RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Friday, November 30


hunting wrassleberries with
the young 'uns, walking through Old
Man Tenpenny's property

SONG OF THE DAY: Dean Malenko

DEAN MALENKO and CHRIS BENOIT 1995 over SWEET STAN LANE and BEAUTIFUL BOBBY EATON 1988 (texas death match 2 out of 3 falls) ***; LUKE WILLIAMS and BUTCH MILLER 1985 over THE GANGSTAS 1994 (street fight stretcher match 2 out of 3 falls) ***; EDDIE GUERRERO y LOVE MACHINE ART BARR 1994 over MEXICO’S MOST WANTED 2001 (mesas escaleras y sillas match 2 out of 3 falls) *******; THE MIDNIGHT EXPRESS 1986 over SABU and ROB VAN DAM 1997 (brass knucks scaffold match 2 out of 3 literal falls) ****7/8
DEAN MALENKO and CHRIS BENOIT 1995 over LOS PASTORES 1985 (no rope exploding barbed wire time bomb death match 3 out of 5 falls) *****3/5; LOVERBOY DENNIS CONDREY and BEAUTIFUL BOBBY EATON 1986 over LOS GRINGOS LOCOS 1994 (no rope exploding barbed wire steel cage match 3 out of 5 falls) *******19/23
DEAN MALENKO and CHRIS BENOIT 1995 over THE MIDNIGHT EXPRESS 1986 (orgone bomb tesla coil no rope no time exploding space antimatter dark fusion death match 5 out of 9 falls) ******3/4xINFINITYdivided byOBLIVION

DR34MS 0F B31NG 4 ST31NB3CK...

dreams of being a Steinbeck,
dreams of being a Rumi,
dreams of being an atom

Thursday, November 29


encouraging children to
walk in crooked world run by
mostly predatory men


got given a tasbih which I carry in my pocket
so when I reach for keys cash whatever
I feel the 33 beads and think
about remaining present
not lost in all the manufactured failures that are made to fail
much like me myself, channeled into doubt and loathing
and hatred of what I am at my essence
so that I try to mask it with purchased identities
consumed quirks, bedazzling my soul with manufactured shine
thinking the neon OPEN sign is my aura, thinking the halogen glow is angelic glisten
listening to the buzzbots mainstream my consciousness
channel me into the desired paths
which leave me lost, more lost than ever
but no different than any other time

I am no convert, just some human who attempts to ground theyself
five times a day with 33 la ilaha illallahs
because it makes sense
and gives me practice
the beads in my pocket remind me
I can always do more
very easily, and not be left behind
not feel so lost all the time
even if I still am

Wednesday, November 28


them redwoods cousins was tall
in ways I couldn't even
wrap my head or arms around

SONG OF THE DAY: Winston Reds

The hipster alternative strange east european sort of set of Big Lots versions of famous rappers that started getting created a few years back seems to have sort of petered out. We got our budget Ghostface (in Action Bronson), and our budget Nas (in Your Ol Droog). And while Action Bronson’s latest shit sounds tired and doing the same move he did a while back but to less excitement, much like a washed up WWF wrestler appearing at the county fair, I still enjoy an Your Ol Droog track from time to time. I don’t even mind Action Bronson, because he’s more of a weird fat guy who does cooking shows now, who unfortunately still releases rap music. Your Ol Droog has no other life that I know of, and even though he didn’t turn out to be Nas, I enjoy the fuck out of his flow. (Bonus love for this song because when my pop had hit his hardest drinking times, living with a new family he didn’t seem too settled with, all this Christmas presents for his kids came from shit he got with Winston miles or bucks or whatever the fuck they call it, and I had bright red long johns. I tore the Winston patch off though, not so much because I didn’t feel like being a billboard but because that shit was scratchy as fuck on my chest. Whoda thunk shitty cigarette company long johns would be so shoddy?)

