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.

Thursday, June 30

SONG OF THE DAY: These Things I've Come To Know

I saw seven different James McMurtrys this evening, the first one at Shady’s when I stopped to get gas. Some chump was in front of me behind a work truck in one of them new fangled Corvettes, easily the stupidest fucking fake muscle car out of that whole genre of stupid cars. But James McMurtry had him hemmed in with the work truck while he paid for his gas and got a ice cold Mountain Dew. James came out smiling, even chatted up some dude next row over before finally driving off. Got my gas and went to the Food Lion and saw four more James McMurtrys there, one of them mad dogging me, maybe because of the mask I still wear (fuck y’all, gonna wear this shit til I die at this point, fuck your feelings about masks), then another was hilariously looking for marked down chicken, just like me, and we cursed the price of existence. I knew one of the James McMurtrys, saw him while I was checking out and he came, guess ol’ boy lives in that town now, like 15 minutes from my place. Told me his girlfriend lives up near me though. Then riding home, saw two more James McMurtrys, the next to last one sitting on his porch as I drove the back roads back home to my simple assed house in this little ass town famous for the Waltons. That last James McMurtry was sitting there the other day too, vibing on the porch, and we waved the knowing wave that James McMurtrys gives each other. And then I saw the last James McMurtry, as I was backing around the dead tree with the hubcaps nailed to it in my front yard, looking back from the rear view mirror, with his ridiculous beard and amethyst crystal necklace and worn out embroidered Celtics jersey from seven lifetimes ago. I smiled at him, took the groceries inside, changed into the tiniest Nike shorts I got, and started making dinner. Spaghetti tonight.


the do’s and don’ts this culture 
demands will fade away with 
time; observe your heart foremost 

Wednesday, June 29

SONG OF THE DAY: Low Down (chopped & kudzu'd)

Had a bad day or two here where there was some anger and pain from the past that I didn’t realize was still there, which got unexpectedly dredged up by a simple interaction with someone else showing their thoughtlessness about anyone but themselves, while also assuming the role of eternal victim. It becomes hard to give a fuck about yourself to step up in those moments, because you’re already positioned as the person taking advantage. Anyways, I can recognize that shit quicker now though, and don’t get lost in depressive episodes like I used to, and don’t run head first into walls as a self-destructive act of knocking the pain away either. Hard as fuck to learn and practice new habits, especially when people take advantage of your weakness and kindness. But fuck it, ain’t nobody gonna do it but you. Fuck the haters, especially those that portray themselves as lovers. Those are the worst kind of haters – secret double reverse psychology snake haters, wrapped up in self-centered good vibes.

Tuesday, June 28

Monday, June 27

SONG OF THE DAY: Xuduud Ma Leh Xubigaan (This Love Has No Boundaries)

The algorithms lack natural rhythm, that's why everything is so fucked up. I've been checking the river for trending topics lately and it's really been beneficial to my psychic state. The river is way less likely to lie than an algorithm, at least as far as I've seen. Rather than building walls around my fears, allowing them to ferment in dark madness, the river washes a lot of dumb shit away, and my heart can think more clearly to let my brain know when it's tripping out on some bullshit.

1 41N'T N0TH1NG BVT 4 M4N...

I ain’t nothing but a man 
trapped within this physical 
existence, stumbling along 

Friday, June 24

SONG OF THE DAY: Oldie Kinda Lovin'

Some would argue it’s in bad taste to enjoy yourself as your mythologically moral institutions fall apart before your eyes. But ultimately the institutions are not compromised so much as they were never what we were told in the first place. Thus, I’d say it’s more important than ever to find ways to enjoy yourself as our late American institutions continue to fail the majority of us. Like think about throwing a Molotov cocktail, and imagine doing it stressed and angrily. But then imagine performing the same act with joy and a touch of whimsy, how easily the arm rotates to fling the bottle with lit wick at a higher, more exuberant arc. I’d say it’s in bad taste to be too serious about shit like this because it gives the institutions we need to replace too much credit for being serious. They’re not. Many of these hallowed institutions are pretty hollow. Fuck ‘em.


