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.

Friday, June 2

SONG OF THE DAY: Fantastic Voyage (kudzu'd)

Been imagining having a broken spaceship a lot lately, like back in the woods behind the crib, getting grown over with kudzu and shit, but I hack the kudzu off the door with my machete regularly, and go inside the spaceship, and try to get it running, but I’m missing a kerfufflic coil or something, so it turns over but doesn’t fly. Thus, I’ve been thinking about great songs to listen to in the spaceship, because I imagine it would have 7 nice subs in it, positioned according to universal magnetics to create a golden ratio of thump. This is definitely on the playlist (as you’d expect).

Wednesday, May 31

SONG OF THE DAY: Memphis Soul Stew (kudzu'd)

I found my crow call this morning, so after feeding the local crows peanuts, whenever I’ve heard them outside in the trees out front, I blow the crow call from inside the house in the kitchen. They’ve been talking back, pretty frantically sometimes. I wish crow call technology could tell me what the fuck I might be saying, but that’s human tech for you – just wildly pretending to create something without really understanding the consequences. My girlfriend warned me the crows might come in the house and poke my eyeballs out, but we’ll see.
I’ve been doing this all day whenever they come around, but just now I went out on the porch and blew it. I guess one of them was hiding out on top of the porch roof and as soon as I blew it, they flew off, cawing in a completely different tone than any of them before. That’s how I learned how local crows say, “Lying motherfucker!”

Tuesday, May 30

Monday, May 29

SONG OF THE DAY: Right Down the Line (kudzu'd)

Keeping it moving, slowly but surely, even as the world wants you to congeal into fear. I been trying to keep it moving literally, one foot in front of the other, couple miles down the tracks as often as possible, scattering the negative impulses by grounding my soles onto the metal tracks when ain’t nothing coming. This world we got is one built with ego as a cornerstone, so it’s easy to get lost looking at what others might seem to have got, but that just poisons your outlook with hating. People get hung up on thinking about what other folks “deserve” way too much, without ever thinking about who’s gonna serve it all. The work’s always got to be done, and there’s always someone doing it without calling attention to themselves, because that just slows down getting the work done. I been trying to remove “deserve” from my vocabulary completely, and just keep it moving. If I’m meant to get somewhere, I’ll eventually meander my way there. And if I ain’t, I won’t. I trust the Universe to know what the fuck it’s doing.

Friday, May 26


Bambu is one of the best MCs out there in my opinion. I look forward to whatever new shit he ever drops. And if he don’t drop nothing new, I can keep enjoying the body of work he already created. It’s dudes like this that I wish got paid enough to survive capitalism more easily in our fucked up poison culture. But of course you don’t get paid for telling real shit, unless your realness is fake shit that the Think They’re Reals gobble up like candy corn in the feedlot. And honestly, I truly just appreciate Bambu for being dope as fuck. I wish all of us survived capitalism, and in fact wish the whole fuckin’ thing just got cancelled and we could have a more direct line to happiness, instead of this Rube Goldberg ass contraption called western culture pursuit of happiness if you wasn’t born rich.

Wednesday, May 24

SONG OF THE DAY: So Wat Cha Sayin' (kudzu'd)

Slowed music is resistance to business as usual status quo go go go, which crushes us all. Slow living is a refusal of slow death. The too comfortable are uncomfortable with slowed music because it upsets their world view of how things are already in perfect order, and as they should be. We need to pitch shift our nihilistic rush towards doom.

Friday, May 19

SONG OF THE DAY: I Know You Got Soul (kudzu'd)

I had the chance to wander into Piedmont North Carolina, and do a little record digging last weekend. I really miss the earlier heyday of record stores, before compact discs and digital realm killed them off, because the bulk of stores that have popped up afterwards are missing a certain level of joy, not only of discovery but just general demeanor. Many of the new school record stores seem like vanity boutique shops for somebody not dependent upon their success to maintain wealth, so it’s more of a “look at all that I’ve curated!” vibe than actual joy. Those types tend to be very dismissive if you want for anything that’s not in their wheelhouse, and they also tend to be pretty commonly expensive, as are a majority of boutique small businesses, because the owners’ tend to have an inflated sense of their need in the community, as well as an entitlement to support because they’re so damned proud of their weird little curation of some random physical ass shit in late capitalist America.
But really, the main thing is the joy. Too many record stores have miserable operators who get mad at the dumbest shit, even if you’re like, “Damn, this is expensive.” There’s no joy. I mean, much less the missing bins of shit nobody ever felt like going through and pricing according to globalist internet rates, where you have the actual joy of random discovery of either new to you shit you never knew about but looked cool, or finding things you know are amazing but nobody in charge of pricing had any clue. Just the actual joy of someone who loves the fun of music, and has ideas of what you might dig from what you bring up, and there’s a section where more of it might be for you to fuck around in. Too many of today’s record stores and dealers are so fucking white… sterilized of joy and with miserable anger just waiting to pop out at any perceived indignation. It fucking sucks.
Luckily, as a record show I went to last month, and a couple spots I found last weekend, there’s still joy to be found, as there always will be. The miserable tend to be mapped out well online, and have strong social media presences, because they know how to manipulate an algorithm and live in the world of technologically connected. But there’s still plenty of cracks in the digital map and spots you’ll only find out about by word of mouth or random ass chance. And the other great thing is good people who recognize and love good spots know not to tell random assholes about those spots, or else they get ruined. So if you know a good spot, don’t tell me… I’m confident if I’m living right and meant to see it, the Universe will guide me towards finding it on my own.
On the other side of things, if a bunch of people who seem sorta like assholes tell you how great a record store is, trust your lounge intuition and don’t waste your time at that spot, unless you’ve got a colored vinyl fetish. Those spots are chock full of colored vinyl options.

