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.

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.


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?


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.


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.


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.



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


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.



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

Friday, April 2



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.


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.)


domesticated spirits 
gazing longingly at the 
wilderness just out of reach