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.

Tuesday, April 7

SONG OF THE DAY: Hammerhead

Haven’t been posting songs of the day shit much lately, mostly because the world is in quarantine, I’m working from home, and god there’s too many fucking non-essential opinions right now. Travis Bickle’s making a lot of sense to me lately. Feel like beating my head against the walls, which are closing in, but not to escape just to damage me, which I guess is a form of escape.

W3 4LL D13, 4ND TH3 FR3SHLY...

we all die, and the freshly
turned Earth which swallows us back
tends to bloom green once again

Thursday, April 2

Wednesday, April 1

Tuesday, March 31

Monday, March 30

Sunday, March 29

Saturday, March 28

Friday, March 27

SONG OF THE DAY: Don't Send For The Others

Perhaps America is cancelling itself, as the weight of actual humanitarian needs crush the weak safety nets put in place as performative "freedom" fibers, brightly spray-painted red, white, and blue, but torn and frayed for decades and held together by dollar store duct tape. But also, not really America, so much as the United States, which is a completely different entity entirely. The American continent(s) have existed long before any United States, and likely will exist long after as well, hopefully with people still walking around upon the topside (or at least living in tunnels underneath). There's a shitload of work to be done, you just might not get paid for it, at least not with money. But once we're actually building real shit that ain't just talking shit and referring to brochures from the 1950s, doing work that builds support for every body, that hopefully will be more fulfilling. Because even blessed as a dude who can work from home right now, pretending my job needs to go on, there's a real heart disconnect from what I am bound to call "work". We got shit all backwards.


human minds allegedly
advanced, yet always pecking
around at outlandish schemes

Monday, March 23

Saturday, March 21

Friday, March 20

Wednesday, March 18

Tuesday, March 17

Monday, March 16

Saturday, March 14

Wednesday, March 11

SONG OF THE DAY: Black Bodies & Bullet Wounds

A day full of mind worries, all the while knowing my mind worries are less than other folks’. I hope you don’t have any fresh wounds, and whatever scars you have are healing. I hope no infection is still inside. I hope you are safe, and if so, I hope you are well. Rather than feel hopeless, I’m sowing hopes like these. It bears slowly exponential fruit, in that it’s hardly there, but as we keep sowing this shit, it starts to grow in that way, and all of a sudden despite how all fucked everything might be, we’re overflowing with an ability to be like “fuck it, just gonna do this shit anyways”.

M41NT41N1NG 4PP34R4NC3S...

maintaining appearances
while realizing our culture
is nothing but sand castles

Tuesday, March 10

Monday, March 9

SONG OF THE DAY: Calling Planet Earth

Maybe when people started believing in a flat earth again it was because the earth had been left out to long and all our tingly spirit like carbonation had been released so we were all just stumbling along, not correcting fucked up shit because there’s no real point to doing so as it’s just going to get done wrong right away at the next stop down the path, so fuck it. We just sit here, waiting for the inevitable, on an earth flattening of spirit, and some people can’t distinguish between metaphysical and real and they just assumed the earth was flat and made a bunch of youtube videos and shit. Anything being proven on youtube or a reddit thread is not being proven at all. And I say that with the simultaneous acknowledgement that our scientific community is full of shit and built on a foundation of false premises as well. All of this points to a flat earth. We need more motherfuckers like Sun Ra to pump some round to it again, all over the earth, in every corner, which of course is a poor metaphor BECAUSE THE EARTH DOESN’T ACTUALLY HAVE ANY CORNERS.


reflecting back on better
days - our romanticizing
erasing the negatives

Sunday, March 8

Saturday, March 7

Friday, March 6

Thursday, March 5

SONG OF THE DAY: Iceland Moss

I’m not really sure what to tell you. There’s a lot going on in the world right now, and I’m not even talking about the shit on the news. Most of that doesn’t even feel relevant to real life. I hope you’re holding your shit together as best as possible.


dust-covered religious texts
left behind as we indulge
in digital opioids

Wednesday, March 4


burnouts on back roads leave black
marks most the world will never
see; don't mean that shit ain't real

