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, September 17


throwing chunks of rubble through
the facade, just to sneak a
peek at natural sunlight

4ND Y3T H3R3 W3 4R3 - C0CKSVR3...

and yet here we are - cocksure
of our own self-righteousness,
while fences grow tall and close

Tuesday, September 15

SONG OF THE DAY: Qualified

I am highly qualified to sit around listening to the river, or waiting for a train to pass in the middle of nowhere, probably passing a little time by walking a few miles, snagging a few cool railroad spikes laying around, but then my cargo shorts pocket got too heavy so I throw them back out, and then sit down again. Lot of cool rocks for sitting around on out here on this planet. I saw some shit where they said there’s probably life on other planets nearby. Hahaha, could you imagine being so self-important that you thought there wasn’t life on other planets? Like you just think, “well I’m the most special shit that just happened to come together in the universe, and there couldn’t possibly be anything like me. In fact, whatever created everything probably created ME to be like HIM.” Haha, it’s some foolish people out here thinking CRAZY SHIT to hype themselves up. Sit down by the river for a little while, and listen to a real player spit game.

SONG OF THE DAY: Hey Nineteen Miles Per Hour

I’ve been on a mission lately to listen to far more 7-inch 45s on 33 rpm speed, sometimes even bumping the pitch shifter that extra 10% too. You can’t slow it down enough sometimes. Actually all the time. The real world’s regular speed is fucking stupid. Nobody needs to be rushing around all the goddamned time, or wearing watches, or having their phones blip bloop at them angrily because your physical presence hasn’t navigated the complex obstacle course of pata-modern life fast enough to be at some fucking bullshit ass GPS coordinates at some entirely arbitrary time. Fuck clocks, fuck appointments, and fuck rushing around. Slow everything down, to a crawl. In fact fuck it, I’m gonna start going on crawls, literally crawling down the sidewalk just to get a better feel for certain parts of town.


from pharm to able - dulling
our overwhelmed senses to
avoid tearing it all down

Monday, September 14


Thought about making some comments but then decided to make no comments. Just jam Bambu. Looking forward to him dropping another album at some point.


neural impulses stifled
in our own minds; meanwhile, the
wild keeps reaching for the stars

Sunday, September 13

Saturday, September 12

SONG OF THE DAY: Mafatshe Leh

I know it’s a pandemic still but I’m bored, so I bought a bus ticket to Cairo, the long way, through the deep South then through Texas down on the Gulf side of Mexico all the way to Panama, where a ramp is set up and the bus does a big jump over the Panama Canal, which will have four trash barges set on fire as we do the jump, and then in Colombia, where we recreate the Herzog epic Fitzcarraldo, complete with Klaus Kinski’s son Nikolai playing his father’s role at the front of the bus (which we’re pretending is our steamship), then down all the way to Chile, where we cut across to Montevideo, Uruguay, to park on a steam ship and sail over to South Africa, then continue the bus journey up through the interior of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, on well-rutted roads, with a brief layover in Lubumbashi (go TP Mazembe!), working our way to catching a steamer way up river on the Congo, where we float to Kinshasa, before cutting our way northward up through the Central African Republic’s jungles, then South Sudan, entering the Saharan zone of the lower Nile in Sudan, on up into Egypt and eventually landing in Cairo. So I won’t be reachable by email through next Thursday, sorry.


rainbows born from the darkness -
small fractals of light which get
expanded into wide spectrum

