RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Monday, February 27

a freestyle sonnet about sitting outside without no screens other than my eyeballs

Indoctrination causing inside stranglehold, 
been indoors too much lately, four walls closing in 
with clutter and dust, rust never sleeps, and this cold 
world don't give half a fuck how I'm feeling it spin. 

When it gets like this, I revert to country state 
of mind, find time for shade tree recline, practice vice 
of deviseless moments, refuse to suffocate, 
mind roaming, zero bars block views of Paradise 

City above - blue skies full of silver linings 
to feel even if I can't touch... truth can't ever 
be cobra clutched by angry hands. Intertwinings 
of hopes (prayers) and stars (creator) will sever 

feelings of lostness, too long inside square confines. 
Outlaw minds don't do well with domestic guidelines. 

Sunday, February 26

SONG OF THE DAY: Forgive Them Oh God Amin-Amin

You could not possibly inject enough Muslim Funk into my soul. Wish I could find my amethyst beaded tasbih beads my eldest made for me that got lost somewhere on my wayward wanders forgetting to focus on seeking truth rather than material comforts. I am confident it’s “around here somewhere” but that somewhere has yet to reveal itself, perhaps because I’m not in the right mind frame or heart space just yet. Thus, I say again, with even more urgency, you could not possibly inject enough Muslim Funk into my soul.

Saturday, February 25

SONG OF THE DAY: Rump Shaker (kudzu'd)

Was walking down the road yesterday, and saw a whole ass frying pan in the ditch. The back roads of this area are well known for their historical litter, and in fact I’m always watching the sides of the road for newly appeared glass bottles of yesteryear that may have resurfaced by whatever random magic the universe uses in such matters. So that’s how I even saw the frying pan buried in a ditch, not a cast iron joint but not a small one either. Made me wonder, how the fuck do you end up being a frying pan thrown out the window of a moving vehicle? Like, what’s that whole story? It was dirty with grease so it had been used for cooking prior to getting tossed, I’m guessing. What got made? Was it horrible? Is that why it got tossed into a ditch? Or did the non-stick not non-stick no more? But even then, why did somebody drive down the road and throw it out the window? Maybe it started further in the woods and sort of meandered its way down to the ditch. They just cleared some brush along the power lines late last summer, and been doing a lot of weird infrastructure work, hauling red clay dirt from somewhere down the road to elsewhere far away. Could’ve gotten turned up in all that for all I know. But I found the frying pan in the ditch wildly interesting. Not enough to pick it up though, just left it there, so I can keep passing it and keep wondering. Wonder is important in our lives, far more important than imposed order to be honest.

Friday, February 24

SONG OF THE DAY: All Night Long (Waterbed)

I was listening to this song a whole lot last month, and it got me really wondering why I hadn’t considered having a waterbed in this year of our prophet 1444. They still exist, but they are not cheap (but what is to be honest), and look like one of those things that you gotta have a good criminal flow of money in order to actually set a space up with one, or else limit yourself to renting a waterbed room from time to time when you want to pretend you’re ballin’. Capitalism sucks man, I just wanna sleep well.

a freestyle sonnet about financial castles made of sand

Ignoring ebb and flow lessons of lunar tides, 
built myself shelter from a castle made of sand. 
The best laid plans of both mice and men often slides 
into chaos theory's proofs of far larger grand 

designs unknown by us apes powered by skull bone 
contents. Our inhumane confidence far exceeds 
examples shown historically, atoms blown 
apart to see what happens. Our ignorance breeds 

an internal artificial intelligence, 
planting flags along fence lines erected with fear. 
I try my best to not worship dead presidents, 
but cash rules everything around me... austere 

living seen as personal failure sevenfold. 
Indoctrination causing inside stranglehold. 

Thursday, February 23


This motherfucker singing to his shoes. That woman got his head all twisted.

a freestyle sonnet about hearing an inner monologue in Ronnie Van Zandt's singing voice

Chasing beguiled dreams of pyramid schemes of gold, 
Lynyrd Skynyrd Freebird guitar solos played slow, 
chopped and screwed interlude before Simple Man told 
of the dangers of material lust... man's woe 

manufactured by industrial fallacies. 
I'm no machine, created imperfectly by 
magical universe from distant galaxies' 
stardust, all our ancestral guides buried in sky 

raining down with metaphysical guiding hands. 
Ain't no sense in dividing lands or divining 
scientific dominion to deduce demands 
from our own deluded minds. We been designing 

our own heaven and hell with inner-demon guides, 
ignoring ebb and flow lessons of lunar tides. 

Wednesday, February 22

SONG OF THE DAY: Can I Call You Rose?