Thursday, May 18

SONG OF THE DAY: Trespassin'

Trespassing doesn’t exist. Decolonize yourself. (Also, don't buy a Decolonize flag, of any sort. That's mad corny, not to mention pretty dissonant.)

Wednesday, May 17

SONG OF THE DAY: Meat Grinder

I got one of those 33 1/3 books about Madvillain but I haven’t read much of it yet because it’s somehow a little bit more than a zine but not quite a book, and mostly my brain has been in zine level of attention mode lately, and if I happen to get more than that on a rare night, I try to knock 10-15 pages out of an actual book laying beside the bed, gathering more dust than thumbing. This is no diss to 33 1/3 books, other than they are zines pretending to be books and every author should be forced to get some comic artist they knew 15 years ago to do wonderful doodles to go with it. Or cut and paste some shit out of old Spin magazines.

Tuesday, May 16


There’s a train yard I love not far from where I sleep most of the time, and it’s a rundown part of a rundown city that has a neat ass throwback name to whatever it had once been. Some folks made a microbrewery with the name, even though the actual microbrewery is in a different part of the rundown town, but people love a microbrewery, so that other rundown part of the rundown city is becoming less rundown as the microbrewery starts buying up abandoned warehouses and converting it into shared spaces and coffeehouse and shit like that. Anyways, the microbrewery with the throwback name that has nothing to do with them making beer in a nearby section of the rundown city just won some big ass dork beer award – saw it on my google news feed. Plus, they got microbrewery spots in another city now too, expanding their “brand” (which of course is a forgotten industrial sector in a rundown city that they’ll market themselves as savior of once they keep expanding their renovating footprint). If you look at the beer website of the place, all the founders and key players in their structure are wacky smiling white dudes with large but well-trimmed beards. This is progress to most folks, but not to me. I can kinda give it the benefit of the doubt and pretend it’s the lesser of two evils maybe, but even then, I don’t feel like giving it the benefit of the doubt, because they also just cleared out a semi-permanent homeless camp that’s closer to the beer company’s namesake than their tasting room, and I don’t see these quirky white men out here doing shit about homelessness or drug addiction or poverty, other than pretending that having to hire more wait staff to serve impatient beer tourists somehow qualifies them as leading public citizens. I don’t know man, the microbrewery cosplaying as industrial titan thing is so tiring at this point, I’m not even sure how I got a couple hundred words of griping out about it.

Friday, May 12

SONG OF THE DAY: God Only Knows

This was already a weird song, as much as any of The Beach Boys work is. But then slap it as a cover on a soul singer’s last studio album in 1975, and it takes on even weirder vibes, although musically it actually sounds fairly normal, I guess. I mean it wouldn’t seem quite as weird if I didn’t know it was a weird ass Brian Wilson song. Everett’s youth was spent in Mississippi, singing in gospel music and playing piano before moving to Chicago to chase a music career as secular soul artist in 1957. She had some hits, but by 1975 her career was on the down swing. This track recorded by a childhood gospel church singer is pretty interesting to me, as this was the last studio album she dropped, and spent her elder years back in the churches near her home in Illinois. The trajectory of young creative dreamer, from the church to the exploitative music industry, and then ultimately back to the church, with this weird ass song as a slice of that life that touches on all of it.

Thursday, May 11

SONG OF THE DAY: Like a Virgin (kudzu'd)

Two weeks from today, I take the cobbled together dirtgod sound system out in public for the first time, to spin slowed down 45s from 6 to 9 pm, at Blue Moon Diner in Charlottesville. This is what you can expect.

Tuesday, May 9

Monday, May 8

Sunday Slowdown Chapter 007: Gringo de Mayo

I might’ve forgot to post chapter 006 on here. You can find it at mixcloud too. Dropped an all cumbia mix yesterday called Gringo de Mayo, because white folks turning Cinco de Mayo into an excuse to drink margaritas at chain restaurants is both hilarious and shameful. We are such a superficial, ignorant people. And it’s funny how white people think culturally they’re the intellectuals. Have you talked to some of these folks from normal upper middle class realms? God these people are fucking stupid. Living off the trickle down of wealth from previous generations. Anyways, fuck all that. This is about slowed music, because slow music is resistance to business as usual or normal speed life, and normal speed life benefits those who it’s always benefitted. So fuck normal speed. Keep it slow.