Friday, September 11


One is only lost when they’re holding themselves to a trajectory that may not be destined for them. Panning further out of the map’s drawn onto your life, that you’ve come to accept as your defining reality, allows the path to meander more in the ways the universe might have planned for it. I’ve been thinking a lot about English gardens lately, and how they’ve corrupted our view of nature, that we can control it and whip it into a nice, orderly shape, that’s unnatural in nature, and also requires a lot of work. This also came in vogue during a time when English culture was dominating the Earth, and could subjugate enough other folks to do all the necessary dirty work to maintain those impossibly unnatural but perfectly humane gardens. In the idea of living with nature, we’ve lost sight of the “with” part, thinking nature has to bend to our human will. Shit’s gonna grow the way it wants to, without asking us. We can tend things so that they’re being heard, and grow in directions sort of beneficial to ourselves as well as them. Or we can keep applying these colonial control mentalities all over everything, and try to pound it all to where we want it, yelling “Dominion! Over! The! Earth! Dominion! Over! The! Earth!” while we beat on it. If we can’t live with nature, mutually, it leaves us, or stops paying attention to us, or worse yet still sits there acting like it’s listening to us and caring still, but it’s not – it’s secretly plotting how to poison us while we’re not looking, slipping arsenic into our slave corn, or some shit like that.
I feel like I could use more pilgrimages nowhere, on foot, just meandering ass seven to twelve mile loops through nothing in particular, to better connect with each step, and see the ditches and trees and cracks in the asphalt way better. I tend not to see them too well zipping through a productive industrial modern American life all that much. And this fucked up late capitalist American life is just the bastard child of English gardens anyways.

TH3 PR3C4R1TY 0F L1F3...

the precarity of life
easily overlooked when
world's filtered through net bubbles

Thursday, September 10

SONG OF THE DAY: Curtain Call

Just moved into a house, bigger than the basement apartment, and there’s no curtains. I don’t have a brain that’s ever thought about curtains beyond “I guess we tack an old sheet up” but I don’t have this many old sheets. Trying to be normal is weird as fuck. I also realized my class transition in terms of Adidas tracksuits. Most of my life I was poor, so had no Adidas track suits. You didn’t even bother thinking about shit like that after a couple back to school shopping trips where the name brand shit you wanted was secretly replaced with bo-bo shit that you had to work pretty hard to freshen up. Sometimes (like me) you gave up on freshening up and just assumed a derelict look out of ease. But you learned to scour the thrift store racks for them Adidas garments, and eventually built a little arsenal you could mix and match to a semi-decent freshness.
In recent years, I got to the point I actually bought a couple of nobody-else-ever-wore Adidas garments, but always at outlet stores on their downward spiral through the consumer ranks. And even then, that shit had to be on the clearance rack usually, because the full outlet store price was still too high for my barely treading water allegedly middle class ass with no safety net. Sometimes the purchase of Adidas basketball shorts that nobody else ever wore would trick me into thinking I was more than just barely middle class, and when I’d go into a store with the kids to gawk at shit we couldn’t buy, I’d see the Adidas over there in the men’s athleisure world corner, and think, “wow, look at that orange track suit… how obnoxious. I should buy it.” But then I go over there and that shit’s like over $140 for the pants and jacket? Fuck that shit. I ain’t no goddamn Rockefeller. And that’s why I’m wearing black Adidas basketball shorts with white stripes and a clearance sale Scotland GK jersey, orange as fuck with black stripes, right now, looking fresh as shit, all by myself, nowhere.


"blue lives matter" dumbasses
pretending that they're outlaws
by licking the boots that tread

Wednesday, September 9


I know Wet Ass Pussy got the manufactured discourse going full bore there for a quick minute, but you take away the video and that song was kinda boring in my opinion. And it’s not like there hadn’t been vulgar female rappers throughout the south in abundance before this song; I think it just was a faux shock to conservative types who love to be upset by everything who hadn’t listened to Gangsta Boo or Trina or La Chat before, much less the older shit by like Millie Jackson, or really throughout the history of music.
Anyways, WAP isn’t even the best sex positive from female perspective pop song of 2020. That goes to Jhene Aiko. This song makes me cut on the purple christmas lights, light some jasmine incense, and slip into my burgundy silk boxers every time I hear it.


