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, September 25

G4V3 VP D3LVS10NS 4B0VT...


gave up delusions about 
being the greatest; life is 
best without superlatives 

Friday, September 24

Y3ST3RD4Y'S PR0GR3SS W4S T0R3...


yesterday’s progress was tore 
down - demolished to make room 
for more of the same, but new 

Thursday, September 23

M0M3NTS 0F CL4R1TY F0VND...


moments of clarity found 
in solitude, wandering 
spaces abandoned by “progress” 

Wednesday, September 22

Tuesday, September 21

SONG OF THE DAY: The Creator Has A Master Plan

I know spirituality is frowned upon in my generation, us being more inclined towards jaded nihilism. But I’ve come to have faith in the concept of a creator as whatever made the universe be the universe, with all its repeating patterns and strange balance of positive and negative and how those things transcend humanity or what man’s made. I never loved organized religion, but to be honest I don’t love organized nothing, since all of it is organized by humans. Science has claimed dominion over the Earth in more recent times, or at least tried, but still seems to fuck up as much as it fixes. So I have quietly come to trust how my heart always felt – that there’s something bigger than me, or my species, or the Earth; and yet somehow it’s also smaller, at all times. Trust in that helps a lot of situations not be as stressful, because honestly, none of us control half the shit we think or hope we do. Even if we apply ourselves, as militantly and humanely as possible, so much shit is beyond our control. Science mistakenly seems to think it can correct the mistakes people have made, and that the entirety of existence can be broken down and entirely understood. I mean, I guess it can, but not by us. We don’t have it in us, and to think we do is just more human vanity, it’s just we replaced perverted notions of god made in our own image with perverted notions of a scientific process, entirely brainstormed by only our brains, without consideration for the rest of creation. Thus I don’t fuck with either, and believe in a creator as an entity of energies which has a basic plan for everything, but also respects the power of lounge, so that good things come around, and if you get yourself synced up with the way of things, that reflects back on you. I won’t say it “benefits” you necessarily, because there’s connotations with that word that don’t seem to fit what happens. But I also know anytime I think I got shit all figured out, something busts it up, so that I have to rethink everything to some extent. That’s natural evolution, which is constant, and yet unseen.
I had a volunteer vine climb up the front of my house, then the screen porch. It had trouble grabbing the siding above the screen but eventually jumped its way over. It tried to grab the screen door a couple times, so I had to tell it that it was okay to grow everywhere else, to see what happens, but to stay off the door. It’s mostly learned by now to do that, but it does like to drift a vine that way to high five me on my way in and out. Turns out it was a star cucumber vine, and it’s turned my entire front porch screen green on two sides – big beautiful bright leaves that glow when the sun shines on that side of the house. I’ve loved it, and I’m very thankful me and that star cucumber vine could come to a mutual agreement about how to live together this past couple months. I think about that relationship, and how many other relationships we ignore, or pretend don’t exist, or that the other biological organisms have no say compared to us. What a sad way to view the world, so dark and lonely and trapped inside the human brain’s dark cave of unenlightened reality.

W41T1NG F0R PVRP0S3 T0 B3...


waiting for purpose to be 
delivered, like a mark; at 
least I’m enjoying the walk 

Monday, September 20

SONG OF THE DAY: Blue Yodel #3 (Evening Sun Yodel)