Tuesday, March 3

Monday, March 2

SONG OF THE DAY: Trucker's Are The Blood

Folk punk is corny as fuck. Truckers are horrible deviants. The truest jihad happens in your own human heart. My kid asked me about whether souls were real last night, because of The Simpsons episode where Bart sold his soul. I wasn’t sure how to answer, because we all had older model iPhones laying around, and I didn’t want the state to seize custody of my children. I love them too much for that. Obviously I believe we have a soul, but I also know you can’t say obvious shit anymore. You’re supposed to be obtuse, and faux clever, and do everything with a Kate McKinnon smirk smile, and head west towards the destiny that was manufactured for you, as the empire plunges over the edge of our flattened Earth. I practice in my mind at landing on edges while falling through space, so when it all falls apart, goes over the edge, I’ve at least practiced finding a crevice to catch onto, and try to survive a few extra months or years or whatever. I used to do that with a tire flying off my shitty truck, and then one day riding the interstate to be part of a class in the Richmond City Jail, my whole driver’s side front wheel flew off, on I-64, right by the Glenside Drive exit. So prepare for the worst, and don’t be cute about it. The worst is never as cute as you think it might be.

P13C1NG 1T T0G3TH3R WH1L3...

piecing it together while
trying to remember to
say salaam five times a day

Sunday, March 1

Saturday, February 29

Friday, February 28


Shout out to my man Psyopsogist on still being alive. We reconnected and he sent me a batch of beats a couple years back, old shit he wasn’t proud of, which I of course loved a bunch of them. We had a couple recording sessions, but never got shit to where we were happy, and life’s busy as fuck for the both of us. But it’s his birthday, so I’m thankful the song of the day happened to cycle magically to one of his beats.

D0M3ST1C4T3D 4LPH4...

domesticated alpha
males flaunting how toxic we
can get when the "fuck it"s lit

Thursday, February 27

SONG OF THE DAY: I'm Your Hoochie Coochie Man

Hoochie Coochie has been replaced by Gucci in the rhyming dictionary of the (American) human mind, and that’s a depressing sign of how nobody paid attention to what the fuck Carter G. Woodson was talking about when he said, “If you can control a man's thinking you do not have to worry about his action. When you determine what a man shall think you do not have to concern yourself about what he will do. If you make a man feel that he is inferior, you do not have to compel him to accept an inferior status, for he will seek it himself. If you make a man think that he is justly an outcast, you do not have to order him to the back door. He will go without being told; and if there is no back door, his very nature will demand one.”
Woodson was actually born right across the James River in Buckingham County, a few miles from where I walk the Rivanna line. That 69th mile marker where they’ll scatter my ashes is a metaphysical power zone. Woodson was born nearby. The James has flowed by for centuries. The good luck of the horseshoe bend is about 8 miles west. The slate quarries once mined by poor Welsh immigrants and then slave labor are around there, which is where Thomas Jefferson demanded the slate roofing tiles for all his buildings be from, to mimic the style of what he saw in France. Knowledge of Self is missing for a lot of people, not just minorities. We’ve had our histories scrubbed from us so that we just purchase a new identity, as often as possible. That shit ain’t sustainable either. And that’s not a real culture. We live in a hollow era.


transplanting solitary
human feels impossible;
the propaganda has worked

Wednesday, February 26

Monday, February 24


The melancholy grey of global warmed false spring morning at the truck stop near the interstate diamond exchange, most any rural area America. I’m leaning against my car as the gas pumps automatically, waiting for the pump lock to kick off, watching the crows congregate near the surveillance cameras on top of the other gas station with the McDonald’s attached. The crows are talking their shit, scavenging for cheeseburger wrappers with anything left, and the cameras are just keeping an ever-present eye on everything. The truck stop gas pumps blare pop radio country music, but there’s little dirt inside the sounds. We are living off the watered down juices of free spirited visions right now, everything from concentrate, genetically modified organisms pretending to be freebirds. The empire never trickled all the way down to everybody, but all these empty cheeseburger wrappers have left us plump with the belief we have it all, but there’s no real juice to none of this. It’s all fuckin’ tap water, full of shit and beta blockers, and we passively engage with oxygen intake while moving through the established routines of our day. I’m watching one crow in particular, a bold swaggering rook skip-stepping through the parking lot across the way, and he flaps off to a grass-ish median with what looks like a chunk of a McChicken sandwich, and my gas pump clicks off because it’s full. I squeeze it tight one more time, forcing a little bit more of that watered down nutritionless freedom juice into my car’s gullet, and then drive off into oblivion again. It is Monday, and we’re all fucked, but we keep pretending it’s going to be okay, because we don’t know what else to do. The surveillance cameras know far less than the crows do, but we’ve somehow convinced ourselves of the exact opposite.

H0M3 1S N3V3R P3RM4N3NT...

home is never permanent
for a human heart seeking
transcendence from earthly binds

Sunday, February 23

Saturday, February 22

Thursday, February 20