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.

Wednesday, April 21

Tuesday, April 20

SONG OF THE DAY: Stubborn Woman

 

I hit the Megaball number on Saturday night, but hadn’t even looked at my ticket to see what I won. When I get them, I only get 3 or 5 tickets, and memorize my Megaball numbers. Generally, I let the computer pick all the numbers, but occasionally I’ll pick my Megaballs. I know nobody hit the big jackpot, so I just let that shit percolate on the shelf. Maybe it’s $40K sitting on the dresser, but it might just be a free ticket. I ain’t stressing. Ain’t like I’m gonna be able to quit my job, or even escape the slow death of American existence. So thinking about it from time to time, letting a little dopamine slip into the brain juices, that’ll do just fine for now. The balance of the dying empire is getting just enough dopamine to ignore the overwhelming cost of being alive, and postpone cousin death for one more calendar box.

W3 4R3 4LL JVST PR1S0N3RS...

“we are all just prisoners 
here, of our own device” blasts 
from coin laundry parking lot  

Monday, April 19

Sunday, April 18

Saturday, April 17

Friday, April 16

SONG OF THE DAY: First Place Ribbon

 

Gillian Welch is on the short list of women I sometimes fantasize about sharing a trailer with somewhere near Roxboro, North Carolina, probably have one of those vintage tables in the kitchen, wake up naked together on the weekends and not even think about putting on clothes  until 2 in the afternoon, maybe, cooking pancakes with chopped walnuts in them bamas and drinking like four French presses of coffee, not doing shit, talking about Mary Oliver poetry and how great creeping phlox is and wondering if there were any new collections of VHS tapes at the Goodwill to dig through to add to the collection, even though we hadn’t hooked the VCR back up since I had them both in the middle in the room trying to do some VHS mixtapes with an old computer monitor. But then these fantasies always get fucked up because usually I’m laying on the couch reading an old magazine or some shit, and she walks through from the back bedroom to the kitchen, and I notice her really really nice full-color plant tattoo from her left shoulder all the way down to her elbow, like $1200 worth of tattoo, and I start to lay there on that couch in my fantastical mind, thinking about all the vehicles I bought that cost less than that (most of them, to be honest), or how much I could use that $1200 not in fantasy mind life but to pay off medical debt that just keeps trickling along in the real life, on the wrong side of the fantasy. Sometimes I just wake up from the fantasy and realize I’m zoning out while at work, in front of a computer screen, pretending to do shit that matters my whole goddamned wasted life. Other times I was half asleep, and I pick up my iphone to check my IG notifications. But sometimes I just get mad in the fantasy, at Gillian Lucinda Welch Williams Jr. there, except I don’t say nothing, because lolol I hadn’t worked in my fantasy in 9 months, and she pays all the bills. But I’m gonna log into OKCupid after she goes to bed tonight, and flirt with women that don’t exist on multiple levels.

TH3 C0VNTRY CHVRCH'S ST41N3D GL4SS...


the country church’s stained glass 
is just plastic film applied 
to the cheapest textured panes 

Thursday, April 15

SONG OF THE DAY: Troubles of the World

 

Neighbors on both sides pay this ol’ boy to cut their grass, and so did the people that owned this one before I got it last fall. I ain’t paying to get my grass cut, sorry, it’s not that big a yard. So I got a push mower, but I ain’t cut it all yet. Fuck it, it’s just grass. I’d rather blast funk gospel, watch the kittens dive into the air trying to catch butterflies, watch the redbuds turn pinker at the edge of the woods, and just sit there in my MY GRASS IS TALL t-shirt, stacking quartz rocks on old giant metal springs I found at the railroad tracks. As long as I keep the springs upright and the quartz above the tallest grass, I’m doing good. Who the fuck heard of having grass you pay somebody to cut instead of a bunch of junk springs with giant rocks on top? What kinda fuckin’ world is this we’ve made?