I climbed the highest mountain within seven crow flights, seeking answers to questions that hadn’t even yet formed coherently in my soul, trudging to the top through blackberry bush thickets as wide as a European football field, carefully treading across slick granite stones larger than my family’s entire existence, having to remove my worn boots at times to utilize the extra precise grip of bare foot against raw stone, finally getting to the top, where the old wizened figure sat in pentagram position, in rhinestone overalls and large flowing grey beard wisping off like smoke into the clouds. I contemplated upon my timid approach how to frame my question which had been fermenting in my heart since birth, though the words have never been clear, a basic innate searching or yearning that has existed inside me perhaps even pre-dating English words, I don’t know, maybe that’s why I can’t figure out how to ask it. I made my final approach, and the old person – I guessed a man because of the beard but they were entirely effeminate as well, so I can’t say for certain about any gender specifics, as there seemed to be some pretty dope breasts trying to peek out from around those glittering overalls – the old person said, “There is a question eating at you, but my statement will only poke that question with deeper questions that will be easier for you to answer.” I said, “cool” like a fucking dumbass because I was simultaneously in spiritual awe but also wondering what the old figure’s nipples were like, and whether they had cursive tattoos on their chest. The old sage, still smooth in the face as if river waters had rippled over it for centuries, said, “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people.” This confused me. I was trying to escape the manufactured discourse, the engineered divisions which push us all to the brink of violence against each other on a daily basis. This is not what I expected.
“Does that mean… should I get some guns then?” Was it time to prepare for the darkest futures, the delusions the most evil amongst us have been wishing for decades? Uncivil wars among each other, for the scraps of the American empire’s diminishing returns?
The old sage opened their eyes, and looked at me. Their eyes were the color of rose quartz, with a comforting gaze, like staring into your father’s mother’s eyes and your mother’s father’s eyes at the same time, as a baby, adrift into this Earthen existence but with the protective gaze of elders who knew more about the maelstrom you’d been launched into than your own folks did. “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people. Think about it.”
I thought about it, but I hadn’t expected a pop quiz, and was struggling with the anxiety of being impressive to weirdly sensual old spiritual figures at the top of unrealistic mountain ranges. “I don’t get it. Why guns? Should I start having guns again? Because my uncle killed himself a long time back, and it’s always kinda made me not want to have guns because of my own depressive episodes. Plus, my kids…”

“Settle down,” said the old spirit. “This has nothing to do with guns. People kill people, so beware people. People with guns kill people more efficiently than ungunned people. They have combined the mad philosophies of human beings with the mechanical actions of industry. Get the fuck away from those people. Wherever there’s a bunch of them, get the fuck away. Even if you have to jump over fences, both physical and unseen, some even mandated by constitutions. Get the fuck away.”
So I’ve been trying ever since. But it’s only been a few minutes. I think.

4 N3W C04T 0F BLV3 P41NT 41N'T...

a new coat of blue paint ain't
gonna fix a foundation
rotted out, from the top down

Tuesday, September 8

SONG OF THE DAY: Walkin' Up the Road

A good exercise is seeing how slow you can walk down a country road, by that guardrail just above the creek near where the railroad tracks crosses over on that old fucked up concrete bridge where all the concrete is falling off the rebar, and it’s probably not safe but nobody’s going to fix it because the state doesn’t care nor does the railroad company. But that spot is so dope because nobody cares, and the kudzu is creeping up along the guardrail and mostly goes under it but at a few spots, bold ass kudzu vines are like, “Fuck it, I’m going over the top” so it does, like an ocean wave cresting in whitecap. I love to walk through there, really slow, I mean super fucking slow, so that the kudzu thinks it can catch me where the kudzu is bold and goes overtop the guardrail. And I’m walking, super slow motion slow, and the kudzu is like “oh shit, we’re gonna grow onto this dude, let’s do it!” And the kudzu takes a shot at it, but I’m just barely walking too fast for it to catch my shoulder. And then it’s reached too far over the guardrail, almost to the road, so somebody complains and they come and spray shit on it or cut it or whatever the state does when people complain and they have paperwork to fill out to pretend they give a fuck.
I hope one day in our next era of existence which is negatively called “post-Apocalyptic” but I prefer to call pre-re-genesis, to have a giant herd of goats, and I slowly walk them down the road to the kudzu, and I just sit there writing poetry while they eat up kudzu, and whatever pre-re-genesis state has replaced the failed one we currently lives in cuts me vouchers by the acre of cleared kudzu, which I trade for psychedelics, and whole chickens, and hopefully one day some 100-spoke gold Daytons for my riding mower.
I don’t actually have a riding mower, but the rest of this is all too real.