No more new shit. We got enough shit already, and somehow something half-good that's new is seen as superior to some old shit just laying around that just needs a little fixing. Then again, we’ve been dependent upon new shit for so long, most new shit is so cheaply made that even old shit sucks if it’s too new. I ran by the Goodwill yesterday, and they had a whole slew of metal weights, those ones that are all metal dumbbells, all hexagonal like a robot caveman would use – 30 lbs, 20 lbs, 15 lbs, each one with a $2.49 sticker on it. I threw them all in the cart, and got a winter coat for $2.50, plus some fall knick knacks because the kids are always wanting “décor” and to go to the dollar store, but I’d rather get some hard shit from the Goodwill that might be worth putting in a box in the attic until next fall. It was right at closing, and four sweet Hispanic women, varying ages from old as fuck to about my age were checking out with cartloads of shit. One of them was wearing small jean shorts and a white t-shirt and was one of the ones around my age, carrying the extra pounds like myself, and I ain’t gonna lie, I ogled a minute. Good for her, dressing all sexy as fuck, not giving a fuck. I should do that more. Anyways, the two young women working the register spoke Spanish too, so checked the ladies out pretty fast considering they had a truck bed’s worth of stuff between the four of them. By the time I got up there, the two young women had a method of getting everybody the fuck out of there, since they were closing in about five minutes, where one read the price and the other punched the buttons. They rung up two of my Halloween knick knacks for $1.88 instead of $1, and I said something, and they were like, “Oh, okay, we’ll make it up.” Then my total was like $12, when the weights alone were more than that. “You get all these too?” I said pointing at the solid ass metal weights, just good to have laying around to stub my toe around the house to motivate me to do something with my slow death ass. “Don’t worry about it,” they giggled. “Closing time,” I thunk, when you rush everything along, and give shit away.
Some folks panic at the thought of the way of American life we’ve known the past half century (or maybe not, maybe it was a bit before my prime years) coming to an end. But don’t, it’s like closing time. Give shit away, hook folks up, rip shit off, get excited about down time. There’s no better moment in the work day than closing time. We’ll figure the rest of the shit out. People always do.

L00KING VP, 4N4LYZ1NG...


looking up, analyzing 
the clouds, asking myself was 
I meant to be here, and why 

Sunday, September 19

SONG OF THE DAY: Pricetags

Money isn't everything. Economic liberation of some is not liberation of all. This should not be used an excuse to be a greedy ass in your own life, but it remains true. If we have to have it, it should be spread around. But it'd be better if we undid this bullshit, ultimately.

4T L34ST 1'V3 F1N4LLY F0VND...


at least I’ve finally found 
a place that feels like home, where 
I can smile without pretense 

Saturday, September 18

C0MPVT3R C0MMVT1NG G0T...


computer commuting got 
me missing traffic clusters 
where I stare off into space 

Friday, September 17

WH4T C4M3 F1RST - TH3 G4M3C0CK 0R...


what came first - the gamecock or 
the cockfights; some of us born 
to be a goddamned problem 

Thursday, September 16

Wednesday, September 15

Tuesday, September 14

W4ND3R1NG H4LF-F0RG0TT3N...


wandering half-forgotten 
back roads, while solar eyes still 
keep a watch over my path 

Monday, September 13

MY 1NT3RN4L P0W3R GR1D...


my internal power grid 
requires regular recharge 
a good distance from the buzz 

Sunday, September 12

Saturday, September 11

Friday, September 10

SONG OF THE DAY: Country Child


I’m an old fool from the old school, who still downloads full ass albums of mp3s from random ass music blogs which still exist doing such things. I didn’t sit there spending 28 hours downloading a single Metallica mp3 back in the dark digital ages to give up having actual copies of shit, especially considering how often my kids are trying to stream a song in the car, and the song is no longer there or not downloaded to stops in the middle of our shitty cell reception region. You either got it or you don’t, fuck them fake ass clouds.
I got this one because I saw it pop up on a blog I check, and the cover met my aesthetics challenge of “does this look like a butter container design from 1974?” Then I looked up Robert Finley’s story, and dude’s an interesting fucker, definitely, so I copped it, and enjoyed it so much that he entered the realm of “if they got a bandcamp I’m gonna buy their new shit moving forward.” This song was one of my favorites, because he offers a woman that he’s not broke, got $15, and would buy her a hot dog. For some reason this reminded me of some shit my dad would say, because the small engine shop he worked at, he loved to go to Tom’s Country Store a block away and get their hot dog specials. Any time I met him for lunch, that’s what we did. At one point, he had a tiny ass Ford Courier pick-up with a grim reaper painted on the hood (that I painted actually), and he’d run up to Tom’s for hot dogs for lunch, then go eat it in the park, reading the newspaper. Later in life, when alcoholism got him too bad, he went to the liquor store instead, and would drink his Aristocrat at the park instead.
I’m first generation college graduate, not an obvious dumbass (though we all are, to one extent or another), and have exposed myself to a lot of art and creative shit. But I’m still a raggedy ass country boy to my heart, and I don’t even really understand these weird ass digital radicalized suburbanish country boys of nowadays. Nor do I relate to the petty bourgeoisie. (Yes, “petty” not “petit”.) It’s fucked up. But I can still walk in the woods and find an old bottle dump, dig ‘em out, wash ‘em up, spray paint them, and write cryptic warnings about the downfall of our ancient ways. “’Cause I’m a country boy…”

