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.

Tuesday, February 27

1N M3M0RY 0F D1RTG0D...

"In Memory of Dirtgod"
various bench plaques will one
day read, if I did it right

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number eleven "when the shit hits the fan"

[an '80s classic, when all this political chaos people think is brand new was happening before; an early classic of folk punk?] 

In other direction right quick with outside wit, 
trying to somehow thrive during these end-ish times, 
though “end” is self-centered Earth dominion bullshit, 
since Earth shall still exist once industrial crimes 
claim their “civilized” victim - people; anyways, 
the newly broke is suddenly woke as if Trump 
is aberration and not just symptom; this phase 
been happening since the ‘80s - Earth turned to dump, 
capital prophets entrusted with nations’ keys, 
unchecked as system, imbalanced psychology 
of eternal expansion of production… please, 
free market forever is death mythology 
boring into all lives; devil math’s greatest trick - 

keep middle fingers wiggling in ev’ry loose brick. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number ten "sjb's"

[love trash music when slowed down, 
like fried fish for the eardrums] 

Skidding along outskirts, laughing with lunar tic, 
serotonin on the mind, inclined to unwind 
along back roads I’ve never known before, brain thick 
with wanderlust, plus regular lust, try to find 
divine path down dirt roads paved but been forgotten; 
that’s fine… in shadows, margins, and fringes, folks can 
still cultivate loungin’ lives while world’s gone rotten, 
but fuck it… enjoy life better with lesser plan, 
avoiding downpressor man, living off the phat 
of the nether lands; dirtgod is back roads by birth, 
feel more at ease where the shine is gone; y’all chase that 
blood diamond polish, I’m good griming back to Earth, 
tripping along this wayward path, ready to split 
in other direction right quick with outside wit. 

Monday, February 26


discarded spray paint t-shirts
which sat on side porch for months,
bright colors slowly mildewed

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number nine "outskirts of life"

[GG Allin acoustic spectrum 
on repeat when around too much 
fake shit, which I seem to be, 
perhaps mistakes made 
in path trusted, but fuck it] 

The easiest way to get free is to just git, 
always choose the margins - I don't even write real 
poetry or do real art, just simplified shit 
unrefined thus never "fine" nor found; but genteel 
shine is pyrite promise, I'd rather pirate away days 
looking lazy and out of place beyond good grace 
of inside system's so-called safe space; y'all give praise 
to a Freedom that's brand-name only, which shineface 
voting bases both right and left still slurping; I'd 
rather not become absorbed by or with facade 
of exceptional life realized (lies), steering wide 
of y'all's beaten path of devil math; it's dirtgod 
jihad, internal/external, freebird mystic 
skidding along outskirts, laughing with lunar tic. 

M1X3D 0VR G3N3T1CS, M1X3D 0VR...

mixed our genetics, mixed our
records, mixed our books; gotta
figure out splitting it up

Saturday, February 24

Friday, February 23

F00L1SH P1R4T3 0F PYR1T3...

foolish pirate of pyrite,
accumulating trinkets
of dazzling impermanence

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number eight "bozo texino (get live)"

[one of my own fuckin' songs, which feels stupid, 
but I synced up some bozo texino doc 
to the track and it's nice; 
been working on new shit musically, 
some of it I like 
some of it I don't... 
nature of the creator]

Getting real freedom means letting go what you clutch, 
don't give a fuck about much too superficial, 
with the metaphysical try to stay in touch, 
man is judgemental but universe judicial; 
and quick to straighten shit out; underneath crows' prose 
beside James River flows I compose cryptic marks 
upon industrial carcasses where freight slows 
to stop, where dirtgod heart makes ripples and sparks 
which spiral wherever - no plan, just man compelled 
beyond control to explode with creation; 
despite power grid imposed, big bang's still upheld 
by getting live, cultivating constellation 
of self-science and arts to guide self through this shit - 
the easiest way to get free is to just git. 


kettlebell swings, Hindu squats,
up the hill in the field sprints,
plus cubicled lethargy

Tuesday, February 20


them devil dudes' grids not built
for survival, just profit;
when it goes dark, we begin

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number seven "payaso"

[y'all fuck with Tego? 
you should.] 