SH4D0WS 0F 1NDVSTR14L...


shadows of industrial 
revolution blind us to 
blue sky’s universal truth 

Wednesday, April 14

TH1NGS W3'V3 B33N M34N1NG T0 F1X...


things we’ve been meaning to fix 
for years rust back into Earth; 
meanwhile, our end creeps closer 

Tuesday, April 13

SONG OF THE DAY: Watermelon Sugar (Slurred & Blurred)

My man dj_brilliant just sent me a whole new rar full of a concept he's cooked up, and as much as I hate the internet's effect on all our lives, I can't deny the beauty of finding long-term fringe community in certain ways. There's gotta be a fine line between finding shit on your own and having the algorithm try to push you towards shit to buy. At times I think the algorithm pushes too hard and ruins the experience, but it's a constant ebb and flow between people and mechanisms trying to pull shit back into capitalist place. Shit, I remember how it was following Ferguson on twitter before they post-BLMed the algorithms then so that organized shit like that couldn't pop off anymore. And it still pops off, in other ways. Humans adapt, always, and those adapting trying to corral us back into fences and sell us shit we don't need can never adapt as fast as those of us in need or extreme want of some shit the algorithm and structure and design is trying to refuse us. I hope you still bootleg music and torrent it and all that shit. Streaming is a trick. All of its a trick. Steal anything you can, for as long as you can. And when they don't have anything real left for you to steal, rip people off on the fake shit too.

DR34MS TR4PP3D 1NS1D3 PR4CT1C4L

dreams trapped inside practical 
thinking get lost behind walls 
full of nothing but promise 

Monday, April 12

Sunday, April 11

Saturday, April 10

Friday, April 9

N0 M4TT3R H0W B1G 4LL TH3S3...

no matter how big all these 
buildings get, there's a bigger 
sky, and solid earth to boot 

Thursday, April 8

Wednesday, April 7

Tuesday, April 6

Monday Night Rumble of The Discourse - episode 8

Monday Night Rumble of The Discourse was an all women's rumble this week, after last week's finish which saw the Twitter Communist beat Super Bluecheck. President Biden signed up to be special referee for this one.

3V3N TH0VGH W0RK1NG FR0M H0M3...

even though working from home, 
wash all my clothes on Sunday 
afternoons; start fresh each week 

Monday, April 5

SONG OF THE DAY: Pacific Highway

I'd like to drive from here to 19 theres in a row, where there is somewhere within thinking distance that "this is realistic", but then when that first there becomes here, I do it again. So this would be 19 distances that are the Raven brain equivalent of a stone's throw, which I guess would be 19 "as the raven thinks", which perhaps is close to as the crow flies, but probably not. Anyways, that's where I feel like driving today, preferably in a windbreaker track suit that was too ugly for even Sinbad in 1982. Not ugly in a bad way, but ugly in a wonderful way, that probably looks bad on me. Fuck it. I'm just breathing oxygen until I can't.

TH3 F4D3D 4LLVR3 0F MYTHS...

 

the faded allure of myths 
about great American 
opportunities to thrive 

Sunday, April 4

SONG OF THE DAY: 3 Parts Per Million

Conspiracies used to be fun, when they were printed and you had to go searching for them. Now they’re mainstream and everybody’s grandma is posting conspiracy theories as DOCUMENTED REALITY YOU HAVE TO WATCH THIS YOUTUBE on social media, and it’s depressing. I liked conspiracy theories before they blew up, back in the day, Behold a Pale Horse era conspiracy theories. Eventually I gave up on them because they give humans too much credit for keeping secrets. Any conspiracy that requires more than a couple people to keep shit quiet is a lie, because human beings are notoriously fickle, and incompetent. That doesn’t mean fucked up shit doesn’t happen, often times on a grand scale. But humans aren’t nearly as clever or devious as we’re trained to believe. Mostly they’re just fucked up,greedy, and evil, so when bad shit is happening, it’s nothing more complicated than some fucked up greedy evil fucker is doing nasty shit.

D0N3 MY B3ST T0 4V01D 4LL...

 

done my best to avoid all 
the county courthouses by 
any means necessary 

Saturday, April 3

SONG OF THE DAY: Khadidja


One thing I've listened to the past half year or so that I never heard of before is rai music. I think it's old pop music but I honestly don't know shit about it other than it's from Turkey and everybody who does it famously is either named Cheb or Cheba. I could look it up and learn more but I don't really give a fuck about becoming a western academic historian of Turkish pop music from the 1980s. I just enjoy some of this shit. That should be good enough. Everybody thinks they're a goddamned archivist curator all the fucking time.

H1GH3ST M0M3NTS B3C0M3 BLVRS...