4M3R1C4 1TS3LF FVCK3D...

America itself fucked
around for far too long; we
have, collectively, found out

Monday, September 7

Sunday, September 6

Saturday, September 5

1N TH1S D0M3ST1C4T3D...

in this domesticated
life, the butcher's blade always
lurks just off screen, to the right

Friday, September 4

Thursday, September 3

SONG OF THE DAY: You Can't Rock and Roll (In A Council Flat)

The worst part of living in places you don’t own is people telling you what you can and can’t do. Of course, even folks who “own” houses are paying mortgages, and actually the bank owns it, who will also tell you shit you can and can’t do. For all the freedom we’ve got, we ain’t got much freedom. Fuck it, I’m going to the river. MAYBE FOREVER!


drama manufacturing
remains a steep mountain chart
of unsustainable growth

Wednesday, September 2

Tuesday, September 1

SONG OF THE DAY: Family Pain

One of the most formative nights of my life happened in the summer of 1989, after drinking with some fellow delinquents on the outskirts of Keysville, I got bored with the other folks, and rather than wait to catch a ride with my boy, decided to hitchhike. I stood by the train tracks for a few minutes, and a beat-up Cadillac Eldorado pulled up beside me, probably was lime green at one point but time had faded it to an off-mint color. Jimmy Valiant was driving, and Swamp Dogg was in the passenger seat. The windows were down, and he reached behind him to open the back door, and said, “Get in, boy.”
The ten miles from Keysville, onto 15 south, towards where I lived, went fast. They didn’t talk to me really, outside of an occasional question when Swamp Dogg would spin around and ask me something very specific. Mostly they just jabbered at each other about the radio, which was blasting. On the pull-off by Abilene Road, which ran along the train tracks, they pulled over. I wasn’t sure why, and to be honest, back then I was a little nervous. I had wondered if I should make a run for it, because even they seemed a little too wild, even by my teenage dirtgod standards. Nobody had even asked me where I lived, or was going. Swamp Dogg just said to get in the car and I did and they took off. But Jimmy Valiant got out at the pull off and went off to the edge of the woods to piss, car still running, radio blasting, not a care in the world.
Swamp Dogg spun around at that point and asked most of what he asked. “What was you doing up there, boy?” I didn’t know. “You know some folks got murdered last week by a hitchhiker closer to Drake’s Branch. You lucky the police didn’t see you before we did.” I didn’t know. “You know how to play a Hammond organ, boy?” I didn’t know. “What do you know, boy?” I didn’t know.
Jimmy Valiant was back in the driver’s seat in a swoop, and we were off again, 85 on that straight stretch where my dad blew the transmission out of a Camaro he wasted money on for drag racing that lasted two street races. In a flash we were near my road, which didn’t have names back then, just numbers. Nobody got names until 911 mapped out the countryside. We got closer and I said, “Hey,” so I could let them know to drop me off at the end of the road, but they couldn’t hear me over the music and them babbling at each other about Hammond organs and royal flushes and the Sunday morning meal at the jail in Henderson, North Carolina. “Hey!” I said louder, nervous as fuck, when they got close to my road I leaned forward, grabbing the bench seat’s back, saying “Y’all can drop me off at the end of this road.” Jimmy Valiant barely touched the brakes as he fishtailed onto 634. Swamp Dogg laughed, and looked over his shoulder. “This ain’t where you live, boy.”
500 feet later, Valiant slammed the brakes, leaving two basketball goals’ length of black mark on the asphalt, slapped in in R, and slid into the driveway of the trailer my dad lived at back then, and I stayed at half the time. Usually I stayed at whichever parent’s house had the least oversight, which was tough because neither one of them paid all that much attention. Valiant hit the brakes again, sliding on the gravel, and before we even were to a complete stop, Swamp Dogg reach back over the seat and popped open my door again. Jimmy Valiant looked back and said, “Tell Tuna we said ‘hey’”.
I stammered an uh okay, got out, and soon as my feet were on the gravel, they were gone. Literally gone, no engine roar, no sign of them, just me standing in the driveway by my dad’s trailer. I walked up and the door was chained shut, which meant he was fucking this woman he was seeing at the time. The music was playing loud as fuck too, same shit that was in the Cadillac Eldorado. I contemplated banging on the door but I didn’t wanna interrupt his vibe, so I walked the mile down the road in the darkness, half drunk and the other half doomed, to my mom’s house. When I got to where I could but through the woods between two trailers, closer to my mom’s house on the backside, but far enough from both of the trailers nobody would shoot at me by accident, I did. Moving slow at first once I got in the scrub woods, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness that was my environment, and then I found my way. Somehow, I found my fuckin’ way.