Wednesday, May 3

SONG OF THE DAY: Journey to Lounge

The journey to lounge always has obstacles, sometimes even coming from inside your own mind. I know I was my own worst enemy to establishing quality lounge as young adult man-child with unresolved or unaddressed shit. Some folks never even bother, just keep ignoring the mold on the walls and act like “This is fine,” ploughing through a life with no regard for how they fuck up those around them with their chaotic bad ripples. I’m still chaotic as fuck, but I’d like to believe I’m chaotic good, and I definitely feel I’ve achieved a level of lounge in my life better than ever before. It’s at least more sustainable, like I don’t have to escape the whole fuckin’ world in a self-medicated stupor to find peace. It’s already here. But I still gotta get my mind right and avoid getting stuck in the mud of others who got nothing better to do with their lives than scatter negative influences in every direction. In fact, the journey to lounge begins inside your own mind. You can’t be at peace or encourage peace and healing in others if you’re a fuckin’ shit storm of unresolved bullshit. And even if all those traumas wasn’t your fault, at some point, you gotta take responsibility for not bothering to get your shit together. There should be like a second adulthood age, because 18/21 is too young. 36 maybe? I don’t know, but at some point, you should’ve at least tried to have enough knowledge of self to stop being a negatively charged ionic treatise upon your environment. This world is fucking us all up, and we can either try to do better, or shrug our shoulders and say fuck it and replicate the patterns that made us fucked in the first place. That doesn’t feel like solid work or a good plan on the journey to collective lounge.

Monday, May 1

SONG OF THE DAY: Slippin' Around

Slipping around the edges of what’s allowed, with a “tres pass” nature meaning fences and walls are suggestions rather than outright rules. None of these lines on the maps been here forever so it’s hard to accept ‘em as anything other than arbitrary. I don’t really care you had the money to pay somebody to stamp a piece of paper with the embossed red marks of supreme reality of ownership. That shit ain’t real.

Friday, April 28

SONG OF THE DAY: PE vs The JB's (DJ A-L Remix)

Bootleg everything. Intellectual property is colonial thought. I don't even believe you own your own thoughts. Why would you own some shit that just randomly fired up inside your mind? I thought about that recently when I described my artistic processes as "world building". It seemed very conquest-like, that I'm developing an unexplored territory from a capitalist perspective. I'm fuckin' lucky the universe lets my mind see all the wild shit it sees. I'm blessed. Why would I want to start acting like I own all that shit and piss off the universal muses? Disgusting behavior. So I think of it less as world building now and more just cultivating my internal mythologies.

Thursday, April 27

SONG OF THE DAY: Black Superman (kudzu'd)

Another West Coast Classics bootleg 45, one of my favorite bootleg series on 7” 45s. Above The Law is highly underrated, as later stage Ruthless Records group, but man, Screw used to have them on his tapes all the time. This is obviously their biggest hit, which is also funny to call “hit” because it’s not like that shit was on the charts. It just bubbled through the underground, making noise and leaving marks that stand to this day. I got 3 or 4 of the West Coast Classics series, but sadly, still missing the DJ Quik/Snoop Dogg one. Lack of DJ Quik 45s is the most glaring omission in my 45 stacks to be honest, especially since I read that L.A. Times article about Suga Free the other week, and been thinking about how Quik/Suga Free are underrated geniuses. Give Quik a MacArthur Grant, in my opinion.

Wednesday, April 26

SONG OF THE DAY: Nubian Lady (kudzu'd)

My home internet was broken today so I had to put on clothes and drive into the ol’ office space to work, which means I had to put on “office clothes” which means I also wore underwear, which my dick is violently resisting this oppressive garment so now I gotta keep fiddling with my dick to have it sit right in my boxers, and this is what happens when you don’t have to go to the office no more. You forget how the fuck to be in public, but like not a real public, just the fake performative public space that is an office. Also I had to talk about some inane shit for a while, accidentally, and you get hung up in that “how do I get out of this conversation?” mode, which I always have never liked. We should respect people just walking the fuck away better if they get bored, not just in offices, but life, meaning I’d like to just walk away from this life and take a shot at what’s behind door #3.

Tuesday, April 25

SONG OF THE DAY: Nobody Loves Me

Gimme that old timey sad ass depressing message but hyper speed bluegrass. Let me lament no one loving me nor remembering me in as upbeat and crazed a way as possible. This is music for future ghosts.

Thursday, April 20

Wednesday, April 19

Monday, April 17

Sunday, April 16

W0RR13D 4B0VT 4PPR0V4L...

 worried about approval 
from others will always leave 
you lacking satisfaction 

Saturday, April 15

S0M3 F0LKS B4SK 1N 1GN0R4NC3...

some folks bask in ignorance 
and pretend it’s bliss; ain’t no 
Paradise City for fools 

Friday, April 14


when stripped down to my essence, 
no industrial purpose 
causes my heart to vibrate 

SONG OF THE DAY: Girls Can't Do What The Guys Do (kudzu'd)

If you’ve worked at a college or university in America, you’ve likely been blessed by working with an intelligent but under-degreed Black woman administrative assistant, as they are actually the glue that has held together America’s higher education system for at least the past couple decades. And if you’re not an asshole and have been able to build a relationship with that woman, in conversation – if you are lucky to be expressing some solid shit and not just talking about tv shows or something – you might get a, “I know that’s right.” This is the cultural counterweight to the far more resigned “it is what it is.” I’ve mostly heard gruff under-degreed white dudes saying the “it is what it is,” but I’m sure it’s far more cultural than that; but even so, it’s a sad sort of giving up and accepting that everything is fucked. It’s not necessarily negative, because you’re practicing acceptance, but it does have a certain doomed feeling to it. On the other side, “I know that’s right!” is a usually joyful proclamation that, yeah, that shit is true. It has more hope to it. Anyways, I work from home now, so nobody says shit to me, except in Zoom meetings, and I always remember to keep pretending to smile until I’m sure the camera is completely cut off, because I don’t need to be breaking kayfabe with these people and have them know I’m losing my mind over here pretending to care about this shit. Oh well, it is what it is, I guess.