 

highest moments become blurs 
in the mental memory 
bank once further down the road 

Friday, April 2

SONG OF THE DAY: For The City

 

Friday vibes, with a fresh orange polo pullover from a deep dive thrift store score to match the blaze orange polo socks from the outlet store where I splurged for 3 pairs of socks for $8. Ballin’ on a budget, since birth, from the time I first sprouted til they scatter my ashes back around the Earth. A natural born dirtgod – can’t have nothin’ nice nor keep nothin’ clean, born with fried chicken thighs grease inside my fingerprints, but a forsythia heart that stays golden this time of year.

M4N1F3ST1NG SP1R1TV4L...

manifesting spiritual 
practices to make better 
sense of this chaotic world 

Thursday, April 1

SONG OF THE DAY: Bl4ck B3rry Pt 1 (45s on 33)

 

All the blossoms are popping, which is extra exciting because I just moved into this place last fall, so this is the first blossom. There’s chunks of blackberry bushes I’ve gotten tangled up in already in their naked winter state back in the woods behind the house, so looking forward to what kinda filling-up-an-old-yogurt-container blackberry action I get later this calendar year. Good lessons from nature in the springtime, notably fuck your everyday shit, put on something bright as fuck and almost ridiculous looking now and then. That’s why I’ve got the blaze orange GK top and some garish bright orange Polo socks pulled up to knees, big ass tropical camouflage cargo shorts, looking like a fuckin’ fool that ought not to be dressing themselves. In my opinion, if you’re going full natural perspective in this bullshit world, that’s the only way to dress. “Professional” or “stylish” fashion is product trying to get you to assimilate into indistinguishable likeness. Would you rather be a blackberry bush, or a redbud popping in the spring time, or part of an endless row of enslaved corn plants trapped in fucking Indiana or Ohio or some shit? (Please don’t say the enslaved corn, but I bet a bunch of folks actually think that way, that being a goddamned genetically modified unsweet corn stalk in soulless Ohio is the most patriotic freedom-minded existence possible. Y’all stupid. Go get tangled up in blackberry bushes with your narrow-minded ass.)

D0M3ST1C4T3D SP1R1TS...


domesticated spirits 
gazing longingly at the 
wilderness just out of reach 

Wednesday, March 31

SONG OF THE DAY: Dickies Black Chucks

 

As a young poor, I never had brand name shoes as a kid. Motherfuckin’ kids were relentless too, even poor kids who somehow had nice shit. In fact, those kids were the worst about being relentless, mocking your “bobos” back in the day. Where I grew up, 8th grade was in the high school, and I begged and pleaded with my folks to buy me a fuckin’ pair of black Chuck Taylors for 8th grade. They weren’t but like $20 back then, but I guess that was still big money to my folks, with three kids, and a mostly unemployed dad who also had drinking and drug habits. They got them though, and man I was so fucking proud. Some rich kid had a summer pool party at his house, and I convinced my mom I could wear them early to that, like a couple weeks before school started. I swore I was styling. I don’t think nobody noticed shit though to be honest. That’s the problem with norms – you don’t notice normal shit, but man do you ever fucking clown on abnormal shit. Anyways, fuck norms. And sadly, there used to be a couple things I stubbornly prided myself on – never having paid for a haircut, never having bought Nikes, never having flown on an airplane. The past decade’s class transition into bougie-adjacent bullshit, has meant I’ve done all three, though still pretty minimally. I’ve got some work to do to get myself right again. Honing the machetes as we speak though, so don’t worry. You can’t ever assimilate fucked up feral hearts whose mind won’t listen to their brains, which get washed too regularly. Heart remains dirty with the truth. That’s why “brainwashed” is a word but “heartwashed” ain’t. Heart is pure (if you have it still) and ultimately doesn’t need cleansing, because all that dirt and grime that gives you heart, that’s reality. Or some shit. Who the fuck knows?

