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.

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.

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