41N'T N0 R1PT1D3S 1N R1V3R...

ain’t no riptides in river… 
think I’ll sit here and practice 
concentrating on nothing 

Thursday, April 13

34SY T0 F33L 0V3RWH3LM3D...

easy to feel overwhelmed - 
riptides of obligation 
can start to feel like choking 

Wednesday, April 12


I got a bootleg “edit” 45 of this recently, and man do I love a bootleg “edit”. Fuck copyright law and fuck intellectual property, especially with record labels when the actual artists usually don’t own shit. Anyways, this gained newfound popularity because it was in RZA’s mom’s record collection, so he looped the fuck out of it, as one did in the ‘90s when that Ensoniq 16 plus was calling your name from the basement when you were lying in bed at night.

Tuesday, April 11


ain’t nothing wrong with simple 
thinking, leading a simple 
life, keeping it to yourself 


domesticated outlaws 
swear they’re wild and wonderful, 
but it’s all performative 

Monday, April 10


My youngest is a Swiftie, and we got lucky enough (I guess) to get tickets for one of the upcoming shows. But being an annoying ass dad, can’t help but make playlists of songs that are the same title as a Taylor Swift song, but not Taylor Swift. They never fall for it, plus they only stream, and I’m an old fool from the old school that still relies on mp3s, which is also nice because we live in a rural dead zone, so they’re shit stops working sometimes, and I can be like, “WELL, I GUESS IT’S TIME FOR OL’ POPS TO PLAY DJ SCREW CHAPTER 046 SYRUP AND SODA!” It’s hard out here being the teen Swiftie born to a Screwy.

Sunday, April 9

Sunday Slowdown Chapter 005: Redbuds Poppin', Lounge Unlockin'

Another Sunday Slowdown for your spring vibes benefit, with another slowed down funk stroll through the back roads of both old and new jams. This one is dedicated to the redbuds. (Click the title for 2 hours of vibes.)

W3 0FT3N D3S1R3 3SC4P3...

we often desire escape, 
because what we’re doing ain’t 
living, in natural sense 

Saturday, April 8

W3'V3 PR0GR3SS3D 4S 4 CVLTVR3...

we’ve progressed as a culture 
where work has little meaning 
beyond keeping bills at bay 

Friday, April 7

SONG OF THE DAY: Electric Boogie/Break Dance

I can't breakdance worth a shit. Is it too late to learn? Perhaps not but it feels like it. Instead I shall rock electro rap jams at the wrong speed and shuffle around in my old slides while the cats look at me inquisitively. "Play the hand your dealt," like my pop taught me. But also cheat if you get to deal.

F1ND1NG 0N3'S 0WN PVRP0S3...

finding one’s own purpose 
easily gets lost behind 
trying to survive our days 

Thursday, April 6

SONG OF THE DAY: Hard Steppin' (kudzu'd)

I try not to dig too hard into the modern funk movement, or if I do, I try and do so with an open mind, because often times you find out the band is a bunch of white-appearing dudes from post-gentrification Brooklyn, or like based out of Finland. But at the same time, they often also try to put on their heroes from the past, and do so with full support and credit to those legends. So even though this particular music scene has a lot of what would be described as hipsters, it also has given new life to old, forgotten artists as well. I don’t know man, everything is always more nuanced and complicated that simple internet discourse can handle, and if folks are doing something they love with respect for those who came before them, it’s hard to get mad at. And I don’t know how to be part of a horn section, like at all, so I got no room to complain.

L00K 1NT0 4NYB0DY'S...

look into anybody’s 
eyes, and you’ll see their true 
focus (beneath the surface) 

Wednesday, April 5

WH3N 3X1ST3NC3 F33LS FVT1L3...

when existence feels futile, 
our streams of consciousness veer 
further into chaoses 

Tuesday, April 4

SONG OF THE DAY: Overflowing

Saw these guys play earlier this year, and had come out that show promising myself to practice love in my daily life. But then life got hectic and busy and unrelenting and I became exhausted. Struggled for a bit but getting back to my self now (thankfully), and trying to remember that despite all the negativity our poison culture feeds us, the world itself is usually pretty decent. I mean, it’s a lot of assholes out here, only motivated by their own wants, and they hide that narcissistic greed behind perversions of individual liberty, but fuck it man, I can’t fix them. And if I get to arguing with them, it’s like punching mud, and I just get stuck in that mud and life sucks and everything is horrible. Actually, I kinda noticed now that I’ve returned to fucking around on Twitter how negatively that affects my stream of consciousness. Like, I end up thinking about shit I never would’ve thought about if I just opened the window and sat there or chilled on the porch or walked down the road for an hour. Purposefully pushed into negative thinking by technological progress. People out here getting hung up on wild ass conspiracies that got zero chance of any truth to them, when the real conspiracy is right there in our hands.

3X1ST3NC3 1S 4 PR1S0N...

existence is a prison 
only for the physical 
self; the mind always wanders 


constitutions guaranteed 
natural rights meant less than 
what wealthiest men decreed 

Sunday, April 2

Sunday Slowdown Chapter 004: Fresh! From Out The Kudzu

Another lounger from your boy. 2 hours of 45s at 33 speed, fresh from out the kudzu behind my house. It's a magical place. (Click the title to rock it out.)

