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, August 27

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.

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