TH3 P0W3R 0F P0S1T1V3...


the power of positive 
directional energies 
push by universe unseen 

Thursday, September 9

SONG OF THE DAY: Me and You

 

I was thinking about how stupid capitalism is and how streaming services switch around the shit they show so if you want to watch something you have to crack a fucking internet code to figure out if whatever of the 5 of 13 things you’re paying for has it, or you can borrow your partner’s (current or past) password for 5 of the other 8, or if it’s on one of the three streaming platforms you haven’t sexed your way into access to yet. There’s a digital campaign of some dumbass in a canoe called The Streamer where said dumbass goes to a campsite and streams a bunch of Disney shows. I keep blocking it but it keeps showing up. The concept of streaming and actual streams and rivers made me think how fucked up it would be if cool ass spots on rivers actually switched their streaming services, so like you wanted to go to this spot on the James where there was a graffiti railroad bridge and a nice swimming hole with some really amazing lounging rocks, but you mention going with your friend and they’re like, “Oh it’s too far of a drive, that spot switched to the Rappahannock River at the beginning of the month.” And then you start thinking about whether you want to drive all the fucking way to the other river, or just settle for some shit that’s not as exciting by the river you’re already at. I mean, essentially Netflix’s entire business model is built on the fact you’ll settle, because you’re already there.
Continuing the over-etymological analysis, what a thing, to “settle” for some shit you don’t really want, because it’s where you’re at. That in the context of rivers and streams and settling is even more fucked up, since I’ve been thinking about the James River basin’s initial launch of American culture at Jamestown. See how fucked up life gets when you start pulling the strings? It all comes unraveled and you have an existential crisis where you wish civilization died. It’s better just to stream fucking The Office and ignore the dystopian darkness of it, laugh at the stupid man doing stupid things, haha that’s just like my real life.
Except that’s not real life, even if you experienced it. Me and you should go to the river, the actual river, to those rocks I spoke of. They’re still there, because rivers and streams aren’t like “streaming services” and in fact THERE’S A WAR GOING ON FOR YOUR SOUL. I know a cool bottle dump I found down by the river too, the other day, walking the dog. Let’s go.

M34ND3R1NG B4CK 4ND F0RTH...


meandering back and forth 
in imperfect circular 
orbits around sense of home 

Wednesday, September 8

Tuesday, September 7

SONG OF THE DAY: Anniversary Blue Yodel (Blue Yodel #7)


Been listening to a lot more old bluegrass and blues lately. Not sure why. I have come to hate modern era hipster bluegrass. In fact, I’ve been killing newgrass musicians secretly, averaging out to about four per year for the past decade. My best year – 2016 – I got eleven, but things slowed down after experiencing the chaos of Charlottesville in August of 2017, and then my marriage fell apart. Last year, I thought I could get a lot more with the pandemic shutdown and all, like it’s easier to fly below the radar for things like that. But luckily I’m to a much better place I don’t feel like killing newgrass musicians so often. Except banjo players. Newgrass banjo players are the fucking worst, just pure suburban trash cosplaying poor white folks, full of fake soviet democratic socialist bullshit. I’ve kinda let it go with everybody else, except newgrass banjo players, who are too young, too shinefaced, not scarred enough by life to make real art, so they make performative jive art.

