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.

Thursday, July 19

Tuesday, July 17


words compressed into data,
rarely if ever fully
re-stretched to capacity

SONG OF THE DAY: Nowhere Fast

Bored and lonely last night so I did what any idiot looking to feel as solitary as possible would do – I rode the bus around for no reason. Mid-going nowhere fast trip though I decided to go look at magazines at the still a book store in the fancy normal people who have money shopping district, thinking “oh hey I’ll buy a Juxtapoz or maybe a train magazine, and then scribble haiku on pages or some dumb shit so I can justify the purchase aka waste of money” but I didn’t feel like riding the bus and walked instead, sitting on park benches whenever one appeared to test the lounge factor and blend into the questionable scenes adding my own question marks of “how do we read this guy?” for others passing by. Eventually, after much goofing off and taking pictures of an abandoned drug store in a dying strip mall, and also lamenting the bulldozed remnants and giant hole where previous old buildings I’d taken pictures of were now lost to progress, including a copy shop where I printed a bunch of zines over the years, I made my way across the street to the fancy normal people who have money shopping district and the book store, to piss in their bathroom, and also think about buying magazines.
Magazines are expensive, so I did not buy any magazines. I am so used to things trickling into my life second-hand or in bulk purchases of old shit either in real life junk markets or the internet junk markets that I forgot new shit, even dumb shit like magazines which is entirely geared towards you spending money in order to “discover” new ways to spend other money, well I forgot that new shit costs more than my broke ass comprehends.
After being bored by new magazines, and Parcheesi blocked walking down multiple aisles by well-tended white men and their princely heirs to their privilege, I made my way back to the bus stop, by the McDonalds, where we sat on the bus for a while while old men smoked cigarettes and the driver ran over to Mickey D’s. Eventually back unto Main Street, it was quarter to nine, so I got off to hit up the Afghani market for a delicious ayran for the rest of the walk home, having successfully eaten up most of the evening, alone, wandering, could disappear and nobody would notice for at least two days. But they didn’t even have mint ayran, only regular. “Fuck it,” I thought, and went ahead and got it, and it was the not main dude at the register but the second-to-main dude, and the main dude charges me flat chill price of regular but this dude hadn’t before, but tonight he did, so though they didn’t have mint ayran I at least wasn’t white-charged at the Afghani market.

I walked the rest of the way home, and this city is boring and maybe not even a city to be honest, and I passed all the places of people living, both the projects rebranded as “friendship court” and the pastel or earth tone hearty plank sided homes of gentrification within rock throwing distance of the projects, and thought about all the lives inside those places, and the comfort and lack of comfort, and how some of us have an upward trajectory or downward spiral and many of us simply have neither, just fluctuations slightly above or below whatever the fuck we were born into in the first place. The lack of support I have from family or even solid friends who are there other than when they need my support feels like a thousand pound kettlebell tied to my ankles, both of them at once, tightly, trying to swim out of deep murk. Seeing people, just random ass pairs of people – my age black couple pushing a stroller, affluent white folks headed to the downtown mall, old Indian couple – all walking together got me thinking on that fact how loneliness is unhealthy, but also how you can’t fix it on your own because duh you are alone, and when not wanting to be alone you always find the worst possible fucking humans who vampirize your life and energies. But then while I was thinking that I had already made the steps home, so I went inside and cut on two or three dollar store Chinese lanterns and sat there, thinking “well, that was a day” without even the motivation to write a poem, even a dumb simple poem as means of maintaining practice.

Monday, July 16


barely still there small town post
offices occupy space
leftover, not yet condemned