MY N4TVR4L W4ND3RLVST...

my natural wanderlust 
got tied down by lines, widgets, 
and wi-fi’s barbed wire fences 

Tuesday, March 30

SONG OF THE DAY: Hands


Sometimes I still miss Richmond, but then other times I also tell myself it’s nothing like it used to be. They’ve gentrified the gentrification at this point. I was thinking about how so many suburban punks who went to VCU became the first wave of gentrification from the late ‘80s through the ‘90s, and how that forever altered Richmond in ways that most of the folks probably don’t feel complicit in. In fact, the former lead singer of Avail constantly says “Richmond not RVA!” as if the RVA shorthand itself was guilty of gentrification alone, when it really was just building off the foundation that all those punks laid down previously. The city was hyped as the Austin of the East Coast or the Portland of the East Coast multiple times over. The only reason I probably didn’t help contribute to this gentrification then was that I didn’t have any familial wealth to borrow off of to buy a house in Fulton Hill or Southside or Northside or wherever the fuck else all those punks bought up places together. Gentrification has fucked up so much of America’s urban environments, and yet almost everybody who is directly involved in that gentrification process somehow feels like they’re completely innocent of it, and it’s other, wealthier, less cool people who did it. Being a fortysomething punk is about as bourgeoisie as it gets most of the time. The American pyramid scam – you never see the people below you you’re standing on top of; you only look up at those above you who you blame for having it all. 

Monday Night Rumble of The Discourse - episode 7

We returned to our abandoned concrete factory repurposed as a battleground for The Discourse last night, after taking last week off in observance of the spring equinox. Comments sent in to our team complained about the lack of female representation, and the fact a woman has yet to win The Discourse. This became a theme in last night’s episode. Drop your thoughts on any of this in the comments.

H4RD T0 1M4G1N3 4LL TH3S3...

hard to imagine all these 
half-abandoned buildings once 
housed the hopes of so many 

Monday, March 29

TH1NGS F4LL 4P4RT R3G4RDL3SS...

things fall apart regardless 
of how plumb they got put up; 
we never notice fault lines 

Sunday, March 28

SONG OF THE DAY: Mudzimu Ndiringe


People are selfish, and generally only thinking about themselves. I want everybody to leave me the fuck alone. This also is selfish. It's a vicious cycle, simply existing as a human on this fucked up planet.

TH3 W0RLD WH1CH G0T BV1LT 4R0VND...

the world which got built around 
me ain't always welcoming; 
"I'm just passing through" mantras 

Saturday, March 27

Friday, March 26

SONG OF THE DAY: Love Rap


I have decorated my beard with forsythia blossoms, for it is spring. Love is in the air, which I’m allergic to, so I’ve been taking drugs for that. My eyes sting, but I can’t feel them.

4N0TH3R M1DN1GHT 3SC4P3...

another midnight escape 
a couple hours down the road, 
to soak up aesthetic vibes 

Thursday, March 25

B34VT1FY1NG D34D 3NDS BY...

beautifying dead ends by 
any means necessary, 
deemed bad by law and order 

Wednesday, March 24

SONG OF THE DAY: Drums of War


Forgot to write something really clever earlier for this, and could do it now, but I like to post these with the sunset, and I need to feed the cats and then go on a walk. And I know how my walks go - I might end up being gone for 20 minutes but sit on the block in the yard for three hours, staring at the sky; or I might end up walking to Gladstone 30 miles away. I might follow a logging path and discover a portal to another realm (again). Walks have a lot of possibilities, especially when you are descended from chaos monkeys. So instead of writing something clever, I wrote this. That's why I'll never be a verified bluecheck. Then again, verified bluechecks is digital eugenics, and they don't allow the descendants of chaos monkeys anyways. Algorithms were one of Hitler's favorite scientist's favorite creations.

TH3 GR34T3ST 4RT1STS M0R3 TH4N...

the greatest artists more than 
likely mostly unknown, lost 
in brilliant obscurity 

Tuesday, March 23

Monday, March 22

SONG OF THE DAY: Pana (chopped not slopped)

