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.

Saturday, August 18

SONG OF THE DAY: Argos Farfish

Strange how so much internet has assumed standard Monday-Friday operation levels, where weekend slows down to less content. Also strange how I’ve somehow followed this model. A motherfuckin’ song of the day likely more necessary and relevant on the weekend than week day anyways. Plus weekend and weekday is a social construct, because tons of people, including most of those I’m close with, don’t operate on “standard” M-F day time work schedule. You always hear folks tossing out that “quit normalizing” or “start normalizing” about normalization of different shit. In my opinion, fuck all normalizations, and norms.
That being said, when you ain’t got to work, the day feels a good bit lighter than days you do got to work. Having two days in a row where you ain’t got to work means the first day of them days off is extra-hype, because not only can you do whatever the fuck you want to, but you also have an extra day to recover if whatever you decide to do taxes the hell out your internal physical resources.
There’s no normal time schedule, in fact having a set schedule of your life dedicated towards working at some shit you ain’t really about in order to earn not quite enough money to pay debts attached to you which you’re not entirely all about either is not normal behavior at all. We spend all our goddamn time chasing shit we don’t even want, or if we are one of the lucky few who catch a carrot, almost immediately another bigger carrot is dangled just out of reach again, so we drop the one we just caught up to in order to keep chasing that other hot new shit.
So what I’m saying is fuck it all, fuck a Monday through Friday schedule, fuck an internet now entirely gentrified by bougie ass open mic comedians and/or pundits, fuck the digital homogenization of creative thought and act and not give a fuck. Fuck all borders, all nations, all gods, all masters. Step outside and love the Earth, whether that means being all granola funk express and getting lost in the woods looking at tiny mushrooms at the bottom of the forest floor, or if it means having on some fresh kicks with matching jersey and cooking out at the park. Breath that fresh air, turn the screen over face down or power off so you can power up, let the positive funk which can be found anywhere on this earth where people is allowing themselves and allowed by environs to be real people, let that funk motherfuckin’ flow. Put some liquids that make your gut flora tingle into your insides, look up at the sky, and mashallah all day every day. Salaam, cousins.


plastic reflections of years
sedimented into a
space given title of home

Friday, August 17


mimosa branches fanning
in incoming thunderstorm's
peripheral cool breezes

SONG OF THE DAY: Wife Sitter

The notion of marriage, and possession – of each other as well as your shit, is fucked up. Hardest part of separation has not been emotions between me and my partner, because we’re still ride or die for each other. It’s the fuckin’ economics and capitalism of it all. Together we were two fists punching in one direction, and that shit’s hard enough like that. Separated, the system and society and in fact a lot of people who try to get in our ears get us to punching at each other. This doesn’t help either of us to be honest. And even typing this, I’m automatically feeling defensive that somebody would be like “oh he’s just being deadbeat, fuck him.” It’s fucked up.
When I feel angry at the situation, rather than turn against one another, I like to listen to Swamp Dogg. He’s from Portsmouth, VA, originally, so maybe is an actual swamp dog. That swamp down there is allegedly home to a sect of one of my favorite historical concepts – the tri-racial isolates – or secluded autonomous areas where runaways African slaves, remaining indigenous natives, and outcast Europeans, intermingled and mixed and became their own thing. It’s existed as long as organized United States of America has existed. None of these battles we’re fighting now are new – this place has had it twisted since the very beginning. Fuck it though, all empires eventually crumble under the weight of their own unsustainable corruption.


palm-sized stealth switchblade kept in
cargo pants thigh pocket for
sharpening their paint crayons

Thursday, August 16


chain link rust patina fence
at rural drag strip, bearing
witness to eighth mile passes


The other evening I stopped to eat at a diner/soul food restaurant after walking behind a traveling protest through a neighborhood. I hadn’t meant to eat, but passing by Mel’s, it occurred to me if any place had chicken and gizzards in town at that time, maybe Mel’s did. They didn’t, but I got a burger and greens and mac-n-cheese anyways, and sat out front eating, listening to the dude over by me talking about what he was about to get into while his ol’ lady sat there as well. “We drinkin’ vodka tonight, she can’t handle me when I’m on that Hennessey.” She shook her head. “Yeah, I get stupid off that Hennessey.”
The protest ultimately was about racism, and had built off a string of domino events that began with the suggested removal of a confederate monument. Don’t really feel like getting into all that because the past week has been very tiring, and in fact the resurgence of energies from the week of this time of the calendar last year has also been tiring. We lived in a police state locally, in certain sectors, and it left one exhausted from hyper-awareness and fear. I lived in Richmond in the ‘90s during the height of its worst murder rates, and had hyper-awareness and fear then, but nothing like this. The fear of militarized police fucking you up is worse because you know there’s no recourse, no institution to escape to. It is the institution.
I talked my ragged dirtgod shit style, flashing them country dimples to the lady at the counter, and of course she laughed at my silly ass. Finally had my food, chowed the fuck down, and after wandering like 20 miles on foot that day, damn them greens and mac-n-cheese was replenishing as fuck. I had planned on walking home, still another mile away, but after all that, I was wiped out, so texted a friend who had said she’d give me a ride if I needed.
Sat on the bus stop bench (always sitting on bus stop benches it seems), and there was a poster for an upcoming show stapled into the tree still living here in this non-natural zone, tucked into the concrete and small businesses and not yet upgraded buildings to match the economic monstrosities built a couple blocks further west. I felt bad for the tree for a second, as I always do when I see things stapled into a tree. But also trees don’t go out like that. One of my favorite things to find in the woods wandering is when you cross an abandoned barbed wire fence that had been stapled into a tree and the tree grew around the wire, eventually just overtaking it so it looks like the wire belongs to the tree. An even more favorite aspect to that favorite is when the fence is no longer a fence so it’s just a piece of wire sticking out the tree and you realize somebody tried to put up fences somewhere along the way, but nature took back over, and fuck your fences, they’re gone now.
I want to be resilient like that, knowing the fences are there, feeling them stapled into my existence, but still being like, “fuck it” and continuing to grow and survive and in fact thrive and just overpower the fence nonetheless. Resilient like a stubborn ass tree, working fingers into the underground for water, and stretching towards the sunshine. That’s my fuckin’ jam.