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.

Tuesday, August 31

Monday, August 30


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.


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.


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



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


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.


southern gothicc futurist 
philosophy bedazzles 
a most mundane existence 

Tuesday, August 24

Monday, August 23


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,
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


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

Sunday, August 22


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.


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

Saturday, August 21


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


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 


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


“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.


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


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.


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

Saturday, August 7

Friday, August 6

Thursday, August 5

Wednesday, August 4

Tuesday, August 3

SONG OF THE DAY: Capulito de Alely (rebajada)

Just another south of the border cumbia rebajada classic from an old Sonido Dueñez mixtape, literal mixtapes he used to make and sell at a Monterrey flea market. Where the K-Mart closed in Charlottesville has just been this giant abandoned shopping space, and it’s close enough to fancy newer white people shit that I’m sure somebody will demolish it and build even newer white people shit to make the new white people shit look like old white people shit. For some reason, American white people shit is always about newness? Well, at least them type white people. I PROUDLY PROCLAIM MYSELF A FLEA MARKET PERSON, with the loyalties and allegiances attached thereupon. If I win the Powerball (is that tonight, or last night?), I’m gonna buy the old K-Mart, leave it exactly as it is, and turn it into an International Flea Market. You apply to be a vendor, and I slide the scale depending on how much you add to the ambiance or not. If you are a wealthy white person laundering your own wealth inequality through self small business efforts of a crafty but unneeded variety, I’m gonna charge you triple. I will be cultivating an environment of used power tools, bootleg futbol jerseys, goat meat, bright fabrics, purple camouflage cargo shorts, and I got no time for your bourgeoisie DSA “I’m one of the good ones” bullshit. BRING SOMETHING OF WORTH TO THE COLLECTIVE OR GET (remain) LOST.


just another simple-assed 
country boy that could’ve been 
trash, but became a dirtgod 

Monday, August 2


At this point in my life, there’s only two types of Grateful Dead songs I still like – ones directly related to amazing drug memories, like “Tennessee Jed”, or ones that would’ve made their way eventually into a Sam Peckinpah western had he ever done one with Pigpen in it because in this alternate timeline Pigpen didn’t die. Thus, I’ll listen to a fuckin’ “Deal” recorded at stupid fucking William & Mary a thousand years ago, back before Deadheads became libertarians and bankrolled self-justifying their own greed through legal weed shops because they were able to cover the immense application fees. Like the video reminds you, never forget Tucker Carlson is a huge deadhead – about as black an eye as a fan base could get.

0VR P0W3R L1N3S W1LL N3V3R...

our power lines will never 
be tall enough to Xbox 
with god; I connect through heart 

Sunday, August 1