Returning to the mud, getting lost in the weeds; 
soy un payaso estupido por creer 
en la meritocracia; forced english feeds 
perpetuate clown thought - necesito leer 
mas Galeano, mas Vasconcelos, plantar 
pensamientos de raza cosmica en 
mi cabeza (y mi corazon), levantar 
filosofias de Sumak Kawsay; and then 
once payaso del diablo blanco conquest 
of false progress utopian thinking's been hacked 
with metaphysical machete, achieve blessed 
state of less stress, less mess, plus more natural fact
simplicity as universal good life touch, 
getting real freedom means letting go what you clutch. 

04K TR33 4RTS PH1L0S0PHY...

oak tree arts philosophy -
scatter bullshit every
direction, don't give a fuck

Monday, February 19

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number six "winter in america"

[any time you see a Gil Scott-Heron 
dusty vinyl long-player jam 
with Brian Jackson, 
it's a guaranteed classic; 
this song so fuckin' great 
and so fuckin' still relevant, 
we seem stuck] 

As possible, attempting to feel real world's touch, 
on this continent named America despite 
pre-Columbian presence lacking western clutch 
desperate for wealth; the Earth can always make right 
what's gone wrong, don't let fear entirely commandeer 
all probable futures - truly exceptional 
checks and balances super natural, austere 
to dominion-minded brain, forcing sectional 
thinking where holistic existed; Land of Free 
press release and advance publicity lacking 
in substance to back the hype; back to simple me, 
attempting to live more (less) simply as can be 
in overpolished world with myriad of greeds, 
returning to the mud, getting lost in the weeds. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number five "excellent"

[couldn't really find full version of Princess Nokia's "Excellent" song, which had me contemplating uploading it, but then I wondered if maybe she didn't cease & desist all the copies of it online because maybe she doesn't like it; why should I force it back into the internet if that's the case; also the only video that does show up is this one with her nieces, and knowing little girls with house full of daughters, I could imagine her nieces being like "what if we could be famous on youtube?" and then Nokia was like "okay, let's put this video of y'all up on youtube and I'll make it so that's the only version of the video that shows up" and then that's what happened and the views keep going up and those nieces are stoked; who am I to deny that either? so I'm just running with this video even though it doesn't fit my desires as a dumbass person with a website project about music every month, what the fuck do I matter?]

Because the gridlock's plots don't address my real needs, 
ambitions and accolades practiced from within, 
cheffin' in the kitchen, always cooking with weeds, 
calculate with intuition, guts without sin 
because that gut flora morality goes deep, 
goes ancient, goes excellent, goes ever-present; 
it's never pleasant to separate toxic seep 
into my conscience from poison culture; peasant 
beginnings within this pyramid scam, yet no 
doubt, still blessed with privilege at the same damn time; 
my future likely robotic, with pharma flow 
forced into bloodstream if I let them; dirtgod grime 
resists shineface power structures applied as much
as possible, attempting to feel real world's touch. 


running extension cords from
front porch outlet to camper
in field eighth of mile away

Saturday, February 17

Thursday, February 15

Wednesday, February 14

N4K3D W1NT3R TR33 L00K1NG...

naked winter tree looking
like electromagnetic
impulse against setting sun

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number four "damn weeds"

[I'll be honest, what ppl try to convince me Sturgill Simpson is, I already got Malcolm Holcombe for, and Malcolm's not a cop] 

Getting too easily lost in consciousness stream, 
struggling for space to breath easy but trapped in place 
that don't feel like home no more; fuck it, reframe dreams 
into singlewide, take pride in natural grimeface 
existence, never one to shine with perfection, 
I'm a lounge in progress (fuck work), stacking milk crates 
too high with piecemeal second-handed possession; 
once I got spot to spread raven wings without weights 
of what really ain't, my illegitimate art 
will grow like dandelion and kudzu vine, climb 
through the cracks in concrete, extending dirtgod heart 
into larger world more fully, like fool, full-time 
around-the-clock don't stop explosion of thought weeds, 
because the gridlock's plots don't address my real needs. 