P4R4D1S3 W4S P0SS1BL3...

paradise was possible, 
but western thought destroyed it 
with industrial purpose 

Saturday, April 1

Friday, March 31

SONG OF THE DAY: Saturno 2000

I’ve seen a couple baseball jerseys that say CUMBIA which ultimately is a good idea. But also if you look it up, some minor league baseball team in Corpus Christi, Texas, changed their name to the Cumbias for a period last summer, to celebrate diversity but also to sell weird jerseys to dorks like me. Looks like folks have made bootleg CUMBIA baseball jerseys to look like the San Francisco Giants as well as the Dodgers, but sadly, I do not see a San Diego Padres City Connect neon vaporwave color scheme, but in away black instead of home white, with CUMBIA on it. Make that shit flannel too, so it’s thick and scratchy and I have to wonder to myself how they even found hot pink flannel material. I want it to be completely old school authentic as well as futuristic as fuck. But then don’t make it for sale on the internet, instead just let some weird ass old cumbia veterano or ruca make them, and distribute them like a bizarre Dungeon Master where they don’t even entertain you getting a jersey unless you can talk about Celso Piña but ultimately will start expecting you to know about Joaquín Bedoya. Anyways, I was once in love with a Colombian woman, as she was with me, but it was not meant to be, and when I listen to cumbia music, I dance joyfully, but there is melancholy within my motion.


natural selection trumped 
by the comfort of empire 
(even as it’s declining) 

Thursday, March 30

SONG OF THE DAY: Mala Suerte (kudzu'd)

Born to lose, but in Spanish, which is itself a blessing, to have bad luck in a language different than your first tongue. That means you have wandered from the flock and found adventure, or at least tried, which is always better than pulling your head into your shell and refusing to engage with the chaos the world deals as we all spin through space.
Also the Lebron Brothers are my favorite Lebrons. They are the greatest Lebrons of all time. It's not even close. (This is also NBA content.)

4LL T00 0FT3N, TH3 PVRP0S3...

all too often, the purpose 
we find was assigned to us 
by a manmade “higher” up 

Wednesday, March 29

SONG OF THE DAY: Every Day of the Week

When I was actually in the 1990s, I thought shit like this was wack, mostly because I was young and trying too hard. Now that I’m old, I love some of this stuff, because when you’re not trying so damn hard to be perfectly cool, you actually get to enjoy things. You know how they always say kids are growing up too fast? I wish young adults got old too fast, too, and we could shave off the hater years more easily, especially if life expectancy is going down. Ain’t time for hating ass years if you’re just gonna die quicker anyways.

T0 B3 HVM4N 1S T0 B3...

to be human is to be 
filled with questions as neurons 
fire off more seventh guesses 

Tuesday, March 28

SONG OF THE DAY: Let The Funk Flow (kudzu'd)

Have you considered the funk as your lord and savior? Have you considered by slowing the funk down, you make yourself more at one with the funk when it moves at a pace as slow as the actual kudzu coming back to life as the weather warms? These are important spiritual questions too many don’t bother pondering until at the precipice of death. At that point, it is too late for the funk to move you. (Don’t forget, “the funk not only moves, it re-moves.”)


punctured spirit blinds us to 
possible paradises 
every where on Earth 

Monday, March 27

SONG OF THE DAY: Daddy's Home

I listen to far too much old school soul like this for a guy that doesn’t own an ’83 Cutlass Supreme with a halfway decent purple paint scheme but bad wiring somewhere inside the dash that means sometimes it don’t wanna start. But then again, neither would I.

L1F3 C4N F33L L1K3 4 PR1S0N...

life can feel like a prison 
when our physical presence 
becomes too clenched, holding stress 

Sunday, March 26

Sunday Night Slowdown Chapter 003: Funky Country

Birthday mixtape for Boogie Brown aka Blue Globe Beats. Wandered through my country roots, but with a funky vibe, and hit some guardrail memorial anthems, as we do out here in rural VA. Click the link above to go to the mixcloud and rock the tape.


nobody is born perfect, 
and in fact we often times 
must unwind early traumas 

Saturday, March 25

0VR R04D M4P 0F 3X1ST3NC3...

our road map of existence 
etched into our flesh, by scar 
or scuff or scrape or ink stain 

Friday, March 24

SONG OF THE DAY: Ella Fue (She Was the One) (kudzu'd)

Slow everything down. Every Thing.
By the way, I have dropped a new 45 at 33 video on my youtube page every day of 2023 so far. Now by making this bold proclamation, I will likely fuck up this coming week one night. That's how things work. Go braggin' on yourself, and the universe smacks you back into place.