Mongrelized nature confusing, especially with broken connections galore from dysfunction leaving one floating alone in this Earth space. I tend to sit at night and write words to nobody because that’s what I’ve always done – it’s always been me by myself it feels like, even though I share blood in direct sense with small group of people but in larger sense with everybody. So many divisions wedged into every fissure of the brain, denying simple fucking heart truth that people is people.
Without human connection to really offer solid support, the one thing that grounds me is the ground – the area I’ve known all my life, because it feels more familiar (as in family) than anything else, and I was unsettled to leave the land I’d known the past 20 years, but at the same time all these little slivers and parcels ain’t really ever owned in any sense, and I can find that same feeling with land of similar make-up throughout this area.
Mestizo, mongrel, mulatto, mutt – a small army of M-words to cover the natural fact that any ideas of purity of human origins is more than likely not true, and we are all the sum product of each other. None of us is pure in racial sense, and yet there’s purity in that. I’ve been feeling very disconnected from my classification, but also understand the system works through classification so it saves me hassle in many steps along my days. There is a grid of thinking that’s been applied to the natural world that doesn’t match the natural world’s ways, so likely that’s why I find walking the land grounding. It doesn’t have to be woods land or along the river – railroad tracks through town or rippling city sidewalks with weed resistance in every crack make just as much sense. Saying “hey man” to familiar faces with unknown lives on the bus does that. Lot of times it feels like we’re disconnected by design, but the grid and classification applied over top of everything is less about serving the needs of all the people, and more about squeezing productivity out of us, or casting aside when there’s nothing productive to be squeezed out of us in a way that allows our feralization from abandonment to not poison the herd.
Me personally? Polish immigrants I know, Swedish/Norwegian orphan-ish and homeless grandmother I know, Scot surname I carry filtered through Appalachian mountains and then a few generations of rural southside Virginia I know, Pennsylvania Germans of some sort I know; and yet I don’t know none of this completely. Grew up my whole life in in the same rough area, know the trees and the rivers and the main roads and the people who live here. Half-cousins and step-nephews and before it all fell apart, family gatherings with more last names than side dishes. In the sense of that applied order, we are all dysfunctional, because the order wants us to function in a way that’s not naturally easy.
Fuck it. It’s that shit that makes me feel alone – that I’m lost from where I’m supposed to be. But I’m not supposed to be anywhere, except right here. Existential crisis depends on existential purpose, which is likely a myth anyways. I’m gonna walk ten miles today, and every face I see is gonna be my brother or sister. So easy to get lost in the hatred manufactured by the classifications and purity tests and ill logic masquerading as intelligence. Just gonna walk this shit off, like humans have done since the beginning of humans.


RVs with monthly payments,
debit card transactions tracked
when renting spots, vagrants cleansed

Saturday, July 14

Friday, July 13


Sunday morning coming down
route 158, prostate
full of hazelnut coffee

SONG OF THE DAY: Sex and Violence

One time back in the day I worked with an older dude who I used to go get high with, I was high school but mature, he was adult but immature. Lol he introduced me to weird shit like the Werner Herzog documentary on Rev. Gene Scott, and also he gave me a giant fat stack of old records of his, which included the Exploited, and I'm pretty sure I still have that record today, though to be honest my records are at my old house so who the fuck knows. Anyways, my dad and I still had weird arrangement where he sort of looked the other way on my actions and behaviors, but my folks were separated and I slept at my dad's a lot because it was just him in his shitty trailer for the most part. At one point local dirtweed scene was somewhat dry but I had some weed, couple ounces I think, and sold half ounce to the dude who gave me the Exploited record, so took the weed from middle bedroom in dad's trailer and took to other end of county for that other dude.
Then like a day later my dad came back, after a long complaining dry spell of no dirtweed, with a brand new quarter ounce from that dude's house. So that is the story of how a quarter ounce of shitty weed went one bedroom down the hallway of the shitty trailer my dad and I shared.

TH3 3Y3S 1N TH3 M1RR0R D0N'T...

the eyes in the mirror don't
look as bright as they used to,
and I worry I'm lost cause

Thursday, July 12


workingman tattoos never
all at once, thus a road map
through life's memorable times