Saturday, February 10

Wednesday, February 7

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number three "s4m st0n3"

[DJ 1000 Featherz exclusive 45s on 33 jam! s4m st0n3 from the 7-inch collection in the white camper trailer, slowed down as far as wrong speed + 10% pitch modulation on USB turntable will allow; HOW LONG BEFORE I OPEN ONE OF THESE TABLES UP & MAKE THE THING SPIN SLOWER THRU INTERNAL SCIENTIFICS? (also, had to make my own video for this since it was a vinyl rip I did at abnormal but more appropriate speed... if you used to listen to Solaris Earth Pipeline perhaps you recognize this speed because it was used as "Trapped Inside Clouds")]

Raven Mack refraining from living life with fear, 
a voiding of addiction protocols, transplant 
poison ivy genetics into path more clear, 
not sure whether career or careen, and just can't 
seem to dream; there's a hole in daddy's life where all 
the money comes from, but gone before Monday's dawn; 
thankful the fog's lifted but struggle with this stall 
in direction lost when not reckless - broke ass spawn 
escaped hopeless perspective, but not enough stone 
in my life, too many abstractions just as bad 
as medicated blurs at making falseness known 
as truth; so I here I sit, stone cold sober dad 
struggling to do right while still holding onto dream, 
getting too easily lost in unconscious stream. 

TH3 R3P3T1T1V3 P4TT3RNS...

the repetitive patterns
concealing mundane culture;
the walls full of rot and mold

Monday, February 5

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number two "parkside 5-2"

[timely track, with psychic props to Philly]

Biggie’s voice echoing with “it was all a dream...” 
Deck laying out "Earth no different from a cell..." 
Method Man explicating capitalized "C.R.E.A.M."... 
"it's like a jungle sometimes" booms gruff Melle Mel, 
"makes me wonder how I keep from going under"; 
grounded by my early boom baptism, pounding 
forties and blunts, 'til my upright was asunder, 
from '73 'til infinity, sounding 
furiously; "Signifying Rapper" Schoolly schooled young 
mack to other mythologies, moralizing 
me beyond white western propaganda well-hung 
but easily made impotent since disguising 
old masters' plans; small town mind gone by world premiere... 
Raven Mack refraining from living life with fear. 

K33P MY CR30S0T3 SH4D0WS...

keep my creosote shadows
as clean of that devils' math
as a simple man still can

N0T N34RLY 3N0VGH 1DL3...

not nearly enough idle
moments in utopian
industrial existence

Sunday, February 4

Friday, February 2

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number one "syrup splash"

[met a white girl who rapped in Chinese 
at a tea house who reminded me 
Spark Master Tape was good like 
cup of warm kava on 
dark nights of the soul] 

Forty-five years and counting, but still stuck right here,
feeling as unheard as ever, wishing for that
slurred escape, pharma-fog to blur/make disappear
absurd life, living false, sittin' on nothing flat,
how did I get there? Can't remember precise path,
forgotten forks? Fuck it though, spoonfeed me codeine
and let me overdose on clouds, sweet grapes of wrath
flavored syzzurp to create blizzard of this obscene
abomination against the Power of Lounge
called civilization, mislabelled as progress;
rather be wobbling through woods, letting fingers scrounge
white trash quartz, stack dirtgod altars against noblesse,
making syrup splash in poisoned consciousness stream,
Biggie's voice echoing with "it was all a dream..."


never trust a tree which don't
stand at least as tall as two
full-grown balloon-headed men

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 intro

[nonsense gibberish oracle, 
turning one project into another, 
now this is sonnets too] 

Another year alive, wondering what it means
as them dreams get further buried in sands of time
while most my minutes spent paused mimicking machines,
moments lost forever hoping somehow I'll climb
out these numbers stacked against me, which prevents me
from moving quite as freely as my heart's wishing,
modern human condition - just trying to be
more real me, less human resource. Big boss phishing
for ways to keep me productive and occupied;
I remain resistant, within barbed wireless fence
wrapping circumference of brain, trained to divide
Earth into parcels, while heart intelligence
pumps "fuck that!" reminders, desires to disappear...
forty-five years and counting, but still stuck right here. 