M4K1NG 4RT FR0M D3TR1TVS...


making art from detritus - 
bedazzling mundane life… that’s 
those southern gothicc futures 

Monday, September 6

SONG OF THE DAY: Had To Come Back Wet


It’s the fake American calendar end of summer and I ain’t even been in the ocean. Thought I might be middle class enough to go to the beach for a week this year, but the pandemic pushed all the beach houses into high demand, and the development of the last twenty years where it’s giant ass expensive beach houses made it so my simple ass who ain’t got no family other than children to go to a beach with can’t do it. Shit was booked the fuck up. Shit’s already booked the fuck up for next year. Of course all of this is a weak ass thing to complain about because going to the beach isn’t a right, but also, damn, why’s everything in society got to be priced so imbalanced so that only a certain segment of society can enjoy shit? Seen people on social media who act like they’re broke all the time who went to the beach for multiple weeks, and I know it’s family that probably paid for it – previous generations, but still, many of us don’t even come from that. And even more don’t even have a job as stable as mine. That’s what always fucks me up – my situation right now feels better than my situation has ever felt, my entire life. And I still can’t afford to do shit. Generational wealth and familial money is a highly underrated aspect to our existence, in all aspects. People should have to tell you how rich their parents and grandparents are, so you can make decisions accordingly, from everything to how much you want to hang out with them down to who the fuck needs to be venmoing somebody else for dinner. Anyways, here’s to hoping I somehow do something financially rewarding but illegal, and have a fat roll of $20s in my pocket to go rent a room on the beachfront with cash for a couple nights during the expanded global warming reduced rate time before the water gets too cold (which it doesn’t, ever, you just can’t stay in it as long).

M1NDS D0N'T RVST L1K3 M4CH1N3S D0...


minds don’t rust like machines do 
(but I do hack digital 
kudzu back regularly) 

Sunday, September 5

S0VTH3RN G0TH1CC FVTVR1ST...


southern gothicc futurist 
saints can’t be manufactured; 
they’re born from civilized dirt 

Saturday, September 4

SONG OF THE DAY: Mama He's Crazy (chopped and screwed)

At my patreon (which is like on Only Fans but about weird art shit not nudity), I try to chop and screw an old country classic from time to time. Support my patreon, and enjoy this reworking of The Judds most famous song, under my chopping and screwing name of DJ Honeysuckle Vines Growing Over the Abandoned Factory at the Edge of Town.

WH3N MY B0N3S 4R3 F0SS1L1Z3D...


when my bones are fossilized, 
hope my nonsense gibberish 
still fuels the fools amongst y’all 

Friday, September 3

SONG OF THE DAY: Fat Man in the Bathtub (live)


I really wanted to write something, maybe even specific to the actual song here, but then I just got sad the old K-Mart in Charlottesville didn’t converted into a flea market, with at least two African stalls, a Latin vegetable store (with a giant paleta cooler, but there’s probably going to be more than one paleta option if the flea market’s being done right), used power tools stand, phone jailbreak stall, and hopefully the flea market has turned the delivery bay by the old garden center into a used tire/secondhand rim shop of some sort. My old old iphone I use as an ipod is starting to turn into robot alien hieroglyphics all the time again because the battery swole up and I’m holding it together with binder clip and rubber bands, and I’ve got a new old iphone, version 6, but it’s locked behind an activation code for somebody, I don’t know who, and it’s pissing me off, and there’s no flea market that would handle this type of shit in an actual open and free society, but I’m trapped in this neoliberal hellscape where you can’t unlock an activation locked iphone because it might be stolen even though the model is so out of date I literally got given it by somebody who had it laying around after somebody else gave it to them. Y’all think everything’s got to be owned and wanted. Let people exist, please.

T33TH CR00K3D 4S 3V3R; B34RD...


teeth crooked as ever; beard 
more grey than not; but my eyes 
still got those wildfire embers 

Thursday, September 2

S0VTH3RN G0TH1CC FVTVR1ST...


southern gothicc futurist 
horizons always threaten 
storms - keep a shoulder towel 

Wednesday, September 1

B0RN FR0M TW0 3N1GM4S, BVT...


born from two enigmas, but 
helped give birth to a trio 
of creative impulses 

Tuesday, August 31

Monday, August 30

SONG OF THE DAY: Lunca


It’s a storm brewing outside so the cats are dashing around crazily, wanting to go outside, but I live in front of an old quarry and I’m no fool – you let a black cat out right before a giant storm next to an abandoned quarry with old buildings, that how magical realms get unlocked that live in the thin veil between visible and metaphysical. And to be honest, it’s too early in the week for all that. I can’t be wandering off dealing with magical realms on a fuckin’ Monday.