building piecemeal spiritual 
generators of joy in 
world too damned industrious 

Thursday, June 23

SONG OF THE DAY: Smile (With Yo Gold)

“Smile Now Cry Later” the clown tattoos keep saying, but I can’t seem to hear them well enough to practice it. Maybe I need to get it tattooed into my own skin, with hobo clowns, to force the message into my body, making a stubborn goat-headed man finally see the light. “Smile Now Cry Later” as a mocking reminder in the mirror every morning, after spitting charcoal toothpaste into the sink, hobo clowns bastard faces reminding me that I never disappeared, and the frustrations of stuckness are unhacked weeds which grow into hawthorn bushes, prickly frustrating walls that get too high to navigate. Not enough machete swinging in my life, on neither the physical nor astral planes.


loungin’ will always require 
more vision than money; you 
can’t just buy into true lounge 

Wednesday, June 22

Tuesday, June 21

Monday, June 20

SONG OF THE DAY: Going Way Back

Never finished the second season of that Wu Tang tv show, because I got bored with it. I did enjoy the fact they had Just Ice show up and question a young RZA about supreme mathematics, even though the actual Just Ice said that never actually happened. While I enjoyed the first season, and don't mind people taking artistic liberties with actual biographies necessarily, unfortunately all it will lead to is like people like Elon Musk creating shows that rewrite their own histories more favorably. Then again, they probably already do that. Anyways, here's Just Ice.

TH3 L1N3 B3TW33N T00 MVCH L0VNG3...

the line between too much lounge 
and lethargy of spirit ain’t 
all that easy to define 

Sunday, June 19

SONG OF THE DAY: I Walk On Gilded Splinters

Sometimes when life feels like a crushing pile of stones sitting on top of your heart, mind, and soul, you just gotta vibe. Vibes are unpredictable though and when you think “well this was great vibes 3 months ago” and try it again, conditions ain’t the same and it doesn’t work. Vibes aren’t scientific, and science is limited because it needs shit to be perfectly the same to prove itself as truth. The actual world changes an infinite number of variables an infinite number of times for every 69 steps you took, so science ain’t ever gonna catch up with the limitless permutations of universal magnetics. But if the vibes are super far off when trying to replicate previous vibes, which happens a lot to me, I just do the opposite of a few things – like the exact opposite, but also the same of some things. This is like rolling a shitty pair of dice on your first throw so you shake the shit out of them extra hard, and then the second one usually hits – if you’re lucky. But vibes is not a dice game so even if you’re unlucky, keeping shaking the shit out of everything until the vibes hit right. But when the world is a crushing pile of stones, unseen but all to fucking real feeling, you gotta shake shit up, and find the power of lounge. And if you don’t find it right away, you best keep on trying because best believe this world which we live in has got a bunch of trifling ass brains manufacturing as many more stones as possible to drop on your ass. Keep shaking shit up though, and find a nook to chill in.


making games of survival 
to keep smiling as triflin’ 
world spins faster and faster 

Saturday, June 18


loungers been making old shit 
look like a precision planned 
explosion of vibes forevs 

Friday, June 17

SONG OF THE DAY: John They're Stealing Part 1

Over the winter, I was working on sewing patches on a few pairs of overalls, because I have southern gothicc futuristic visions of being a back roadside artist, wearing fucked up overalls, and selling haiku spikes, bottle poems, and clankyjangers to anyone who bothers to find me, either on purpose or by chance. I got a bunch of patches here or there, different varieties, but always cost conscious. Thirstin Howl III is a member of the underground legendary Lo-Life Crew, on top of being an infamous rapper. Lo-Lifes boosted Polo gear, and had a big part in spreading that labels popularity in hip hop music. I mean these dudes were rocking all Polo gear, all the time. It is no coincidence that perhaps me bumping Thirstin Howl III again is related to all that and my recent conversion to only wearing Polo crew socks for some reason, in about 19 different colors, in order to match the little Polo dude with literally any shirt I could possibly own (except purple… what the fuck Polo?). Anyways, Thirstin Howl’s website had black and white as well as color versions of a Lo-Life patch available, but fuck, he was asking $40 per patch, plus shipping. What the fuck? I never understand how street labels will print up shirts or clothes, and then just fleece the ever-living fuck out of anybody who might want to buy one, and then get mad that nobody supports them. $40 for a fuckin’ patch? Fuck that. So I sent Ralph Lauren an email seeing if he’d steal me one.