Some of y’all have never been losers your whole life, and it shows. You think normal shit like voting is magic and will somehow stop the spread of fascism, or the proud ignorance of jacked-up trucks full of blank-eyed young men fed too many 8chan memes during adolescent development, flying giant flags not of a country (though sometimes) but of a person, or weird fucked up fringe things, gawking at the world with dehumanizing glare, ready to “own the libs” by trampling on decency. Some of y’all are basic ass normal folks too used to having reliable housing and cupboards stocked full of food or being able to go to a store for something you might be missing, and feel like the system somehow corrects itself and is actually good at its heart, just been corrupted by some aberrations. Y’all think American democracy is a Santa Claus that’s just gonna show up in November and unwrap some freedom restored.
I’m very thankful sometimes for having been a natural born loser, because it makes not believe dumb shit like that. It also makes me know the end of the world is never the end of the world. Losers don’t get an end to the world, there is no climactic apocalypse for true-born losers. You just keep losing, in different more creative ways, and scratch out small wins here and there. To be a loser is a purgatory of figuring shit out, and in the best of times when you’ve figured it out, you’re still anxious as fuck because you know how quickly it can all fall apart. Y’all “last free election” dramatic motherfuckers should’ve been paying attention years ago. Shit, I wish there was an end of the world sometimes. But there ain’t. You just keep slogging through the bullshit, and try not to drown. Not even sure why you try to avoid drowning, to be honest. Doesn’t seem to be some big payoff anywhere on the horizon. But to be a born loser means you always gotta gamble, that somehow someway you’ll win one day. Blind faith in “fuck it” is all a loser has half the time.


should've gotten my passport
stamped last year; no late passes
issued for those trapped inside

Monday, August 31

Sunday, August 30

1'V3 4LW4YS B33N 4 M1SF1T...

I've always been a misfit,
cast aside by the cool kids
because couldn't afford style

Saturday, August 29

Thursday, August 27

SONG OF THE DAY: This Is Not Possible

I’ve only ever been able to get into like five Sun Kil Moon songs, because that meandering story-telling lyrical style – while my favorite type of prose to read – doesn’t always translate into good audio. You hear it a couple times, and there’s not much going back to it you really feel like doing. But for some reason, this particular track held my attention enough I keep going back to it from time to time. Sad to hear that whoever the famous dude who is Sun Kil Moon is got caught up in some of the Me Too call-outs, I guess being another fucking creep among a million. If he ever comes out of hiding or denial to issue an apology, I guess it’s gonna be a 13-minute song with long-winded explanations to justify poor behavior as somehow being a victim himself, at some point. As men, we’re taught to never be sorry, but not really taught how to not do horribly selfish shit that we should probably end up being sorry for. Learning to apologize is a good first step towards learning to not be a horrible person. It’s a gateway act towards not being a shithead. Too many of us take great pride in being absolute shitheads though.

