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.

Saturday, February 29

41N'T N0 M4RG1NS F4R 3N0VGH...

ain't no margin far enough
to avoid repercussions,
except outright long gone flight

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Hoochie Coochie has been replaced by Gucci in the rhyming dictionary of the (American) human mind, and that’s a depressing sign of how nobody paid attention to what the fuck Carter G. Woodson was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


life's jumped the tracks a couple
times; for some reason, I keep
following this laid out path

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

Friday, February 21

Thursday, February 20

Wednesday, February 19

Tuesday, February 18

Monday, February 17

Sunday, February 16

Saturday, February 15

Friday, February 14


Over the past decade, at first inside my own heart, but then as it has spiraled out into a larger community, both at in real life physical events as well as online communities, I've enjoyed the expanding ripples of people embracing the haiku form. It's been such a constant and positive influence on my life, both as a personal practice as well as what others create and share with me and these communities.
I've contemplated in recent years launching a literary journal of some sort, based in the James River basin of Virginia, as that's the part of Earth where I've lived most all my life, so it the land and river there has had a profound influence on me, but also because it's where what we consider our current western American culture first laid its tendrils down four centuries ago. There's a lot about that I've seen many people I care about work hard to undo some of the bad parts, while holding up the good.
Poetry, and writing, or language, or however you want to describe it, has always been an important of life for me. It's a meditative practice that helps us be safe, and then okay. It can help us survive storms, and then hopefully heal and thrive when the emotional weather is calmer. And that has always been my creative philosophy. But the language of the land I've lived on most all my life - the Monacan - is mostly lost to that aforementioned history. There's a story of Thomas Jefferson collecting a dictionary of indigenous words at one point, and robber barons stole the trunk with that particular hand-written compendium, but saw it was just a book of writing with no value, and tossed the trunk into the river. I don't know how true that story is or not, but I often think how sad it is to have a language lost, but also how appropriate it would be that somebody saw no monetary value in it so it sunk back into the bottom of the river, literally.
We do, however have a few Powhatan words still with us, from further down the James at the mouth. One of those words is opossum, commonly known as 'possum (though I have re-inserted the colloquial apostrophe). Recently in thinking about what Sovthern Gothicc Fvtvrism means to me in a philosophical sense, some mythology about seven 'possums of Sovthern Gothicc Fvtvrism came to me. (This will be in issue six of my zine, which you get when you are a supporter of my patreon, or you can buy at haiku slams.) I chatted about all this with my brilliant painter/artist/philosopher friend Dave Moore about this recently, and asked him to maybe conjure up some 'possum imagery to be used for this. And he sent me this picture.
Thus, it is with great pride, but also apprehension at taking on another thing, I announce the launch of a print-version Sovthern Gothicc Fvtvrist haiku journal, called Seven 'Possums. This art will be the cover of the first issue, which has no deadline. If interested in submitting, contact me at sovtherngothiccfvtvrist@gmail.com, as we'll be setting up submission guidelines in the coming weeks.

L4Y1NG 1N B3D 4T G1RLFR13ND'S...

laying in bed at girlfriend's
cabin, freight train rumbling wild
promises across the ridge

Thursday, February 13

Wednesday, February 12


I guess some people actually still come to this site instead of just social media, so let me let you know that the first Sovthern Gothicc Fvtvrist Haiku Slam of 2020 happens later this month, in fact next week, at the Twisted Branch Tea Bazaar in Charlottesville, VA. Like all haiku slams, all you need is 15-20 haiku and the desire to share to come sign up, and take a shot at winning the main haiku slam. There's also always a battle royal, for both those eliminated early as well as folks who just wanna give it a tiptoe tryout the first time, where all you need is a couple haiku maximum. We've got sponsorship from our friends at Market Street Wine, so we'll have cash prizes for the winners. And in the main event, it's gonna be 2019 Champion Hawktalon J Crowfighter vs. dirtgod raven mack. He beat me in the quarterfinals of the championship tournament, and I'm looking to get some revenge. Not really, mostly we're just looking to exorcise the demons of existing in this fucked up world. Come build community with your cousins in Sovthern Gothicc Fvtvrism.
I do keep a fairly updated schedule at my namesake website too though.


channeled to self-destructive
behavior, then blame myself
for never seeing the signs