Acknowledged culture and actual culture don’t actually cross over all that obviously. A marginal tendril of our meritocracy myths is that the best, most important shit ends up being what we looks back on 25 years as “culture”. But that’s often determined by the power structures we live by, or means of consuming culture in our capitalist ass system. Like superhero movies… that shit is gonna be considered huge because it’s such a giant, expensive part of our American culture. You can argue with random ass people you only met once about superhero movie bullshit pretty easily. I’ve hardly watched them, and wasn’t a big comic book kid either, because I couldn’t afford shit as a kid (baseball cards took my limited surplus collecting shit as a kid income), and I’m not one to drop $10 on going to a movie either, so for the most part I’m too contrarian to be part of the superhero movie demographic. I guess it’s not really contrarian, because I don’t do it in a reactionary way; I just don’t care. A dude I work with got superhero advent socks and was stoked, and I was confused as hell as to how we sat in the same general vicinity of each other. Identity built through consumer culture is such a weird fucking aspect to life in this late American Empire, especially as it’s incubated in the internet Petri dish, where hardcores hassle newbs, and the standard American college fraternity system of extreme hazing has been replicated in relatively simple shit like “enjoying a thing”.
DJ Screw was a minor blip culturally, and is rightfully remembered as the originator of chopped and screwed music, and I’ve listened to a ton of that shit. I’ve got actual Screw tapes from the Screwed Up Shop (well, my kid took them, to be honest), and have most all the mixtapes on an external hard drive. This doesn’t mean shit, and doesn’t get me any special passes into secret societies. Basically it just means I’m a meticulous dork. But there’s a lot that’s grown off that simple “chopped and screwed” concept, including other dudes from Houston performing the same way, most notably OG Ron C (and also Michael 5000 Watts). Ron C has formed a whole ChopStars crew who have continued the movement, chopping and screwing (calling it “chopped not slopped”) their way through many more genres. But you’ve also got the discovery of Sonido Dueñez in Monterrey, who was selling slowed down mixtapes of cumbia music there at the flea market, back before Screw’s heyday, although completely separately. Most of these mixtapes have never seen the internet yet. (Trust me, I’m still a meticulous dork.) And on top of this, there’s individuals worldwide now experimenting with chopping and screwing various music in a multitude of programs, not to mention people (like me) just straight up slowing music down for a new listen, like I do playing old 45s at 33 rpms on my turntables, loud as fuck, scaring the cats, as Charlie Rich ominously bellows about going behind closed doors.
All of this is to say, what is considered “culture” is still subjective, and society doesn’t give a fuck about anything in any real meritocratic way. The fact everybody you know will watch the same new shows on Netflix or HBO Max or whatever shows us this – we are all very much motivated by what is throw in front of us, in Pavlovian ways. University of Houston has a DJ Screw collection, but to be honest, even having academia validate you doesn’t make you memorable culture. There’s a lot of academia at this point, with it being a pretty big industry that whole “go to college and get a degree” foundational tenet of the meritocracy. I’ve been guilty of that one myself, thinking, “Oh shit, somebody taught my book in a college class!” What does that even mean really though? It’s all so random and lacking any deep meaning.
Unless it gets stuck in people’s minds, without having to be maintained. Superhero shit lives in people’s heads, but that takes constant marketing and pushing new stuff out. The market is manufactured to an extent, like teaching kids to ride a bike, going downhill. Eventually it gains enough momentum that it just keeps going. But there’s also a good chance without the marketing continually pushing it along, and keeping it propped up, the whole thing will crash and just get left laying there in a broken hump.
I tend to imagine real culture as honeysuckle vine-esque, in that it will go uphill, even with nobody looking, and continuing growing in neglected corners of society. That’s actual culture, because it can sustain itself without marketing, or manufactured involvement. I’d suggest chopped and screwed music is a way more sustainable culture than superhero movies, because I know like half a dozen people chopping and screwing music, personally. I don’t know nobody making no superhero movies.
That’s actually sad. WHY ISN’T ANYBODY MAKING THEIR OWN SUPERHERO MOVIES? It’s because we think it requires too much money, and a certain level of special effects. We’ve been trained to price ourselves out of entertaining ourselves. But that’s a whole ‘nother meandering essay, to be honest. Then again, Nollywood laughs at this whole tangent of wonder, on a monthly basis. Culture is not the practice of doing what is acceptable to do so much as doing what the fuck you want to do, regardless, to enjoy yourselves. And the practices that stick around are culture, and the ones that only stick around in certain marginal environments are fringe culture, and the ones that get constantly marketed so consistently that we come to expect them and react accordingly, that’s our pop culture. But I have so much more respect for that Nollywood mentality of, “fuck it, let’s make a superhero movie by the Friday after next!” than I do the American empirical practice of getting the proper funding beforehand to do everything in the most accepted and respected manners, to get the best “quality” (which again, is also still subjective rather than objective believe it or not). Just make shit, fuck thinking too hard about how it could look more validated if you did it in more complicated and expensive ways.
All of this is preliminary ramblings to share a song from a chopped not slopped by OG Ron C disciple, SlimK, where he did chop but not slop a bunch of African bangers. Also like a honeysuckle vine, I eventually get there. And this is there.