SONG OF THE DAY: Legendary Loser

The other night, after a day of wandering, I was making my way home – too late, yet again, having gone too far, yet again – so stopped in at the Sheetz to get my XL hazelnut creamer coffee boost. All the coffee machines seemed empty, and this old white lady worker was fiddling with the couple that had coffee, I guess trying to get caught up on making coffee. I patiently waited, masked up, for her to move along, and filled up a cup. She was working further down the coffee machine line, when an older black lady came in, with a cane, and they got to talking because they knew each other. Keep in mind, we’re all masked up, as are most people, except for some reason in this pocket of suburban/rural grey area in northern Virginia, all these blank-eyed young white men who refused to mask up, proudly ignorant, more than a couple of them in freedom style shirts supporting guns and cops and eagles and shit like that. The old white lady says to the old black lady, “how have you been?” Old black lady goes, “Not so good. You’re never doing too good when you just been to a funeral.” The old white lady says, “What? I couldn’t hear you,” as she keeps making coffee, way the fuck past retirement age, making shitty Sheetz gas station coffee (which I love) on a Saturday night in nowhere America. The black lady is louder this time, “Not so good. You’re never doing too good when you’ve just been at a funeral.” I’ve moved over the creamer machine, first one broke so had to go to the second, pushing buttons for that hazelnut diabetes juice. “I’m sorry honey, I can’t hear you,” goes the old white women. Unmasked pairs of angry-eyed white dudes in work-ish clothes are poking at the ordering machines nearby, and the old black lady is still leaning on her cane, masked, both the old women overweight and not looking in prime health, out here in this suburban Sheetz on a Saturday night. The old black lady is loud as fuck now, in that strange way you can be loud but still friendly, going, “Not so good. You ain’t ever doing too good when you just been to a funeral.” And the old white lady still can’t hear her, and the old black lady is looking at her – they obviously know each other – and I just wanna go over to her and say, “I’m sorry about your loss,” but it would’ve been weird. And there’s all these white men walking around with anger in their eyes, not giving a fuck, so even masked up my bearded white man ass might not have been all that comforting.
So I got on my red square marking six feet distance, and some unmasked meathead redneck and his dyed blonde unmasked girlfriend get behind me, way off the next red spot, and she drops a bag of chips right behind me. I turn around and give them the hillbilly murder eyes my people have always been known for, and the judghead goes, “sorry, buddy” in a way that I couldn’t tell if he was serious or condescending. I wanted to smash him, just in case he was being a dick, but instead got a dog treat for my girlfiend’s hound dog in the car, and after the old white lady rung me up, having moved over the register – I guess done with the coffee machines and hopefully having heard her old black friend finally – I stared the dude off on my way out. He didn’t make eye contact, looked down immediately – beta broken gaze of a faux alpha persona. And as I twisted around in the car to convince the hound dog named Hank that the treat was okay, not poison, I thunk to myself how the race war America might be building up to ain’t really a race war at all, but a battle between white men like me and all those other dudes, about whether we want to give a fuck about anything other than ourselves in life, or not.

H0VR-L0NG BVS R1D3S 4S 4 K1D...

hour-long bus rides as a kid
spent catching up on sleep, and
avoiding confrontation

Wednesday, August 26


sediments of history
bury a lot of truth, but they
become crystallized with time

Tuesday, August 25


delusional thinking has
become commonplace as fuck;
strike a line through history