loungers been warning the world 
of unloungin’ behaviors 
since the beginning of time 

Thursday, June 16

1 PR4CT1C3 M4G1CK D41LY...

I practice magick daily, 
constantly scattering my 
simple scribble prayers out 

Wednesday, June 15

SONG OF THE DAY: Widow Wimberly

When folks self-identify as some sort of milf, that kinda freaks me out. Seems very narcissistic. That doesn’t have anything to do really with this song, other than the fact I was thinking the general state of affairs means we don’t use the term “widow” all that much like we once did. Although to be honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever called anybody a widow in real life. Who has the time?


universal truths hijacked 
by mythologies ingrained 
in brain from a tender age 

Monday, June 13


the philosophy of lounge 
reminds one to strive to do 
less; more just compounds problems 

Sunday, June 12

34SY T0 G3T L0ST 4M1DST...

easy to get lost amidst 
the crossed wires, focusing on 
the wrong type of energies 

Saturday, June 11


The Habibi Funk series put out by Habibi Funk Records is one of the best bandcamp record labels going. This track comes from Habibi Funk 018, and thus far I've not allowed myself to get the LPs, because mostly I've just been playing 45s on my turntable, and LPs somehow got so fucking expensive even though nothing's really changed with them in twenty years. There's shockingly less record stores too than there were in the '90s, with many of the old school black-owned ones I used to love in Virginia long gone, and replaced by expensive white-owned ones with quite the mark-up on used albums, but always called a fair market price lolol. Plus, the majority of new releases are white-friendly albums on colored vinyl instead of just basic black, which is annoying as fuck from a DJ's perspective (or making mixtapes even). But that's what's selling. They've essentially gentrified record collecting. So much shit exists beyond the realm of that though, and I recently had found a junk/antique store with literally thousands and thousands of 45s and LPs, that I dug and dug through, cheap as fuck too. So I guess I appreciate a Berlin label re-releasing collections of stuff I'd never get otherwise exposed to, like Habibi Funk, and this Hamid El Shaeri release (and the Roger Fakhr and Al Massrieen ones before it... my other favorites from this label). There's a deep digging involved, and the artists themselves (or their family) seem to benefit from the releases. But there's a capitalist/colonialist mentality to a lot of record stores and labels nowadays that I feel weird about, but not entirely sure how to express it all. Nonetheless, good music is good music, and there's such an abundance of good music that's been pressed to vinyl (or uploaded inside the internet) that you have no reason not to find awesome shit to enjoy without going broke trying to have the In Things.


practicing hatred consumes 
your insides with tumorous 
growths of not giving a shit 

Friday, June 10

SONG OF THE DAY: It Ain't Fair (Pt. 1)

I need more chill in my life. The world will ask more and more and more, and many people will be very self-centered and take from you as much as you allow. It's very easy to get stretched the fuck out by life, to where you feel so thin you're about to pop into a violent explosion of hot kettle emotion. Practice chilling. Telling myself as much as anybody who might read this. Practice fucking chilling, on a regular basis, and tell people no. Fuck it, just tell them no, even if you can. Tell yourself no if what you're asking of yourself is killing your chill. Sometimes we're our own worst enemies.


power grids manufacture 
power gridlock of internal 
energies; loungers resist 

Thursday, June 9

Wednesday, June 8


a predatory culture 
needs you to exist in fear; 
most the time, I think “fuck it” 

Tuesday, June 7

SONG OF THE DAY: High Cost of Living (chopped & kudzu'd)