T3ND T0 F33L T4NGL3D VP 1N...

 

tend to feel tangled up in 
grey most days, making to-do 
lists where nothing gets crossed out 

Sunday, March 21

B4L4NC1NG 1NDVSTR10VS...

balancing industrious 
thoughts with “fuck it all, I ain’t 
doing a damn thing” respites 

Saturday, March 20

W4SN'T BL3SS3D W1TH W34LTH, BVT 1'V3...

wasn’t blessed with wealth, but I’ve 
always had the good luck of 
ancestral angels watching 

Thursday, March 18

SONG OF THE DAY: Mi Abuelo (rebajada)

 

slow it down slow it down slow it down
you ain’t got to keep up with all this shit
slow it the fuck down
stop for a minute if you got to
and forget to count the minute
sit there and look around
wait til you hear five different birds
say seven different things
let the moon come up
eight or nine times
then get back up
if it’s still worth chasing

TH3 B0TTL3S 1 L3FT B3H1ND...

the bottles I left behind 
used to help blur my vision, 
dulling most painful angles 

Wednesday, March 17

SONG OF THE DAY: Mali Kady

 

Tried to get my shit together today, but it didn’t work. I should’ve picked a smaller task, or broken it up, but nah, I wanted to get the entirety of all my shit together, all at once, today. It didn’t work. My eye hurts now though, and I’ve gotta go to the grocery store, and it’s not warm like last week so I can’t rock it with the windows down. Fuck it, might open the windows, blast the heat, and pump up Luka Productions loud as fuck, stop at the river and sit on a rock until the rock says, “ain’t you supposed to be getting some groceries?” and then go get those groceries. Time it right and they might have an 8-piece of fried chicken marked down for quick sale. Then I’ll ride home and throw the chicken bones out the window, as is the way of my people.

W1LL 4LW4YS F1ND 4 GR3YH0VND...

 

will always find a Greyhound 
before the kudzu gets too 
tight a grip round my ankles 

Tuesday, March 16

Monday Night Rumble of The Discourse - episode 6

For the past six weeks, every Monday night at 8 pm EST, we've had a Monday Night Rumble of The Discourse, where a collection of political entities comprised of actual politicians and some political stereotypes do battle in an abandoned concrete factory. I've hyped it on my social media feeds but have forgotten to post it here. Well here you go - the March 15, 2021, episode of Monday Night Rumble of The Discourse.


Previous winners:
Joe Rogan Podcast fan
President Joe Biden
Antifa Black Block
Senator Bernie Sanders
Covid 19

1'V3 B33N BL3SS3D T0 B3 B4CK R04DS...

I’ve been blessed to be back roads 
since birth; born Raven, cursed with 
that self-trickster wanderlust 

Monday, March 15

Sunday, March 14

SPR1NG T1M3 TH0VGHTS 0F M4CH3T3S...

spring time thoughts of machetes 
hacking unnecessary 
growth, both real and imagined 

Saturday, March 13

Friday, March 12

SONG OF THE DAY: 100 Years Ago (Piano Demo)