Monday, August 24

Sunday, August 23

Saturday, August 22

Friday, August 21

Thursday, August 20


The advertising dude who allegedly came up with the “yo quiero taco bell” campaign using a chihuahua has parlayed the wealth he “earned” as a brilliant advertising type into a role as local arts gatekeeper, who allows shit he knows about to thrive while shit he has no clue about continues to exist in the margins. The Columbus discovery metaphor of these types, who have to be exposed to good shit, in order for good shit to have access to all the spaces they hold the keys to, remains too true and annoying as fuck. Anyways, he recently posted a nude selfie of himself meditating or some shit, on social media, to show you just how easy it is, at least for an economically comfortable 50-something white man, to remain calm in these trying and terrible times. Also, he is an artist, the authentic kind that has access to shows (because of the aforementioned holding of keys), so if you’re a young physically attractive femme-appearing local artist, look out. I bet he’s got a photography project you’d be perfect for – artistic sexy pictorials taken in his studio. One time, I did a reading or some shit at a lady’s teaching building thing, to “expose” myself to new people. This dude’s ex was one of the attendees, and I was supposed to be excited to meet her, because of the opportunities such meetings opened up. That whole method of people becoming considered valid and supported artists is bullshit, and full of ways for those with the power (like ol’ yo quiero taco bell dude) to exploit that power to their own benefit. So as we burn everything down, I ask you to not just think globally, or nationally, but also burn down bullshit locally as well. Because it’s a lot of shit local that needs some fire.

SONG OF THE DAY: Legendary Member

Walking along the train tracks gets in your blood, somehow, where you think about it all day long. Whenever my life has been my shittiest, I’m always inclined to disappear along some tracks for a few hours, and reclaim some sanity somehow. There’s a 69th mile marker along the James River where I used to always wander, and I’ve often said that’s where I want my ashes scattered when I’m dead. That’s not a lie. During my worst period, at my most suicidal, that’s where I would’ve killed myself when I was envisioning it then, which sort of worked into a self-check to be honest, because it’s like a couple mile walk to get to the 69th mile marker, and after walking along railroad tracks by the James River for a couple miles, with crows yammering at you and the river rapids whispering prayers of lounge, who’d want to still die?
As you wander beside that many giant hulks of steel that are the various freight cars found on 21st century tracks, it’s impossible not to fall in love with graffiti – both the big bright spray painted blasts most folks know as graffiti proper, but also the weird little often single color paint stick scribbles called monikers. I never had the patience to learn mastery of spraying paint, plus I’m more of a wordy motherfucker anyways, so the world of monikers spoke to me, where often times simple poetic phrases get scrawled along with a crude but sometimes elaborately beautiful character. Not sure when I started, but I’m sure it was on those wood chip cars by the 69th mile marker, probably some Sunday morning, that I started fucking around with “dirtgod” as a blessed character that gets to travel places I’ve never gone. I always say it has infinite outlook, because the glasses for eyes on the character is always a haphazard infinity loop.
The infinity loop has a long history in monikers. Probably my favorite living artist is buZ blurr aka the Colossus of Roads, an old dude from rural Arkansas, who has scribbled thousands upon thousands of his simple character with little phrasings underneath. buZ’s Colossus of Roads is – according to buZ - homage to Bozo Texino, the old school legend of railyard monikers, and is a character wearing a cowboy hat where the brim is an infinity loop as well. The Colossus of Roads character is a side profile of Bozo, which is a front on oval intersected with the infinity loop, and a dotted face with a cigarette stick blowing a few bubbles of smoke into the æther.
Well, recent life has gotten me battling depression, so I blew off work yesterday and disappeared down to the end of the line somewhere in southside Virginia, at a secretive location we don’t share because sanctuaries are easily ruined by too many people knowing about that shit. But while walking through the scrub pines of another southside Virginia dead end, looking at all the boxcars, with assorted tags old and new, I got to a weirdly blue colored one, and I was about to scribble on a blank spot when I noticed just to the left the faded remnants of a Bozo Texino. It was the first time I’d ever seen one in the steel flesh. Wasn’t hard to remember the old blue boxcar to check the other side on my walk back up the other way, and there was a Bozo Texino on that side as well. A true miraculous blessing in the middle of nowhere that made my day.
Western discourse still tends to have these man vs. nature binaries employed, which on one end justifies rampant unchecked industrialization, and on the other is used to suggest eco-fascism is appropriate. Man isn’t against nature; we’re just a fucked up part of nature, that hasn’t learned to be part of it better. I think about that a lot when walking the line by all those boxcars, because each car itself is a giant behemoth of industry – steel melted and shaped into a huge container far too huge for any man to lift or maneuver by their own muscles. And we have giant strings of these containers, just hooked up and moving around the continent. Many of them end up trickling down to these dead end lines, sitting in the middle of nowhere, used sporadically. But there’s also this long history of people walking by and putting their name on the steel. My little paint stick markings on these giant hunks of industry are so temporary, so impermanent. And yet it makes me feel seen, or known, even if only to other societal vagrants. And honestly, there’s nowhere on Earth that feels more peaceful to me than walking through a train yard almost always at the edges of civilization, usually bordering nature in the form of a river or creek or abandoned industrial edges of a city or town. It’s impossible for it to not feel natural, completely in opposition to that man vs. nature binary. Nature reclaims shit pretty fast, and as it reclaims it, you can’t really say it’s still separate. So scribbling on trains feels like solidarity with mushrooms and kudzu, honeysuckle and mullein, saying, “I’m with y’all” to the whole universe, and being more productive at fucking off, because men aren’t machines. We’re just fucked up chunks of impulses and energies forgetting to take care of ourselves, in the name of some delusional ideas of progress we need to get to. Fuck that, for infinity.