ancestral sediments can’t 
be absolved by the purchase 
of a new identity 

Thursday, March 23

SONG OF THE DAY: It's a New Day

I was looking for my Sun Ra poetry book to read his words over the next DJ Honeysuckle Vines mixtape, but I couldn’t find it (naturally) not because my house is a chaotic mess but because obviously it wasn’t the right time in the eyes of the Universe for me to read Sun Ra words over a loop of a slowed down breakbeat 45 of Vaughn Mason’s “Bounce, Rock, Skate, Roll”. The Universe has a way (The Way) of making things happen the way (The Way) they’re supposed to. But while I was looking, I got lost in this chain of thoughts about how Sun Ra always said “the days after the end of time” because Armageddon is only real if you’re attached to the way things are now. And then in my mind, right after that was Flavor Flav going, “Armageddon’s cold been in effect… go get your late pass.”
I talk at Southern Gothicc Futurist events about what southern gothicc futurism means, and a key foundation is how the south has brown (indigenous Americans), black (African heritage), and white (European heritage) in abundance living in proximity with each other which can recreate the old historical tradition of “tri-racial isolates” where those three heritages wandered off together and had communities separate from the colonial experiment. In fact, I got to thinking how even considering being white a heritage is a mistake, because anybody who is considered white had a heritage from before that, which likely had more ancient traditions than this 1950s housewife tradwive bullshit is. In order to become white, you have to abandon all other heritages and get bleached into the heritage-less tradition of consumerism, where you just buy new shit all the time to maintain your identity. And that’s the system we live under currently, but also it’s unsustainable as fuck, which is why they have police state trying to enforce us following it as closely as possible. And that’s the reality of this system, so you (if you are “white”) can’t sit in a room full of POC and say, “I’m not really white, I’m Celtic-American” or some shit. But you can (and should) commit race treason as often as possible when in circles of other white folks. Race treason is your obligation, in fact, as a good and decent human being.
Tri-racial isolates were mostly trying to hide out from the vengeful expansion of colonialism back in the day, basically just being like, “look, just leave us the fuck alone and let us be; we don’t want nothing to do with your shit.” I look forward to what’s next, after the end of times, to replace the unsustainable ways we currently consider normalcy, and how it will hopefully be a post-Apocalyptic form of tri-racial isolationism, where isolate means living with your corner of the world as opposed to globalism rather than purposefully hiding from anything else. An isolationism where you limit the greedy expansion of yourself is not a bad thing.
Anyways, these were my thoughts as I was rummaging around trying to find the Sun Ra poetry book I couldn’t find, which I know the Universe stashed somewhere just right for me to find later, like 9 mixtapes into the future, when it’s more important and necessary for me to be reading Sun Ra words over top that Vaughn Mason bootleg breakbeat 45. Hopefully, the “It’s a New Day” 45 I got will be here by then and I can throw that in the mix right after, and call the mixtape It’s a New Day. But maybe I won’t. It’s certainly a good anthem to slow down and refrain and loop and echo through a listening person’s mind as words of post-Apocalyptic encouragement to embrace continue walking into the future, but at a lackadaisical pace, so that you can look around and enjoy the walk more fully.

TH3 P3RP3TV4T10NS 0F...

the perpetuations of 
personhood we project in 
a plastic society 

Tuesday, March 21

SONG OF THE DAY: Skunk Funk Go-Go

Where I live is in the country, and there’s a sharp ass hairpin turn that descends pretty steep too, heading down to a bridge that got washed out in a flood in 1969, and being it’s country, it’s always either crazy rural fools flying through here, or rich folks who bought giant houses out in the country because it was cheaper and they’re not California or Northern Virginia rich, just Blue Ridge foothills dilapidated county rich. Anyways, I try to do a good bit of yard loungin’, so I watch the cars fly through, slow down, almost hit each other, sometimes for days on end, just pausing the sun in the sky by shoving a forsythia bush against it and holding it there, and enjoying the vibes. There’s an old tree cross the road in the not clearly owned clump of underbrush full of decades of litter, but some old boy from down the road keeps the grassy part cut. There used to be a birdhouse nailed up to it, but that came down (sadly), and there’s a hole in the tree that you can see now that birdhouse is gone. I got a nice small Bluetooth speaker that I like to charge up on really nice prop the sun up high days, and put the speaker in the tree hole, and load up my iphone 4s that I use as an ipod full of go-go music, and just bump that shit. It makes the hairpin curve even more enjoyable as drunk on life fools are forced to slow down, and their unmuffled machines quiet for a second to coast downhill through the curve, and there’s go-go music blasting from a tree at the edge of nothing. One day, one dude even circled back and looked again, then circled back his first direction again and stopped, looking out the window, trying to figure it out. I was just sitting there watching. I got to be worried he might get out to go find the speaker, but also if he did, I was just gonna yell, “Now, you know that was my speaker!” at him from up in the yard. Years ago, my boy found a nice baseball hat on the ground at a gas station, and picked it up to have, and some dude walked from across the other side of the parking lot and said, “Now, you know what was my hat!” I’ve always filed that one away to use later in life, because that shit was hilarious, but I never got a chance to use it yet. I thought that one snooping ass redneck dude in the Civic was gonna be my chance, but I guess he didn’t feel like climbing all the way up out that seat on deep recline. Anyways, I only play go-go music in the speaker in the tree in that hairpin country curve, because I’m blessed enough to live in the space where the fringes of Appalachia share a Venn diagram with the fringes of the Go-Go Belt.

Sunday, March 19

Sunday Night Slowdown Chapter 002: A Month Full of Sundays

A new Sunday Night Slowdown mix is out - A Month Full of Sundays. All 45s played at 33 speed, to increase the Power of Lounge. (Click the title above to play that bama.)

Tuesday, March 14

SONG OF THE DAY: Ego (Chopped Not Slopped)

Ego is still a too much thing. The Unabomber wrote that all the way back in the 12th Century, while studying technology at the House of Baghdad under Al-Khwarizmi. Shit’s still true.