Over a century ago, the house I live in was some sort of supervisor’s house for the soapstone quarry down the hill. The old road is my driveway, and I can walk the dog down paths back there still that go down to some abandoned and gutted buildings, plus a lot of debris. This was one of the first places with electricity in America, apparently, and the smokestacks from two defunct power plants are visible a couple stones throws away, both of which got washed out in hurricane floods in 1969. The area itself got washed out economically by the Great Depression though, long before that. This quarry operation used to employ thousands of people, had a local narrow gauge train line that ran between quarries, and ran to connect to north-south mainline a few miles west of here, and the east-west mainline a few miles south of here. There’s an old stone church a half mile away, which used to be Episcopal but is not occupied by Mennonites, though not Old Order because there’s cars parked there on Sundays, not buggies. Houses everywhere are old company houses, strings of them identical looking still, even though a hundred years old, in varying states of care or disrepair. And there’s soapstone slag everywhere, giant rocks piled here or there that got blasted and cut but wasn’t up to snuff to be used back when it was used. It’s all a really neat and beautiful place, but one that was literally built and blasted by business, left to rot for the most part, and has gradually become one with the Earth again, though full of litter. I find old bottles all the time on my walks through woods and along the river, and have been writing poems on the more appropriate bottles.
The river right below my house, where the bridge and one of the power plants got washed out in 1969, still flows like always, diverted by the dam that’s still there but not powering anything now. I wonder what the river’s decline in this area was before the dam, how steep was it originally? Seems like the land slanted hard there, so I imagine there was a natural waterfall at one point that caused them to put a dam there. A hundred years seems like such a solid slice of time, but it’s similar to flying to Chicago, in my opinion. The years are still relatively arbitrary chunks of time, although the days represent one cycle of sun and night, and the year is meant to mark a full circle around the sun in our little corner of infinite space. But all the minutes and seconds get lost, and you just end up a hundred years away, like landing at O’Hare, missing all the little pieces and parts that got you there, from point A to point B. Chances are I won’t know “one hundred years” personally, at least not as this collection of molecules as their currently arranged into a dirtgod raven mack. Humans chase “knowing” more than their fair share of space on the timeline through reciting history and writing shit down like mad, but when I get lost in the tiny steps of walking along the river and through the woods, not keeping track of them nor wanting to, it seems like I might be happier as a human if I let that shit go entirely – all the minutes and hours and days and years, stop fretting over age or wasted time or grey hairs signifying failures of fulfilling mechanistic checklists of being a “productive” member of society. I ain’t got to do shit really. Time is a goddamn chain, tying me up in the yard of my life, leaving me stuck there, barking at the river down the hill that I want to go run to and dip my bare feet in, because I’m trapped. My oldest kid has a concept they always drive home called Time Destroyers United, and I’ve come to love that concept – just destroying time, not in some big revolutionary explosion of cataclysmic change, but just little pokes and stabs and monkey wrenches, sabotaging our concepts of time wherever we can. So I hope you destroyed some time today, and also enjoyed yourself, free from clocks, or phones, or clock phones, or phone clocks, or anything.

3MVL4T1NG S1MPL3 TR33S...

 

emulating simple trees 
rather than complicated 
but haphazard power grids 

Thursday, March 11

SONG OF THE DAY: For God So Loved The World

 

I saw a picture of a chunky white couple drinking beer in their yard in Portsmouth, Ohio, on the internet today, and they were throwing empty bottles up at a police drone. I am ten years sober, but I would ask of you all, that if you are outside drinking, alcohol or not, and you see a police drone flying over you, you best be throwing your empty bottles up at it. Maybe that’s why we get everything in plastic now, because they’re not projectiles no more. Back in the day, I loved sitting on my shitty apartment’s balcony and throwing our empty Mickey’s bottles across the street at the pesticide place. And today, I love finding old empty drunkard bottles in the woods everywhere where I’m living. Plastic litter is disgusting but glass bottles were meant for throwing at shit, especially on a beautiful day like today. Where I live doesn’t recycle glass bottles, which is convenient since I just keep them in a big trashcan now to drive down an old unused warehouse and throw against the wall when I’m bored. There are few more pure sounds than glass breaking in a cavernous abandoned warehouse, the crash ever so slightly toned down by grapevine, honeysuckle, and if you’re lucky some kudzu, growing through the broken windows. Ahh, the simple pleasures in life.

TH3 C0GN1T1V3 D1SS0N4NC3...

the cognitive dissonance 
involved in believing we're 
more connected than ever 

Wednesday, March 10

SONG OF THE DAY: El Cavilante

 

I was trying to think of some sort of timely and clever write-up to add to this song of the day, but it’s really nice and I have the windows open and the sheer curtains I got for cheap as fuck off ebay are blowing gently, like spring time is wearing lingerie. So I’m not thinking very clearly.

