RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition who does all types of things, daily. The best place to get it right now is his Patreon or find his books at Amazon.

Monday, December 17

SONG OF THE DAY: Chillin' On the Westside


Was communifying with my eldest offspring the other day, and she textified to me “when will ppl chill and just let me live” and this struck me as pure gospel universal magnetic truth, with which I will likely stick and poke upon my leg around my ankle next week when I am off all week because work shuts down during the holidays whether we celebrate them or not, but who the fuck is gonna turn down being paid to stay home, not this dirtgod, so I’m gonna use my time wisely, sitting in my basement apartment, tattooing poorly “when will ppl chill and just let me live” around my leg, and it will likely look weird and oblong because it will be from my eye sight line of vision, much like my stretched out yin yang on my chest I did over two decades ago – a perfect circle to my eyeballs, but pulled tall in strange way to somebody not inside my mind’s eye.
This world remains full of so much manufactured and unnecessary drama, at global scale, at local scale, inside my own fucking home and car at times, and all I can think is WHEN WILL PPL CHILL AND JUST LET ME LIVE because this is always true. So I hope in this time of manufactured drama and socially engineered consumerism frenzy, you remember to chill, even if you are struggling beneath the weight of these burdens, and juggling multiple jobs which do not cover the even more multiplicitous debt, that you get those moments of chill, window down or door open or just walking, and the power of lounge washes over you, inside first then outward, and you feel some goddamn peace. This world is an asshole, and sometimes when overrun with asshole behaviors we want to counter that with our own worst nature, but I remind you that WHEN WILL PPL CHILL AND JUST LET US LIVE is a two-way street, and not even a binary two-way street but a giant circular roundabout with a thousand lanes and we can sit there and honk the fuck out of each other, smash fenders, angrily demand that our direction is entitled unto us, or we could chill the fuck out, make our way, and keep it loungin’.

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