Thursday, March 9

a heroic crown about the power of lounge

[All them previous freestyle sonnets made a heroic crown with their last lines, like magic...]
Overlooking how universe truly provides, 
chasing beguiled dreams of pyramid schemes of gold, 
ignoring ebb and flow lessons of lunar tides, 
indoctrination causing inside stranglehold. 

Outlaw minds don't do well with domestic guidelines, 
probably best practice to keep your bindle light 
while navigating these empirical declines. 
It’s best to follow signs the conscious mind can’t cite; 

fools entrust their brain to overcome lack of soul. 
Manmade world is riddled with manufactured sleights; 
meanwhile, this shiftless prole maintains his aimless stroll, 
enjoying the accumulated wild style sights  

as a natural born loser. I know the deal... 
my human roots ain't ragged but raw, rugged, real. 

a freestyle sonnet about being born to lose

As a natural born loser, I know the deal 
don't always be coming from above the table, 
so you gotta balance your math with what you feel 
at intuitive level, while still unable 

to control the game. Ain't no shame in being born 
without wealth or fame, struggling to simply survive 
the hand dealt with a next day's ante not yet torn 
from our worn out pockets. But, to remain alive, 

talking shit to the dealer is a type of win, 
unapologetic in our born skin - well-scarred, 
scuffed, with ink-stained testaments to a life of sin. 
"If they sleeping on you, tuck 'em in," disregard 

for the approval odds of them fine folks gold seal; 
my human roots ain't ragged but raw, rugged, real.

Wednesday, March 8

a freestyle sonnet about being truly forgotten (non-politically)

Enjoying the accumulated wild style sights 
of built up sediments in forgotten spaces 
the rat race has deemed useless; left for troglodytes 
like myself, forever cruising wasted places, 

tasting the grace of man and nature still shaking 
hands, knowing that people and the land is kinfolk. 
Sitting on discarded soapstone slab, sun baking, 
listening to my uncle the river invoke 

ancient tongues from before concrete sprung from the Earth 
in shady clusters. I've got no need for progress 
cemented in the delusions of abstract worth; 
y'all putting on collective airs, which more or less 

manufactures stress which our intestines all feel... 
as a natural born loser, I know the deal. 

a freestyle sonnet about walking back roads and finding old litter bottles to write poems on

Meanwhile, this shiftless prole maintains his aimless stroll 
through his whole little corner of world. Acquiring 
knowledge of each asphalt or gravel foot through sole 
after sole getting grounded in steps, admiring 

all that which tendrils around me, heart pounding thumps 
on steep inclines, which are common in these Blue Ridge 
foothills. Eyes scanning to find bottle dumps 
for diamond-dimpled wino trash, left to abridge 

the decades, left behind in the woods (like I hope 
to be one day). I got a pile of found old glass 
beside the house, to scrub, paint, and kaleidoscope 
my environment. Trash (not unlike my old ass) 

finds purpose. I walk, ignoring property rights, 
enjoying the accumulated wild style sights. 

Tuesday, March 7

SONG OF THE DAY: To The Beat Y'all

Lady B got a whole notebook full of women’s phone numbers, casually, on an old school song back in the early days of hip hop, and nobody even thought to question that shit. I think regular folks are far more tolerant than the culture wars brainwashes people into thinking (otherwise). Anyways, I got this shit on 45 out of a small old school box set that came out a while back, so I play it slow sometimes. It is the rare example of a song that I prefer regular speed, maybe… for now.

a freestyle sonnet about being a yard art freak

Manmade world is riddled with manufactured sleights 
of hand (and mind) designed to confound and entrap. 
I'm inclined to not give a fuck - the sounds and sights 
of half-abandoned happenstance entrance. The scrap 

and detritus of industrial purpose (less) 
decorates my simple existence; one man's trash 
becomes environmental blessings once the mess 
is rearranged to be physical balderdash - 

nonsensical contraptions spinning and clanging 
in the winds of change. Rebar clankyjangers bloom 
throughout my yard, greater Appalachian twanging 
of unseen Blue Ridge back road far from highway's zoom 

between far more important places to extol; 
meanwhile, this shiftless prole maintains his aimless stroll. 

a freestyle sonnet about the great pyramid scam we all live in

Fools entrust their brain to overcome lack of soul; 
neurologies of need get manipulated 
by advertisements to feed the greed of grand ol' 
partisans - those denizens of the gold-plated 

top tier elite of western civilization's 
pyramid scam, the foundations of which remains 
regular folks, crushed by crunched numbers, low stations 
ingrained in genetics to replicate  the pains 

of struggle in next generation (and beyond). 
Limited class mobility as the patents 
on wealth's nobility hidden behind junk bond 
called freedom. The top tier engineers combatants 

to be attacking each "other"... culture fights - 
manmade world is riddled with manufactured sleights. 

Monday, March 6

SONG OF THE DAY: Making Cash Money

I love a good “making cash money” song because I am, in fact, the opposite of this vibe. I’d guess the bulk of folks throughout the times of hip hop who have bumped songs about making cash money are of the same lot in life, and it’s one of those situations where we happily manifest the opposite of reality. It’s a great release that helps you forget how crushing an economic system we live in, which is even more so now with digital tracking and credit scores and shit that wasn’t even hitting as hard when this song first came out. We really did create one fucked up way of living here in America. Anyways, I could really use a magical influx of cash money; or I could use the end of this system we currently live in. I’d be good with either one to be honest. I think my escape the crushing conditions is more individualistic – the end of this horrible system would be collective. That’d be painful too, to navigate the transitions, but there’s no reason we can’t make catchy songs for that, too, to sing around the pallet fires at night together. Or we could just keep singing how we’re making cash money around the pallet fires. That’d be wonderfully dystopian, and actually happens already, in houseless camps everywhere. What an amazing country, lol.