D1RTG0DL1N3SS S0VTH3RN TH0VGHT...


dirtgodliness southern thought 
is to keep it clean as fuck 
despite ancient appearance 

Sunday, August 29

SONG OF THE DAY: Woke Up This Morning


A rare moment of sleeping in this morning, with strong storms last night that made this old house rattle along with the thunder, but fell asleep with the fan in the window blowing in teasing glimpses of fall. Stayed overcast this morning long enough to cut the warming southern earth’s humid broiler oven effect to let me lay wrapped up in a top sheet, bare ass naked, chasing the cool spots in the cheap cotton, until the digital clock had four numbers, not three. Turned it face down so work ethic guilt didn’t kick in, and laid there another twenty minutes, cyber phone in the other room (on purpose), until the waves of “better do this” started crashing against my chill. But still gotta say, for the most part, it’s been a day of lounge, as the creator intended, not just on Sundays but all days. Not sure why we fucked that one up so badly. Still gotta do laundry, and cut some grass, but then again don’t really “gotta” do either, so probably won’t.

TH3Y ST1LL BV1LD PR0GR3SS, BVT 1T...


they still build progress, but it 
ain’t for all of us - just the 
high-born who can afford it 

Saturday, August 28

S4Y1NG 'S4L44M' T0 MYS3LF...


saying “salaam” to myself 
while walking crooked sidewalks 
through America’s decline 

Friday, August 27

SONG OF THE DAY: I Was Framed

 

Hey man, let’s take it easy. Fuck the police, the politics, the politicians, the news, fuck people who worry about that shit so much they jump in your face about some shit that ain’t here or there. I ain’t saying let’s not do the work but saying let’s stop pretending your grandstanding is the actual work when it ain’t nothing more than another wannabe boss trying to set an agenda to outline a bunch of shit your hands will never actually touch. Systems always end up crushing folks, that’s just how it ends up being. Sledgehammers will never become dysfunctional though. Scythes either, though they do lose their edge.

T4K1NG WH4T'S 4V41L4BL3...


taking what’s available 
and making it beautiful, 
far beyond mainstream’s forced flow 

Thursday, August 26

SONG OF THE DAY: Cruisin'


People with big ass cut grass yards think they’re still country, but they ain’t, with their zero turn mowers they hire a Mexican from Honduras to work half the time anyways, killing all the plantain and dandelions and buttercups, trying to make it all the same, nice and smooth and no questions ever asked, like a cop’s skull. That ain’t country; country is a frankensteined Snapper that can’t nobody but one guy who lives at a crossroads can fix, and even he wonders where the fuck you got it, even though he sold it to you (partial trade for some truck rims you had). Or better yet, country is struggling behind a “self” propelled push mower that’s had an existential crisis for at least a decade, and ain’t been self-propelled since before everything was Obama’s fault, because your yard’s too fucked, combination of hills and ruts and rocks and chunks of metal that the Snapper would just shatter into pieces (or at least the blade would) so you pick and choose your paths around the obstacles, like life itself, pushing the push mower like a fifty pound barbell that chops the earth sideways, choking out on chunks of month-long grasses, because who the fuck has time to be fucking around cutting grass unless the weather is bad, when you can’t cut it anyways? Country is finally cutting the yard in nine parts over thirteen days, and you probably should’ve already started over again, four days back, but you feel good about how that one spot looks, so you cruise up to the country store and get a big ol’ Gatorade, traditional orange or lemon lime, none of that antifreeze looking bullshit, and ride back with the windows down and air conditioning on full blast, feeling pretty damn good that none of your snooty ass neighbors are gonna judge your yard for at least 48 hours, maybe even 72.