Tuesday, February 11

Saturday, February 8

Friday, February 7

SONG OF THE DAY: Head Over Wheels II (An Ode to G Dep)

Your Old Droog is like an overpriced indoor flea market that’s probably more borderline thinking of itself as an antique spot, in that there’s a ton of cool shit going on, I really enjoy walking around and enjoying the vibe, but I ain’t buying shit.


institutions built upon
overlooking obvious
innate natural-born truths

Thursday, February 6

SONG OF THE DAY: I Heard a Voice, Pt. 1

what a blessing
to hear a voice
of spiritual
inside your own head

all the poisons and
pollutions and
toxicities put
into your own head
by this culture
which apparently
you accepted the terms of agreement
by being born

what a blessing
to still have a morality
your heart can throb with
not compromised by
the brain’s misalignment
by the poisons
injected from all angles
the blessing of
hearing a voice
that makes far more sense
than all these

1S 1T M1S1NF0RM4T10N...

is it misinformation
if nobody realizes
we all think the same, wrongly?

Wednesday, February 5


I am magnetically drawn by the specific composure of my human atomic build being composed of stardust derived from Epsilon Aquarii, Zeta Aquarii, and Gliese 876, to love the natural born artists upon this Earth ball who work constantly and consistently and without doubtedly all the while mostly in obscurity, because most of our civilized world is moth-brained attracted to the neon flames or iphone glare, and can’t see all the amazing human creation all around them. Today, that means Count Bass D.

T0X1C PSYCH0L0G13S L1K3...

toxic psychologies like
roosters in a chicken pen
flapping their colorful wings

Monday, February 3


It’s too bad you can’t read through memes because there seemed to be a sudden explosion in James Baldwin memes the past couple years. I really love the notion of people absorbing some James Baldwin philosophy, but I don’t know, memes feel hollow in the long run. Being meme woke is not much better than being red-pilled, which is not much better than being a grandma who believes Nigerian prince emails. Maybe I should just recreate Going to Meet the Man in full through memes, which I post on a dedicated twitter account. That’d be wonderful – spend hours upon hours upon hours to create an elaborate workaround to just reading a book for an audience that likely won’t ever pay attention to it. The internet really is a Rube Goldberg machine for intelligence.


opportunities known by
previous generations
no longer reality

Sunday, February 2

SONG OF THE DAY: One More Mile

"The last hour is the longest" is a thing I've thunk while riding Greyhounds or Amtraks home. The landscape shifts into what you know as "home" in that cellular way that defies logic, and you become anxious to get off the traveling contraption. All of us are going nowhere in life, always, it's just we leave a lot of shit in one place, and that becomes home. It's still nowhere. That's not bad. It's better to live nowhere than somewhere anyways. If you live somewhere, a bunch of other people come through gawking at shit, trying to get you to take pictures of them standing in front of some dumb shit, and just generally clusterfuck up everything about a normal day with some abnormal not-from-here ways. Living nowhere is a blessing, because you can swing the door open on a warm day, and look out upon all the beautiful nothing, and nobody's fucking it up with cranes or bath and bodyworks or median strips or chik-fil-a zoning approvals. Just a big ol' fat wondrous nothing. I love nothing, and wish I had more of it in my life.

TR4D3D 1N W0RK B00TS F0R 4...

traded in work boots for a
cubicle, and been dying
upon the vine ever since

Saturday, February 1


Sometimes I realize I don't live in an apartment building with picnic tables in the center area where we hang out and play dominos or spades because the apartments are hot as fuck and all they have is window units but they're old window units and plus that's expensive to run so the cost to comfort level is not that good, but also you can't leave the windows open all the time because lolol this is America, motherfuckers will take your shit when you're not paying attention, so we hang out at the picnic tables, hoping for a breeze, enjoying when the sun is setting down behind the building top so we're in the shade, enjoying our shared existences. Normally I don't ever think about how that's not my life at all, but whenever I listen to Z.Z. Hill, it comes to mind, because I imagine we'd listen to a lot of Z.Z. Hill sitting out there when it's too hot to be inside.

F0CVS1NG 0N G04LS, 4LL TH3...

focusing on goals, all the
while stumbling downwards as the
rings grow around my torso