C0MM0D1F13D 3X1ST3NC3...

commodified existence 
combined with algorithmic 
brain inputs leaves us all lost 

Tuesday, March 9

SONG OF THE DAY: Ojuelegba


Not gonna lie, I will listen the fuck out of some Wizkid. I have always wanted there to be a website which had people from all over the Earth drop the hottest hip hop shit from their corner, like Ozone scene reports back in the day. Without local guides though, all someone like me can do is randomly download tracks from various West African music blogs, and see what sticks. Wizkid is a superstar there, and relatively unknown here. Being known is overrated though. Anonymity will always be five-stars.

SVNSH1N3 4LW4YS PR0M1S3S...

sunshine always promises 
spring-like hope though - those warm mind 
daydreams where it all works out 

Monday, March 8

SONG OF THE DAY: We Can't Make It Here

Went for a long walk down the dirt road I live along yesterday, teases of spring in the early March environment. Some ol’ dude with a beard in overalls (classic style) was hacking away some grapevines that were trying to cobra clutch some apple trees into submission. “How you making it today?” I asked, in my yokel ass ways. The guy stopped, sighed deeply, and said, “Well… slowly but surely, I reckon.” The “surely” was more “shorely”, and this of course unlocked about twenty minutes of shooting the shit. He and his wife lived in the garage apartment of the place up the road, where the big house was owned by some big doctor and his trust fund wife from the nearby university. They owned that place, an old logging chunk across the road with a five-acre lake, and 155 acres across the river too, which had just been logged. They weren’t hurting for money, but they logged it anyways. I guess according to ol’ boy, they had two grown kids who spent like a month there every summer, but lived in San Francisco and Boston. The couple themselves lived only half an hour away, but only stayed there in the summer, sporadically. But ol’ boy I was talking to and his wife were paid servants, to caretake the property. Ol’ boy, of course, told me about his triple bypass he had a couple years back. Got me to thinking about that old phrase “living off the fat of the land,” and how that used to be the rugged individual notions of America that feed our mythologies to this day. Much of the MAGA talk as well as neoliberal dreams are built off that living off the fat of the land. But there ain’t no fat on the land anymore. It’s all bought up. There no new worlds to find, to colonize, to continue the great western civilization ponzi scheme with. It’s just super rich folks, and the rest of us trying to find enough use to them to be on their payroll. We live off the fat of them, sucking sustenance out of the bones and scraps they throw us, after they’ve cherry-picked all the good parts. This is true of wealth, of land, of jobs, of non-profits, of the entirety of American civilization. They pick what they want, and toss us the rest. Some do it begrudgingly, and others do it sugar-coated with progressive mantras, convincing themselves they’re one of the good ones.
I’m luckier than ol’ boy. I bought my house – an old company house on executive’s row of a quarry that’s been mostly unproductive for the past century. But I could afford the house – one of the only ones I could afford in this entire area. But I’m first generation college graduate and affording a low end house (value-wise, not aura-wise… this house is dope as fuck). All I’m gonna have in this life is what I personally earn, no inherited wealth will ever come to me. When my dad died, my mom – whom he was no longer married to – had to take a personal loan out so we could bury him. And we put a collection pickle jar in the small engine repair shop he worked most all his life when he wasn’t too drunk to go in. I don’t say all this to bemoan anything about my life, because like I said, I’m doing good. No triple bypass yet, and hopefully after a few years, I’ll have more life insurance than Earthly debt, and maybe my kids can keep this house briefly after I’m gone. It’s all a gamble. But there is no fat of the land to live off at this point. Our culture has parceled it out, to where obscene factory farms rape our food from the depleted soil, and boutique elite folks create little organic operations to convince themselves they’re doing good in this late capital hellscape. They don’t farm it – others living off their fat do that, college-educated farm managers for the cheap and interns drunk off promises of a better world still being possible. Humanity has triple bypassed that shit though.
We’re not doomed though. We’re never doomed. I mean, because of the unrealistic greed of those who have hoarded all that fat, a lot of us will die, and continue to needlessly suffer. But people will keep scratching out lives upon the Earth for a long ass time. We’re too goddamn stupid and stubborn not to.

RVSH1NG B3TW33N 3RR4NDS TH4T...

rushing between errands that 
ultimately don't mean shit, 
blind to all the small magic 

Saturday, March 6

Friday, March 5

TH3 M0RN1NG M1RR0R'S SMVDG3D VP...

the morning mirror's smudged up 
with hopelessness, frustration, 
anger, and "fuck all this"-ness 

Wednesday, March 3