We was normal poor folks so summertime we spent at grandma’s, which few generations back would’ve been mountain home but by the time of Reagan admin meant grandma’s trailer at the bottom of a hill not to be mistaken with “The Hill” which was one hill over where buncha cousins and shit lived. But it was grandma’s got my first taste of homemade vaporwaves, old style, buttermilk vaporwave that she’d mix up and store in the icebox for couple hours, mixing it up before sunrise while my uncles still was sleeping on the pullout sofa bed in the living room of the trailer, walls covered with three generations of 8x10s, and before my daddy had dropped me off bc he had to go to work and won’t no child care but grandma’s trailer and I was still too young to stay home by myself bc I wasn’t old enough to look at all the penthouses and hustlers I knew was hiding.
Grandma’s vaporwave would be sitting there in the icebox when I got dropped off, making sure not to slam the screen door bc grandma would be like “boy, stop slamming that screen door!” and then later in the day we’d be in and out and she’d go “make up your mind either in or out, in or out” and when I’d be getting there my uncles would be getting up not wanting to go to school but they couldn’t sleep on the pullout sofa bed in the living room with 19 nephews and nieces and not for-real nephews and nieces but grandma watched them too just like her own, and I was usually the first to get there which was weird bc my dad ain’t like to go to work just like his half-brothers ain’t like to go to school, but everybody went where they wasn’t wanting to go bc that’s what we was supposed to do and it wasn’t nothing to do where you’d end up being if you didn’t go nowhere anyways.
But I’d get to grandma’s trailer at the bottom of the hill and she’d reach in the icebox right beside the big jar of pickled beet eggs and pull that homemade vaporwave out she’d mixed up before the sun, and it would be so firm and thick and she’d ladle it out into her skillet synthopan, dropping dollop of bacon grease she’d saved from Sunday morning in old tin can on back skirt of stove, and fry me up a big ol’ slab of that shit, drop it on my plate there at the kitchen table, me squeezed in next to the wall bc my uncles was more grown so got the seats that opened out and wasn’t so stifling. I’d sit there with that vaporwave, put a little bit of syrup on that shit, and just start freestylin’ on it. My uncles would be coming out from the bathroom, “damn mama, vaporwave again?” and they ain’t like it and ain’t want it and they’d grumble off to school, you could hear the Frankenstein Nova they shared roar to life outside in the yard like a guard dog seeing the clock sneaking up in the middle of a decent morning, and they’d be gone and it was like five minutes of quiet before all the other little shitheads started showing up and I’d take my uncles leftover vaporwaves and be rhyming over them too and finally all the other kids would be there and grandma would kick us all out except the babies who were just babies so had to be tended, and we’d go outside and have hella kickball games out there at the bottom of the hill in the trailer park, and all day long I’d still taste that vaporwave when I rubbed my tongue over my crooked teeth.

Wednesday, July 11


this world is a wretched place
that turns sunshine to darkness;
instill the Power to Lounge

SONG OF THE DAY: d0wn 0n th3 c0rn3r (45s on 33)

Had an epiphany last week about why I hate the hipster bearded, and it relates entirely unto Jimmy Valiant, who is depicted in this video I slapped together for 45s on 33 DJ 1000 Featherzzz slow down of CCR song. My childhood was shaped pretty hard by pro wrestling in general, but to be honest by Jimmy Valiant in particular. He was my Hulk Hogan, because he literally looked like a dude who would be drinking Miller pony bottles playing Spades with my folks. And Jimmy Valiant’s long-running feud was with Paul Jones, who in my mind, represents boss culture, supervisor culture, blue lives matter culture, that whole poison culture which seems to reign supreme right now and likely always has we just were better at deluding ourselves with a black President to pretend Public Enemy’s music actually made a difference.
Paul Jones wore a stupid tuxedo, and had masked assassins cut off Jimmy Valiant’s beard of power, beard of street people symbolism, beard of not give a fuck about mainstream ideals. The long unkempt beard is resistance to shineface philosophies, which want everything polished, new, redone, and valuable. And that is exactly what Paul Jones represented, which is why I was so emotionally invested in Boogie’s War with Paul Jones back then. It was the jihad of street people versus establishment, of dirtgods and earth goddesses vs. normalcy’s enforced order. This is still a theme, and we actually live in super perverted twisted times where people who think they are regular people have had their minds hijacked (or retrained, or poisoned too badly) into believing shineface interests actually represent the people. Both establishment political parties actively pursue this agenda, one more ominously than the other, but neither is down for truebeards or dirtgods or earth goddesses.
Anyways, it occurred to me last week in random twit-exchange with other twit compadres, that this is why I so strongly dislike hipster beardists, because they actually represent shineface philosophies (hence the “traditional” barber shops and beard oils and shit like that which makes economics somehow pop out of NOT FUCKING CUTTING THE HAIR ON YOUR FACE), and thus are part of Paul Jones Army. But they are performatively acting as though they are Jimmy Valiants.
Realizing this made me feel deeply unsettled, and I can’t promise I’m not gonna reverse the thinking behind part of this generated video I made, and study Hassan-I Sabbah’s teachings and attempt to develop cells of masked assassins to cut off falsebeards under the cover of shadow. I mean I probably won’t, because I don’t like forcing order on anything else, because I’ve seen how the universe has a way of checking that when you do it pretty quickly, and in fact I just barely avoided felony conviction at age 18 while attempting that. (Reduced to misdemeanor because white kid in college – the first time that being the first person in my family who went to college benefited me. Kept me out of jail. But also Paul Jones Army tempting me to switch sides, tempting me to take the gains and do like the Ragin’ Bull Manny Fernandez or Pistol Pez Whatley, and switch sides. But fuck that. Destroy this system – destroy the whole fucking thing.)