Saturday, March 4

SONG OF THE DAY: The World (Is Going Up In Flames) (kudzu'd)

I've now got 5 different Sergio Tacchini track suits and 5 pairs of overalls covered in different patch motifs. This properly covers a month full of Sundays, for both warm and cold weather, even if I practice Sunday loungin' on Saturdays, Mondays, and the occasional Friday. Friday is usually its own vibe, and Thursdays are universally recognized as Little Fridays, and sometimes a nice Wednesday can feel like a Thursday, so a midget Little Friday, and the hope is for a week just like that, where you have Sunday (Saturday), Sunday (proper), Sunday (slowed weekend Monday), and then a Tuesday (playing the role of Monday in such a week), then midget Little Friday (Wednesday), Little Friday (Thursday), and Friday (proper). That's a good week when it's 3 Fridays, 3 Sundays, and a Monday sandwiched between so much lounge it's hard to even consider it a burden. One track suit is purple and one has lots of pink, and one patch motif overalls is purple and one is blue and one is green (on brown overalls), so really I got all the shit covered, for whatever color my aura is feeling that day, regardless of the emotional shitstorms being forecast my way by the unloungers who I'm forced to interact with due to the responsibilities that accumulate in a society such as our's. I'm saying all this because the world can feel horrible, but a big part of that is how the world conditions you to view it, like with a calendar. But nothing is enforced, and you can screw and chop your views of a calendar's boxes as much as necessary to keep it synchronized with the power of lounge. No society that ever became a civilization didn't not take itself too goddamned serious, and thus ruin all the lounge aka destroyed the possibility of a month full of Sundays by trying to justify a month full of Mondays. No right-minded, light-hearted human being actually trying to be a being by having all their habitual be's buzz towards the lighter side of life would ever want that. And yet civilization acts like that shit is normal. That's why I consider myself uncivilized, and also why my brown overalls with the orange patches smells like fire smoke because I been standing around the barrel fire a lot lately burning old worthless books and papers and yard debris. Those overalls match the fire barrel best, so that's why they smell like smoke now, good healthy fire smoke with traces of plastic and the smell of magazine dyes mixed in, not just straight up hardwood smoke like I heat my house that way, or cigarette smoke or nothing. Burn barrel smoke is its own perfect incense, and it sparks the power of lounge as well. Anyways, these are some thoughts as the world likes to act like it's going up in flames when actually it's spinning the same as ever, just with a lot more tiny lit-up screens. They can be distracting.

Friday, March 3

a freestyle sonnet subtweet to elon musk's bitch ass

It’s best to follow signs the conscious mind can’t cite, 
inviting intuition (which is oftentimes 
ancestral voices) to insert guidance to light 
right path through obstacles  of manmade math, which climbs 

into the back of our mind through conditioning - 
socialized to think civilized means most god-like. 
An egoistic mistake to make, fissioning 
human existence from all the rest with fire strike 

of neuronal delusions. Those before us know 
already since it was shown the hard way, so they 
speak to us still (if properly attuned), shadow 
knowledge imparted to those following the way 

of the whole, free of arrogant rigamarole; 
fools entrust their brain to overcome lack of soul. 

a freestyle sonnet about not knowing things

While navigating these empirical declines, 
obstacles become common as things fall apart. 
We haven’t gone back to start just because the shine’s 
worn off civilized arc; seems we’ve mistaken smart 

for acting without heart. We can’t recalibrate 
as we ain’t machines, but organisms living 
within larger scheme… nature itself and state 
of man aren’t at war; Earth is far more forgiving 

than given scientific credit for being. 
Body’s plasticity of silent self-repair’s 
eternal, in single cell microscope’s seeing, 
as well as whole of shared universal affairs. 

Our “intelligence” ain’t needed to make things right; 
it’s best to follow signs the conscious mind can’t cite. 

Thursday, March 2

SONG OF THE DAY: I'll Try Again

This song is pretty chill. I listen to a lot of shit like this tbh. Old uncle in the park shit is definitely more and more my vibe. Don't even want no noisy ass shit no more, just some fuckin' singing ass song from 1954 and sunshine and maybe a lemonade.

Wednesday, March 1


Internet still got wormholes galore. Got this track off a go-go comp, so I assumed everybody was from DC, forgetting from my own real life experience the go-go belt stretches down through Piedmont into North Carolina even. I thunk to myself this should be the Pied Piper of Buckingham, as in Buckingham County, Virginia – definite part of the go-go belt. Lo and behold, looking ol’ boy up online and it appears Pied Piper of Funkingham is a group based from somewhere in North Carolina, back in the go-go heyday, and released an album and single on Chocolate Cholly’s Records, suggesting they must’ve been from Gastonia area. This song is great, and then being on discogs means I’m now hoping I find some of these obscure ass 7” records from Chocolate Cholly’s Records in a junk shop somewhere. More importantly, the label is now on my radar, which is not actually radar at all but just a multiple-time concussed user of hallucinogenics heavily earlier in adulthood trying to remember awesome shit to find when digging through dusty assed storage crates of old 45s.