S0VTH3RN G0TH1CC FVTVR1ST...


southern gothicc futurist 
philosophy bedazzles 
a most mundane existence 

Tuesday, August 24

Monday, August 23

SONG OF THE DAY: No Home


rootlessness as metaphor
is often used by those having homes,
safety nets they can flip back on to,
family they can hit up if shit really gets deep.
it’s plenty of folks out here that’s actual rootless,
whatever home they had wasn’t safe or comfortable enough
to still be attached to, and them that they shared those spaces
with often helped make it that way,
            so
they do what they can
to carve out a life without them traditional supports
or notions of “home” that they can always fall back on.
that shit is exhausting
            absolutely fucking exhausting
to where you get mad at the sunshine for coming through the window
yet another morning, and you wish
there was a nice dry hole to fall into
for a couple weeks
not even a beach vacation
just fall into a fucking hole
cuddle up, and enjoy the quiet for a couple weeks.
rootlessness often comes with getting fucked up
because not having no home, not having nobody
who raised you to say “this is your home, whenever you need it”
and have it be a warm safe comfortable place
not having that shit will clutch your heart sometimes
by accident, not on no purpose, just grab your ass
right in the chest cavity, and you wanna ease that ache
take the edge off
            creating your own
hole to fall into, to hide out
a couple weeks, months,
            years, generations… however long
                        it takes to pretend you’re home

L34RN1NG T0 P3RF3CTLY SH00T...


learning to perfectly shoot 
threes on busted rim - born to 
lose because the game is fixed 

Sunday, August 22

SONG OF THE DAY: 3 6 9


The interesting thing about a decline of an empire is it can take generations of diminishing returns and there is no cataclysmic moment of failure, just a slow decay back into the Earth, where the shine and luster of newness is slowly replaced by rust and abandonment, so slowly you may not even notice it’s already around you. I had to run to the Wal-Mart for a toaster because I don’t have one, and my youngest wanted toast in the morning when we get up earlier than fuck because she goes to school two counties over, so we take off at a godawful hour which actually isn’t that godawful, I’m just weakened by my post-modern existence and way off celestial schedules and more attuned to machines. It does eat into the day though to drive her and drop her off, not really the day itself so much as my employer’s preferred schedule for my constant availability, which now happens inside my own home, like a company house, which ironically mine is, though it was attached to a mostly defunct quarry that created multiples holes in the ground within walking distance. Found the shortest checkout line I could at the Wal-Mart once we were done, and two women in front of me, one of them had a few scattered tattoos, a surly mean-spirited look in her face, and some sort of freedom fascist adjacent shirt proclaiming proudly on the back MY RIGHTS DON’T END WHERE YOUR FEELINGS BEGIN, which is a pretty cocked and loaded statement, because it’s suggesting you know, not wanting to spread diseases or have food to eat or some shit is a feeling, whereas her ability to be as mean-spirited (and unmasked) as she wants is her god-given right, most likely protected by weaponry. The checkout lady, pretty young, was talking about how cool the shirt was, and I just did my purple masked laugh at it all, because goddamn, all these freedom fighters are out of fucking shape, and America is a pre-diabetic generation away from having both feet of the empire’s food soldiers amputated. What’s the empire gonna do then, when all these fucks have to do anything more than video game bomb brown people from a safe drone distance? We can’t actually fight. We’re a slothful soft nation of lazy fuckers who hire other people to do anything too physical. These motherfuckers act like the empire is a home owners association and we’re just gonna send everybody threatening glances to have them bow down in deference. America is fucked, very much in the obvious ways but also in ways that aren’t so obvious, because nobody is actually looking anymore.
Anyways, I listen to the country radio station with my kid because it’s mutually agreeable for the time being, but we both agree it’s not actually country, and just fuckin’ suburban propaganda for these slack-minded mean-staring marks, who consume mind-numbing news from questionable sources that give them poisoned wells of brains, which combines with the reinforcing messages of pop country drivel, and it builds a cabin of close-fisted thinking that’s chinked together with memes they get off Facebook or more likely even worse digital places at this point. That’s what’s so fucked up, is as bad as Facebook is in fucking up everybody’s brains, it’s the Wal-Mart mainstream source, and many of these people are going to whatever the digital equivalent of a strip mall gun store is that has Don’t Tread On Me decals on the front door but will absolutely call the county cops to enforce a grass cutting ordinance on your ass. America’s great red pilled mass is shitty ass subreddit at this point, but thinks it’s a bunch of pioneers who could hew a home from the wilderness, when in actuality most of these DIYer freedom fascists would be crying for Chik-Fil-A within a week. I worry about what’s gonna happen when something cuts off the power supply and has everybody’s weaponized outlooks pointed at each other for a couple weeks, or a month. What are people gonna do? I hope the internet goes out too because the detoxifying effects of not having that constant stream of poisoned information might balance out the implanted desire to dehumanize everybody who doesn’t performatively post up in the same way as you. But I don’t know. We’re fucked.
And yet also not, because once the manufactured storm dies down, same frogs gonna be peeping down in the ponds, and same cicadas gonna be making noise in the woods. The comfort of empires ebb and flow, and you’d be surprised how comfortable a shade tree is, even if you thought you needed that $80,000 truck with the air conditioned seats. which the Three Percenter who did my home inspection before I bought this company house I plan on dying in had told me his was. Always kinda made me laugh, a Three Percenter who had to have air conditioned seats in his truck, very symbolic of how we like to look like we’re something we ain’t at this point, because we’re all, as Americans, about as self-sufficient as white Cornish crosses, those big ass birds interbred so deeply to grow as fast as possible that if they aren’t just killed, their legs break under the weight of their abnormally large breasts and thighs. That’s us, at about 10 weeks into our maximum 16 week empire, so there’s a lot to go, but it’s gonna be painful, and nobody’s gonna move all that fast the whole time.