I’ve been chopping and screwing old country or country-adjacent songs off and on at my patreon, and actually released a 12-pack of these at my bandcamp when I had twelve old school jams done. This particular song has always felt like a theme song for my dad, and I was specifically picking songs I had some sort of relationship with to chop, because I feel you chop it different when you have that long-time relationship with a song. You dig in deeper than if you’re just jumping in to chop it (but no diss to that method at all). This song came out a few years after my dad had passed, but this one and Jamey Johnson’s “Can’t Cash My Checks” are just pure Charlie Tuna, and I know he would’ve loved this fuckin’ song so much had he been alive to hear it on the local country radio station that played in the small engine repair shop where he worked when he wasn’t too drunk or high to make it into work (usually Mondays, and often Fridays, because he got paid on Thursday evenings traditionally). I miss that fucker a lot of times, but also know if he had still been alive, man, it would’ve been hard all these years. The thing about death is you then get to slowly re-imagine a person in all their best attributes, and forgive their failures, because they ain’t failing nobody any more. And you hope they’ve found peace and comfort. I had a dream one time, which felt like a visit, but who knows for certain (metaphysical shit is far from certainty, by design), where I’d gone to the house he lived at when he died, in Victoria, not far from where a giant bustling train yard used to exist but had long been pulled out, vacating the town, which was essentially a railroad town for The Virginian line back in the days. Anyways, my dad had come up the outdoor steps from the basement, even though that house had no actual basement, and me and him were talking. He was all wired up from crank, like he often was the last few years whenever I saw him, and there was music bumping from the basement, so I knew there was folks in there and they were “partying” so to speak. He was asking about my kids, and we were shooting the shit, when I kinda realized he was stuck in that “party” mode which had sort of overtaken his ability to function in the end, and him being stuck in the basement felt like hell to me, for him. I thought this but didn’t say anything to him, because I didn’t wanna ruin the visit, but I could tell he could see what I was thinking. He was always very intuitive like that, even at his worst. Anyways, I woke up a bit shook by the dream, and it just made me hope even more so that whatever happens after one dies, it gave him some peace from the demons that had been fucking with his ability to enjoy life. It’s weird how “partying” is a way to enjoy life, but then gets in the way of enjoying life, and there’s no real definitive line of to where you went too far and got lost. You just kinda ended up on the wrong side of things, without planning, or even knowing precisely where that shit got fucked up. That’s why this is such a great fucking song, too, because it captures some unexplainable shit about as good as one can.

Monday, June 6

Sunday, June 5


my gut intuition was 
always geared towards loungin’, 
despite all the sugars fed 

Saturday, June 4


Been listening to a lot of James McMurtry lately, apparently. Every time some new person tries to convince me of how great Jason Isbell is, and they are describing him and his music, I usually just think in my head, "oh, they're describing James McMurtry." No diss to Jason Isbell or fans of the entire Drive-by Truckers genre, but it ain't for me. Something is missing for it to resonate with my fucked up southside Virginia upbringing full of chaos and misery but laughter and fuckitery as well. I've never been able to put a rational explanation on it, so I just politely listen to folks attempting to convince me how much I'd love it if I just gave it a chance. But I'm more likely to listen to James McMurtry every time. Rural identity attempting to be progressive in the age of digital wokeness is such a fucked up subculture anyways. I don't know how y'all cook but the fuckin' skillet needs soap sometimes.
I love this album cover too, especially since I got a little HO scale motel like that to fix up for my dilapidated train town I was working on for a while. But then my oldest kid and their partner had to live with us for a while so HO town got used as a bedroom, and I ain't had the heart to set it back up, in case they have to come back and live here again. I'm only 49 though, so I'll have plenty of years to romanticize the decay of the American Empire in 1/87 scale in the "extra" room upstairs that's hot as fuck in the summer.


carving psychic shelter out 
of wide open spaces which 
all others had overlooked 

Friday, June 3

Thursday, June 2


Being online sucks because you think more people care about Elon Musk and think he’s more important than Dolly Parton, but in actual real life, it’s not true at all. Dolly Parton would never dare become a billionaire. She knows better. You gotta be a real piece of shit to end up being a billionaire.

P0W3R 0F L0VNG3 R3FVS3S...

power of lounge refuses 
recognition of legal 
borders not seen in nature