TH3 SH4D0WS 1'V3 C4ST 4L0NG...

the shadows I've cast along
my meandering path have
always been upright and real

Tuesday, November 27


finding our footing in world
full of arbitrary rules,
gamifying happiness


organized madness sprouting
from Earth's surface - concrete, steel,
and glass entrapments for life

Monday, November 26

SONG OF THE DAY: Elephant Pants

I try to write the things for the songs but it feels useless. Everything is channeled into social mediums now, and those also feel hollow and dull, like a drum with a torn head, or driver side door speaker in aging vehicle that is blown out, and if you can’t fix the clutch no way you’re gonna fix the stereo, so you ride it out. That is the internet right now – riding it out until it dies, or somebody gives you a new one.
Try to write my thoughts to share here but it feels useless as do people still read? Is reading a privilege at this point? Even now, today, co-worker asked me “do you listen to podcasts?” as if this was intelligentsia in the today world, because she drove from Ohio to here and listened to a crime podcast. I don’t know y’all, everything feels fucked and all I’m interested in is scattering art, and at one point this method of scattering art was fulfilling (using the internet, on this very site, to the tune of thousands of posts, as is the case) but now it feels performative and like a waste of time. The drumhead has been torn. The door side door speaker is blown, but nobody has given me a new ride, so I’m still pumping out the hits in this thing where the bass is warbled fuzz and nobody gives a fuck. These are dark times of being told a void is not a void so we all scream into the void, never hearing each other because we are all screaming so loud ourselves, hoping to hear ourselves reverberate back from someone else, but it doesn’t happen. The diminishing returns of intellectual property in the colonial experiment called America.
They shot teargas across the border and folks are shocked at Trumpian America, as if Obama America didn’t hose down Standing Rock protesters, and as if Clinton wouldn’t have turned away this migrant caravan as well, albeit probably in a less heavy-handed way, although one never knows. These are selfish and crude beasts who are in charge of the empire’s coffers, and they don’t give a fuck about regular people any more. And this holiday season is more about you and I spending money on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, forever, than anything else. I have no money though. The metaphor of the blown speaker and failing clutch is no metaphor. The diminishing returns of class transition are closing in. There’s no inherited wealth to bail me out, only me, and I am fine, but also I am doomed.
Wonderful art comes from being fine but doomed. I looked at wonderful art this weekend and am hoping to channel myself into inspired over the course of the coming hours. I don’t share that stuff here as much. It is useless. We all know that, but we are pretending otherwise, that this is a wonderful means of staying engaged, instead of fogged out and distorted of view.

TH3 W0RLD 1S G0NN4 3ND, W3...

all those ignoring mushrooms

Sunday, November 25

B4BY 0F TH3 F4M1LY...

baby of the family
still blossoming with strong style
spirit, more and more each year

W3 0VTCH34 1 Y3LL 4T TH3...

"WE OUTCHEA!" I yell at the
overhead billboards, mocking
me with offers I can't have

Saturday, November 24

F33LS S0M3WH4T 1MP0SS1BL3...

feels somewhat impossible
to keep life on track as tracks
don't follow my industry



Despite the abundance of all forms of music filtered through wi-fi internet rabbitholes of oblivion into our stream of forced consciousness, sometimes the best rainy day Saturday long ass weekend music is that simple trash rock from back in the day. The blathering lazy entitlement of sensual pleasures, drunkenly intertwined with warm fuzzy companion in strange location where you’re not worried about the sheets because someone else will clean them. This has been an air bnb review.

Friday, November 23


taking another trip back
to the Pikeville, Kentucky,
Food City in time machine

SONG OF THE DAY: Dostoyevsky

No black Friday just black thought. Being broke on THE BIGGEST MANUFACTURED SHOPPING DAY OF THE YEAR is some weird late capitalism emotional fail triggering shit. Luckily it’s just the first of a big week of rollout of Small Business Saturday and Cyber Monday and Giving Tuesday and who knows what the fuck else because my shitty email account inbox is blowing up with MIND-BLOWING OFFERS that mean nothing to me. Fuck this system, a dying empire squeezing blood from stones. I know some people are actually comfortable (or else all this would not be happening) and I am simultaneously torn between wanting to somehow gain artistic support from these people while also actively wishing for collapse of this empire. I’d say I’m in a vulnerable frame of consciousness thus more nihilist than not and embrace the end of the empire fully. Fuck it.
That being said, make art, don’t buy shit. Write rhymes, freestyle, draw on the walls, create fucked up social media “stories” that somehow weave fragmented meaning from this fractured existence, no longer connected to anything solid. It’s okay. Shit will firm up again.