oxygen grasps to get through mundane daze
 not depressed - don't wish I was dead; just wish I was gone away somewhere alone in this world - make brief connections which rot on vine
 easy to get lost inside own head when you not listening to heart heart math manifesting maps back towards happiness

"does not calculate!" screams fear-mongered brain as legs walk off into woods meditative swoosh of leaves with each heavy-hearted step 
woke up in crisis mode (again) like past few months (years) (entire lifetime?) "life is pointless yet you must continue" dichotomy 
each crisis floats past and one finds solace inside chill Sunday mornings music, no supervisors, still rich from Friday's paycheck 
Monday will be broke again, chasing those carrots them bitches dangle biting hand that teases not the same as the one that feeds
 feeling trolled by these other people's happiness...how do they do it? is it better credit or born rich or oblivious?
 being honest is promised as helping to fix things - all's out, open life's realities are dark,ugly, don't cooperate

"a country boy will survive" refrain eases pain in this moment some people born to survive, and navigate the mine fields 
microdose nature - miniscule microgram walks underneath blue sky breathing open air (even with buildings lurking) does help 
breathing cubicle air in square-lunged gasps causes sad anxiety don't normalize abnormal interior existence 
"it pays the bills" goes the self-justification which destroys the Earth need more deep green resistance to be active in my heart
 meetings are boring... so fucking boring... meetings are fucking boring pretend to pay attention until finally dismissed
 final dismissal followed by return to red clay bed forever (not for real forever, more like through decomposition)

decompose myself in metaphysical sense while still be living shit's a trip, y'all; did you know ev'rything's kinda pointless? 
don't worry, not in "contemplating suicide" did I say that shit more like laughing out loud while thinking "Sisyphus trippin'" 
"that motherfucker pushin' that big ass rock up that damn hill again!" then we laugh at the look in his eyes when that shit rolls back 
failure demons gain strength each time the boulder rolls back to beginning trying to find fun in the path more, for my sanity
 "not today demons!" I think in resistant voice... but it doesn't work the demons always win, as they've created this playground
 depressed ripples in digital realm attract them in swarming numbers cyber vultures circling round metaphysical carcass

picking my psychic flesh, I smile and click refresh, perusing the "news" useless rabbitholes emerge, identity crisis lost 
lost for the moment... I've become the rainbow wheel spinning spinning spin... no reboot, but the moon's bright enough to go sit outside

4LL TH3 W0RLD 1S 1LL3G4L...

all the world is illegal
and illegitimate in
the eyes of those with too much