TR41L3R JVST 0FF TH3 M41N H0VS3...

trailer just off the main house -
rural southern tradition
of expanding family

Monday, July 9

MOTYOTD: Backlund vs. Adonis (January 18, 1982)

So let’s be honest here – wrestling is gay. And I honestly don’t mean that as a pejorative against it in a toxic masculine way, but the homoeroticism hidden (or not even hidden) just under the surface of professional wrestling has always been there, all the way back to the days of black-and-white Gorgeous George spraying perfume and prancing about the ring in the classic days. But also before it admitted it was show, in the mid ‘80s, that homoeroticism played out in weird ways, where the forced morality of good and bad enforced toxic masculinity in order to repress the very homosexuality the theatrical exhibition was likely spiking increases of. Lolol, pro wrestling is mad problematic, but so is life, so fuck it – embrace the problematic nature of existence and try to find good ground to exist upon that doesn’t fuck up anybody else’s potential good ground.
I never cared for Bob Backlund. He’s a middle management looking body builder fucker from up north, perfect khaki pants and white polo shirt demographic that would’ve been my supervisor but now is being phased out because the overlords have figured out they actually don’t need middle management any more, so the khaki pants and white polo shirts are becoming radicalized as internet foot soldiers in nationalism/racialism/sexism/allsortsofism. Thus they are now are postmodern bad guys, obviously. But back in 1982, they still had solid middle management jobs, were working towards retirement, drove a Camaro or Mustang, or fuck man Corvette if they really came up and was doing it right (and white). And they were WWF champion, which was still an F not an E because it was sport not entertainment, and panda bears hadn’t armbarred the trademark away yet.
Backlund was a late “real” era champion, in that he was a good guy to the crowd (who it must be remembered is always trained, throughout the decades in pro wrestling – whatever the crowd likes, they have a certain amount of say in it, kind of, but mostly they are being trained, and neurological triggers are being activated; it is called “psychology” by marketers but it’s neurology, the science is getting there to back this up) because he was no-nonsense, simple wrestling jackets normal ass trunks, came out and wrestled goddammit, no funny business. None of that gimmick bullshit, but once Hulk Hogan came about due to Vince McMahon cocaine visions of world conquest, it was like Nirvana video on MTV making hair metal obsolete. Backlund was done for.
But he was still on top at this point in our chronological romp through these Wrestling Watcher Matches of the Years project, and he was very much not about that stupid shit, and also not about that gay shit. Which brings us to Adrian Adonis, who hadn’t yet become the overweight “Adorable” cartoon he would later become famous for. At this point, he was a bad ass biker daddy, which also flirted more than just a little with gay man stereotypes. Between him and Adrian Street, the name “Adrian” was always marked as likely sexually experimental in my young brain, which probably thought “gay” in derogatory way back then, to be honest, because that’s how I was trained back then. But at the same time, lolol I was really into wrestling, and I also was always very artistic, and I’m almost certain my dad thought I was maybe gay at one point in my early adulthood because all I did was write poetry and do collages and weird shit like that, not work on chainsaws and shoot things. And also I’m thankful we don’t see homosexuality as this on/off switch any more and know it’s more of a spectrum, because no lie, I’m not attracted to men much at all, hardly ever – I mean I see a man, and think he’s handsome from time to time but never do I want to hug on a dude. But a woman doing things to me and playing with my ass? Hey man, I’m not complaining. But by 1982 standards, that means I’m gay.
Well, what I’m getting at here is in a public spectacle that below the surface appeals to unexpressed sexuality at that point, Adonis as bad guy in leather daddy get-up is hella triggering. He is managed by Freddie Blassie, in sequined outfit of all evil managers, poisoned by their own vanity, and is the number one challenger to simple normal Bob Backlund. Normal good ole guy next door who works down at the hardware store and drinks a couple of beers a week not too much just enough to be a normal good ole guy Bob Backlund. So leather daddy Adonis, a literal Adonis, is not only challenging for a fake world championship, but he’s challenging sexual norms. “Bob Backlund, one of the finest conditioned athletes in the world today,” says a young Vince McMahon, who just wants to get to work, and has already taken off his simple green jackets, and is loosening up. But Adonis takes his time taking off his leather in stalling way, and already is bad because he doesn’t get right to work.