Thursday, February 1

T3CHN0L0G1C4L 4DV4NC3...

technological advance
casts a dark shadow over
sense of self-identity

twitter renga #0118

(last month's twitter renga at @rojonekku 
ended up pretty amazing) 

the calendar's been
flipped, but nothing much has changed...
same desk, same dead end

the chance for fresh perspective
often lost in these too-deep ruts

"hope springs eternal
in the human breast" was not
writ in cold weather

winter is time of darkness - 
ascetic nihilism

last night in full moon,
the kettlebell handle was
ten degrees at best

still I swung it, stubbornly
wearing black basketball shorts

viking berserker
blood exists somewhere within
my genetic muck

raven mack dirtgod thought and 
memory winter workout

hung from Yggdrasil,
bloody Odin received runes,
"word to word to word"

same: I prefer heavily
fortified mead of poetry

all mythologies
have similar tales of how
poetry was born

heart-innate mythologies
truer than brain's mad science

heart thinks like elder
beech - silently seeing all,
knowing what makes sense

brain thinks like fence - attempting
to separate existence

borders should be crossed,
identities dismantled,
all colonies burned

archive this poison culture
in ash; let's begin again

theory five hundred level
class, taught by beech tree

getting my masters in no
gods, no masters (just dirtgod)

perpetrate dirtgod
meditations to deny
natural born trash

to the upright world, still trash -
lackluster human resource

too fuckin' cold to
care; too fuckin' old to try;
heart paralysis

cuddled under shitty quilts...
this world is too fuckin' much

counting off the days
until springtime, when I'll bloom
like fuckin' redbuds

I have faith in the purple
protocols of warm rebirth

Allah bumps mad Screw -
just look at redbud blossoms
and echinacea

la ilaha illallah
la ilaha illallah

worthlessness feelings
fought off with simple dhikr's
internal jihad

la ilaha illallah
la ilaha illallah

people got it all
figured out, in ways which feel
alien to me

is your happiness for real?
please friend, hydrocodone me

opioids and gods -
it's self-medication or

papaver somniferum's
smoky embrace perhaps both

opium access
limited but opioids
in great abundance

manufactured blooms of free
market capitalism

tired of pretending
progress still possible while
madness reigns supreme

fuck y'all fake motherfuckers
la ilaha illallah

the myth of progress -
simple-brained humanity's
Sisyphean stone

stubborn homo sapiens
still believing they own hype

knowing with the brain
is over-complicated process
of smashing apart

knowing with the heart easy
as fuck - sit there, check your self

humans ain't shit but
hoes & tricks... suck on these nuts
& lick on this dick

lol, not really y'all...
I'm selective with my dick

penis has no heart
nor brains - direct connect to
gut intuition

vagina I can't speak for
(wish more dudes would think like that)

Not All Men will help
you deconstruct and destroy
then rebuild from scraps

even those that appear to
be allies might be man-wolves

majority of
modern people - woman or 
man - is fake as fuck

constant public relations
device in hand doesn't help

always tell myself
"fuck y'all fake motherfuckers"
when walking through world

double middle fingers to
the mirror to keep self hyped

dusty ass bathroom
mirrors reflecting too damn
much sadness lately

can't wait for spring to unlock
redbud blossom raven mack

"hope is as hollow
as fear" said the poet,
quoting Tao Te Ching

thoughts of bamboo stalks growing
along both sides of a fence

moments not minutes
meditations as I sit
through morning meetings

my paycheck work is not my
real work - I am an artist

a Natural Born
Artist, regardless of lot
in life work assigned

a Natural Born Artist,
all eight directions, all day

a Natural Born
Artist can't be quantified,
needs not a co-sign

Natural Born Artists have
illegitimate nature

"what exactly is
your art?" a non-believing
gatekeeper might ask

"ev'rything motherfucker"
all eight directions, all day

save your poetry
for secretive submissions;
I blast mine like howls

assimilation is for
those who believe in system

last night, Saul Williams
said "fuck the beliefs" as they
are our minds' police

the internal jihad of
shooting cops inside your brain

Raven Mack Dirtgod
internal jihad - remain
at odds with gridlock

a Natural Born Artist
sowing fractal geospheres

shout out and love to
all Natural Born Artists
sowing y'all's wild seeds

fuck orders fuck submissions
fuck the beliefs which choke y'all

artists natural
born tend to feel like artists
natural forlorn

the legitimate world spins
upon a crooked axis

the mantra remains
'til covered with dirt

the fake own the so-called "real
world" in its small entirety

one day your power
grid will fail; the fog depends
on batteries' buzz

once the fog clears, we'll shine our
guillotines with devil blood