BR4ND N3W CHR0M3 R1MS BR1GHT3N1NG...


brand new chrome rims brightening 
up a hand-me-down beater - 
our performative thriving 

Saturday, August 21

SVRV1V3 F1RST, TH3N THR1V3 1F 4T...


survive first, then thrive if at 
all possible - the two-step 
program of the truly doomed 

Friday, August 20

SONG OF THE DAY: Dance Till We Die


A few years back, at first, my center kid was bummed I actually listened to Lana Del Ray, because dads aren’t supposed to listen to shit their kids are listening to. Takes the edge out of it. But then they got mad at me because Lana Del Ray was a fascist, or some shit. I don’t know. It’s all too much to keep up with; I just play music and sometimes I like it but mostly I hate it, which is why I like to point out what I like on here. I don’t ever dance really, not in front of other people, because I always felt I had bad rhythm. Family members used to make fun of how I walked, because it wasn’t white enough, and then when I danced, I realized it was just flopping my body around so I got self-conscious about how my arms flopped, because that seemed to be the part of my gait that wasn’t white enough. Who the fuck knows? Now, I shuck a little dance from time to time around my kids or girlfriend, and I do elaborate spinning mambas holding the cats if a good cumbia song comes on in the middle of the day. But I ain’t dancing in front of nobody I don’t know too fucking well.

TH3 WR3TCH3D 0F TH3 34RTH F3D...


the wretched of the Earth fed 
their digital opiates, 
forgetting sun’s rise and set 

Thursday, August 19

SONG OF THE DAY: At The Hotel


app free roadside motels 
surgically bypassed by interstate progress 
a couple decades back, but still 
dying on the blue highway vine, 
where you still stick a key into metal door knob 
kick open heavy metal door with low caliber dents 
and it smells like 1989 still 
doubt they got hbo max 
but you’re gonna test the bed bounce 
and one of y’all gonna leave a footprint 
in the drywall because that was the plan 
all along
in a spot like that 
but it’s all good because you paid cash 
and even if they got a cleaning lady 
who notices the damage 
you’re already 100 miles into 
the future 
drunk off 
life off 
the beaten data path 
worn as fuck 
because some folks never left it 
time to get back 
to john and jane 
dozy doeing 
happily along the edges 
of the thicc earth 

FR3SH D3NTS BL0SS0M 1N B4CK R04D...


fresh dents blossom in back road 
guard rails on nightly basis… 
flyover country dead ends 

Wednesday, August 18

SONG OF THE DAY: Gentched Up


Working up a long-winded intro to issue 12 of my Southern Gothicc Futurist zine about gentrification, specifically in Richmond, and ‘90s era punk rockers’ direct involvement. That’s gonna be issue 12. Just about done with an all Top Tens issue that’ll be issue 11. I send them out in pairs to supporters of my patreon, and in fact just sent out issues 9 and 10 recently (or am working on it still). You can get those, zines only, direct instead of joining the patreon, $10 by Venmo (@ravenmack23) or Cashapp ($ravenmack23). Mark it with emojis as friends, because you know. Apologies to XL Middleton for hijacking his “Gentched Up” song to sell some zines, but it’s all related, somehow. Everything’s relative. And related. So what’s up cousin?



