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.

Thursday, April 11

SONG OF THE DAY: Waitin' Round to Die/Kathleen

My latest gofundme is to rent an abandoned restaurant space in an old metal building strip mall where a panaderia shut down, and I’m just gonna offer up fried chicken and pancakes, that’s all, but get one of those working class murals on the outside, you know how the neighborhood was built on people who fastened freight trains together out of the soapstone slabs they dug out the native river forks, and all the old houses of the neighborhood were that traditional cheap company housing but which is still superior to modern building techniques, although most of them are now painted pastel blossoms of property value increases, which has allowed some of the old company houses to be torn down and have new innovative things get built that look like recycling boxes devised by Mr. Miyagi if he opened a school after becoming ego-driven once Daniel-san won as a training mechanism for all his students, “no no no, you are not doing it right, watch, staple… stucco… net. staple… stucco… net.” And then I’ll decorate my new rundown strip mall restaurant in all the quirky old school ways of the 1950s, but without any real consistency. And there will be a jukebox, but it won’t actually play records, just a complete assortment of versions of this song, because I’ll actually have a tiny 4th generation ipod nano I took from my daughter inside the jukebox. I’ll take my fried chicken serious, bread it up just right; the pancakes, not so much, I mean its pancakes. Have some fancy locally harvested sustainably abstained maple syrups, maybe even extreme alternatives like cedar syrup or some crazy shit. This will all be a front to draw in the faux-country crowd who buy $45 “vintage” shirts to dress up like their racist grandfather on a Saturday night, because I’m just gonna work, be all friendly, act like it’s all good and I’m a serious entrepreneur. Then one day, when I have just the right mix of faux-country assholes, no people with trustworthy eyes in sight, and some eastern European looking dude with a Rollie Fingers mustache and a name patch on his work shirt that says “Nicky Boy” asks me how comes there’s no Sturgill Simpson on the jukebox, I’m gonna lock the door and murder everybody, but not myself. No murder-suicide for your boy the Dirtgod. I’ve got a lot of reading to catch up on finally.

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