1N 4N 0BSCVR3 N1GHT, F3V3R3D...

"in an obscure night, fevered
with love's anxiety...
went where all things quiet be"

Tuesday, August 18


Teaching poor children to dream is almost unethical at this point. This wonderful era of intimidating big truck paramilitary boiz flying Dear Leader flags, and online school where the children of those who can’t pay attention constantly, or even have good enough internet, is going to widen the gap that was already a pretty gaping chasm contributing to American inequality. Oh well, hopefully there’s enough digital opiates to keep us all placated. When the internet actually does get broken, it’s gonna get real ugly then…

K33P 1T B3TW33N TH3 D1TCH3S...

"keep it between the ditches"
my father often said while
navigating the edges

Monday, August 17

Saturday, August 15


whether poverty or pomp
and circumstance, life can get
stiflingly suffocating

FRIDAY NIGHT SLOWDOWN - a Sovthern Gothicc Fvtvrist Mixtape #001

45 rpm 7-inch singles slowed down to 33, with some random vocal snippet spices added while it slow simmered in purple lights on a Friday night. Here's the link on my patreon. SUPPORT YOUR BOY DIRTGOD AT HIS PATREON!

Friday, August 14

Tuesday, August 11

Monday, August 10

Sunday, August 9


Everything I thought to write about love seemed corny as fuck so I ain’t write anything. Except this. Shout out to Boogie Brown, as always dropping the Blue Globe Beats flavors, with prolific abundance.

TH3 D0M3ST1C4T10N 0F...

the domestication of
natural spirit, slowly
deferred to life's dirty deeds

Saturday, August 8

Friday, August 7


There’s not a lot of desire to hear what white men say because that voice has crowded history’s book shelves so violently the past few centuries. But I think it’s important white men willing to grow and change and adjust share their internal dialogues, so that everyone else can better understand where we come from. For example, in the heart of every man, there’s a constant conversation happening, between an inner-Joe Rogan, and an inner-Beto O’Rourke. The inner-Joe Rogan wants to get high after work, and indulge in a digital buffet of spirituality, awareness, and fantasy. But the inner-Beto O’Rourke wants to go out, and make friends that aren’t just other white men, except he’s unable to do that successfully because he only goes to a set square of exactly 36 acceptably hip spots, and 12 times out of 10, does so in a clever t-shirt that’s actually only clever to other white men. So the post-modern day white man struggles under the burden of this inner dialogue, in fact argument, between the inner-Rogan wanting to get high and look at cool shit online, and the inner-Beto wanting to go out and be appreciated by others who are not just more white men. EVERY WHITE MAN YOU MEET IS GOING THROUGH THIS STRUGGLE BUT WILL NEVER ACKNOWLEDGE IT. And it is that deception of the actual conversations happening inside themselves that makes them “white men”.