W3'R3 4LL QV1LT1NG T0G3TH3R...


we’re all quilting together 
an existence which provides 
comfort when life becomes storms 

Tuesday, August 17

F0RG3T Y0VR LVST... F0R TH3 R1CH...


“forget your lust… for the rich 
man’s gold,” song lyrics warned; “all 
you need… is within your soul” 

Monday, August 16

SONG OF THE DAY: Sad Sad Songs


Wow, there are so many experts on Middle Eastern policy, and Afghanistan, and Lebanon, and really everything today. You all should learn the valuable lesson of Shutting The Fuck Up. US Imperialism and dogmatic conservative Islam neither benefit the average person struggling to survive. And if you think the late American Empire hellscape is bad here, please consider the fact we have it amazingly comfortable by Global Southern standards. So again, please practice Shutting The Fuck Up. Practice it daily, and often each day. It’s very beneficial to your environment, whether IRL or extremely online.

3V3N FR1NG3 CVLTVR3S FVLL 0F...


even fringe cultures full of 
misfits don’t want me - their type 
of dirty cultivated 

Sunday, August 15

Saturday, August 14

TH3 3Y3S 0F C4R1C4TVR3S...


the eyes of caricatures 
drawn on abandoned house’s 
walls staring at me, smiling 

Friday, August 13

SONG OF THE DAY: Roll Um Easy


IF YOU ARE THE DUDE WHO STOLE MY LITTLE FEAT CD THE NIGHT WE HAD A PARTY IN MEHERRIN AFTER BURYING MY DAD BECAUSE YOU PLAYED IT BY THE BONFIRE IN YOUR TRUCK, PLEASE REVEAL YOURSELF SO THAT I MAY KNOW WHO I HAVE HELD A LIFETIME (and beyond) BLOOD GRUDGE AGAINST PLEASE. My youngest sister refuses to tell me to this day who you are, and she even bought me a new copy of that particular CD, but it just don’t sound the same. It just don’t sound the fuckin’ same bro.

T0 L1V3 W1TH N4TVR3 1SN'T...


to live with nature isn’t 
pretty, nor easy, nor that 
readily marketable 

Thursday, August 12

Wednesday, August 11

SONG OF THE DAY: Nothing New

 

Whenever Morray is blasting out of somebody’s car, it just makes me want to disappear for four days into a Carolina del Norte oblivion, checking out a car show or some drag races on a Saturday, looking for a good gas station pupuseria, hopefully hitting a train yard somewhere within an hour’s radius of Rocky Mount, and contemplating how great it would be to go to the beach but knowing I can’t actually afford to stay there and it’s white as fuck too, which is always the worst parts of North Carolina. Shout out to whoever did that Thelonious Monk mural in downtown Rocky Mount; I believe it’s magic. We need one like that in Hamlet for John Coltrane too, and fuck it, on the way home might as well have one in Danville for Clarence 13x too, "for the culture" - whatever the fuck that means at his played out point.

3R3CT1NG M0NVM3NTS T0...


erecting monuments to 
mistakes made, but pretending 
there was noble foundation 

Tuesday, August 10

SONG OF THE DAY: Traffic Sound

 

Sitting in a traffic jam in an old ass beater, temperature gauge bouncing like a club jam is playing, hoping it’s just the thermostat not something worse, running the heater on high to expel that overheating, windows down, wondering if you should pull off or say fuck it and push it ‘til it blows. $500 vehicles in an American society that doesn’t trust anything than five figures.

S0M3 F0LKS 4TT3MPT T0 C0V3R...


some folks attempt to cover 
up their past, denying the 
layers that compose their whole 

Monday, August 9