Adonis is not normal, and you can hear catcalls and whistles from the crowd, mockingly suggesting Adonis is a beautiful woman. This is repressed homosexuality releasing itself like a tea kettle in toxic spectacles. It is Backlund’s job to repress this homosexuality, and Adonis’s job to degenerate the proceedings away from societal norms. Man, I fucking love wrestling. It is the most beautiful trash culture to anthropologize on Earth.
They have multiple collar-and-elbow lock-ups that no one man wins, and the ref hilariously tries to get in the middle of them physically when on the ropes, and it is the force of American law attempting to separate normal American men from homosexual urges. But this is America, and we claim there is freedom, so normal American men in the form of Bob Backlund must be confronted with this degenerate temptation, and they must conquer it, without resorting to breaking the law, at least in ideal. Sexual deviants don’t become champions, at least not in 1982.
[The irony of having a trash degenerate President who openly embraces his heel status, all while pretending to speak for the Backlund class of middle management normies, in completely pro wrestling performative way, is not lost on me. I feel like it was a natural parallel that the Reagan Era of global corporatism happened the same time wrestling essentially admitted it wasn’t “real” but entertainment, but went on with the show anyways. The show was more important than the reality, and in the mid ‘80s that was shocking for wrestling to admit, and in fact many other promoters hated Vince McMahon for embracing that line of business tact. But 30 years later, with the petri dish of digital communities allowing all our degenerate neurologies to go full-bloom, everything is performative. The show is always more important than the reality, for all of us in most every fact of our lives, to the point we stage pictures of food, use hashtags to activate algorithms for random ass thoughts to be carried into other people’s “streams”, and reality itself has been warped to where what is reality is no longer always very real.]

In terms of wrestling, Adonis is a masterful staller and exaggerated flop arounder, which works great with vanilla ass “I’m a real wrestler” Backlund, because an armbar by a bodybuilder is nothing without the recipient waving his other arm around crazily and kicking his legs up in giant steps trying to escape only to take a face plant onto the mat. There is literally a six minute segment of this match that is simply Backlund applying a wristlock and armbar on Adonis, who bounces around and rolls on the mat and tries to get out the ring and never escapes anything. Is Backlund attempting to force Adonis wrist from showing any signs of effeminate limpness? I don’t know. I doubt the depth of homoerotic repression was that consciously deep, but one can never tell with pro wrestling, because it is the most illegitimate art of all – decades of deviants and carnies combining their mad creative skills into cultural kimchi which you could not figure out how to explain to aliens if they arrived on this planet and decided to ask you why you were watching this shit in your living room.
After a brief moment of Adonis trying to get on the offense, we are back to Backlund tugging on Adonis left arm, doing sit ups, with the crowd counting, and hoping he rips the gay guy’s shoulder out its socket. Adonis rolls over and takes command, but almost immediately loses it back, because Backlund – just a normal guy who the crowd loves – moves out the way of a corner charge, and then is right back on that same left arm, the odd arm, the submissive arm of this leather daddy freak sullying up this noble wrestling sport. Backlund is also bleeding from his nose, it should be noted, so this is no easy battle. There is collateral damage to normalcy for having to repress deviancy. Normalcy becomes ever so slightly less normal.
Adonis finally catches Backlund with a hard left fist, knocking Backlund down, but Adonis immediately, nice and slowly, in exaggerated motion with ever so slight touch of effeminacy, shakes the hand like “wow… that really hurt.” It really is amazing heeling going on here by Adrian Adonis, in ways far too subtle and slow-boiling to work nowadays, with our shorter attention spans and need for immediate gratification, not to mention overall sensory desensitization due to overstimulation.

Well goodbye subtlety, because that bastard Adonis ends up busting open Backlund, and our hero our champion OUR REGULAR FUCKING DUDE NEXT DOOR is a bloody mess, being manhandled by this man of questionable intent. Is this part of his deviancy? Is non-procreative sex not enough for this horrible Adrian Adonis? IS HE GOING TO BEAT OUR GOOD GOD-FEARING JUST DONG HIS JOB WHITE CHAMPION INTO SEXUAL SUBMISSION?
No. No he is not. Backlund finally flips out, tosses aside his legal behavior, and begins pummeling Adonis viciously with closed fists. The ref is trying to break them up and get the ref to take a look at Backlund’s cut, because 1982 wrestling was still real, and there was a ringside doctor who might call the match. In fact, he does, and the bell is ringing. But Backland is still attempting to repress Adrian Adonis, still refusing to have been bludgeoned by this deviant. Doesn’t matter, the law has been tested, and though Backlund remains champion, his normalcy is blemished, his image has literally been bloodied.

This is liberal progress – Adonis has won the match, and tarnished Backlund’s golden image, but Backlund remains champion. Lolol, wrestling is so fucking twisted. As our we. Neither of these things will ever change, no matter how woke we become. To be human is to be a true and living problematic fave.

SONG OF THE DAY: It Ain't Fair

Was reading about a local ass unite the right organizing ass chump this weekend, who was schooled at same shithole rural school which had harassed my offspring this past year, and contemplating the subtle differences between whiteboy and white male, how the entitlement of white male is often lost thru transition to whiteboy status, going from male to boy, economically emasculated, often times within penal system, but also learning not as much difference between skin tone as most assume. Being this is the internet, plz allow me to clarify not denying the presence of white privilege, but just saying even within white spectrum there’s difference between white male and whiteboy and also not even really trying to discuss it unless some white dude wants to argue, and even then I ain’t arguing pon the internet.
I say all this because I’ve seen a number of white males, seemingly progressive, do the social media two-step joke complaint about not being able to have free speech enough, or “lol am I not supposed to buy a second house is that too capitalist for you lefties?” or “wow don’t wanna trigger anybody” and this is ppl who consider themselves progressive or the voices of righteousness or at the very least in that choir. Guess what? It doesn’t fuckin’ matter what you think, and sure you can say or do whatever the fuck you want ultimately, law is just some shit to dance around nobody knows that more than white males, but there’s always repercussions. And sometimes you got no control over those repercussions, and yeah sometimes it’s not even fair. That’s because fair is a myth, and entirely subjective, and law never has anything to do with fair, ever, unless it’s lucky. Neither does social media. So if you say or do some shit and ppl get ruffled or you look like a bougie ass fucking white male because your hard work coming up honest sweat looks like gentrification to somebody else, fuck it. If you’re living decent, in your actions, decent folk will treat with you respect. This tip-toeing into alt right talking points about free speech or bootstraps is some bullshit. Stop being so fucking white male. There is nothing fair about life other than what we all build together, and even that’s bound to get fucked up. You are owed nothing, I am owed nothing, none of us are owed nothing, other than the respect we earn from others. Yeah, ideally at basic sense we all treat each other with basic levels of respect as fellow humans with valuable life and human potential, but to be honest that’s been pretty fucked up in all levels of civilization, so hard to understand why anybody would be shocked by the lack of that, much less white males. Of course it ain’t fair. It never was.
And if you see dirtgod and gotta identify me by race, please out of respect, if I’ve earned it from you, call me a whiteboy not a white male. As a whiteboy, I fuckin’ hate white males. That’s boss culture, khaki and polo shirt culture, docksider culture. I’m way too cursive tattoo to identify with that shit. But also, life ain’t fair, so judge me however the fuck you feel compelled to. I’m gonna be the same raggedy ass dirtgod raven mack regardless. Salam.


oral story about twins
named Satellite and Fennel -
allegory for jihad