Played this song a stupid amount of times before seeing Thee Sacred Souls play last month, so everybody around me might've gotten sick of it. Show was great, though it did feel stupid that 45s were more expensive at the show than direct from the band's label online. I mean, I wanna help the group be on the road and shit, but you already got my ticket money, why is it just general practice to mark up merch too? I guess it might be a split with the venue or some shit, but whatever it is, I ain't got it like that, y'all. Work shit on all y'all's end first. Also, I ordered the Penrose pack of five love songs 45s that came out on Valentines, because it had "Future Lover" (one of my favorite songs of Thee Sacred Souls album), plus Jonny Benavidez, plus Los Yesterdays (who always slam). But then it got here and it was colored vinyl. Shit bummed me out, to be honest. At this point, I associate colored vinyl with the active gentrification of any part of the American Earth anybody with money wants to live, so just by playing these colored vinyl 45s, I'm afraid I'm shutting down an authentic strip mall joint that's got stone bowl bibimbap to be replaced by a *fusion* restaurant with $18 chicken wings. JUST GIVE ME BLACK FUCKING VINYL PLEASE, UNTIL THE DAY I DIE. I OPT OUT OF ALL SPECIAL EDITIONS LIMITED RELEASE COLOR VERSIONS, FOREVER.
Anyways, this is still a great love song, and we all need more love, and love songs, and long slow Sunday afternoon rides in a car that may actually overheat due to the radiator being half fucked up if you didn't purposefully drive so slow.

a freestyle sonnet about Sisyphus wishing for a cuban link gold chain

[I guess I am writing freestyle sonnets as this month's daily practice rather than putting up gambleraku with pictures. We shall likely weave these into a heroic crown.]

Overlooking how universe truly provides 
encouragement through magnetic charges unseen 
seems to be malpractice of thought as man abides 
stream of conscience, chasing siren song of machine, 

believing we can be more efficient being. 
But to what end? How do I benefit from these 
Sisyphean dreams which seem to be less than freeing, 
and impact my innate chill with negative squeeze 

of anxieties, panic, depression, and more... 
smorgasbord of worry, hustling with hurry, which 
tinges each day with lack of presence. Constant war 
against manmade economic riptides enrich 

no struggling souls with real happiness to behold, 
chasing beguiled dreams of pyramid schemes of gold. 

Tuesday, February 21

SONG OF THE DAY: Kudala Sithandana

Let’s occupy the abandoned K-Mart and turn it into an international flea market and have DJs set up in the parking lot on Saturday afternoons. I know I know, it’s too close to Whole Foods and the scrunchfaces will call in the authorities who will exercise their authority and ruin the good times for the good people who don’t have the good luck to be god blessed in this American experiment.

a freestyle sonnet about the blank gaze of the comfortable

My human roots ain't ragged but raw, rugged, real. 
Them with the blank gaze of refined days expect ways 
that ain't steeped in the muck of maintaining piecemeal 
existence - subsistence while navigating maze 

of metamodern civilized traps laid around 
like psychic land mines, which a poor man finds with ease. 
Those with eyes glazed by lazy dreams realized and found 
beneath the shade born wealth provides believe degrees 

of separation are merit, proofs of true worth, 
rather than segregation of class by design. 
Divine creation ain't create castes upon birth - 
that's manmade perversion... these delusions of bloodline 

grandeur, to blur all things equal to great divides, 
overlooking how universe truly provides. 

Monday, February 20

SONG OF THE DAY: Nobody's Clown (kudzu'd)

This has been heavy rotation the past six months around the dirtgod compound, both the regular speed and kudzu’d version. Such a great track. Regular speed is dope, most definitely, but slowed down it’s straight up windows down flying down a back road to nowhere type Friday afternoon when you ain’t got no work banger. I rank it five out of five burn barrels (meaning you got all five of them going at once).

TH3 W0RLD W3'V3 BV1LT 41N'T M4D3 F0R...

the world we’ve built ain’t made for 
comfort, or peace of mind; I 
can only control myself 

Sunday, February 19

Sunday Night Slowdown Chapter 001: Purple Crocuses

I guess I didn't technically get booted off the radio for playing slowed music, because they did offer my old middle of the night time slot so that nobody could actually hear me locally. But for all intents and purposes, I got booted from the radio for playing slowed music. That's okay. I got a mixcloud, and will continue to rock out, with this new Sunday Night Slowdowns series, dedicated to slowed music and slowed living. Might not be weekly, but might be, but probably won't. I ain't making no rules for it.

N0 0N3 3V3R 0VTRVNS TH31R...

no one ever outruns their 
own internal chaoses - 
fix what you can, or find peace 

Saturday, February 18

Friday, February 17


outlets without gatekeepers 
allow for free expression 
of internal life turmoil 


all that which ties us down has 
less power than we realize 
(though it feels overwhelming) 

Thursday, February 16

SONG OF THE DAY: Hombre Del Rio

A little chicha-style cumbia to lighten the mood. What mood? All of them. I've gone dark from social media (which means you most likely no longer realize this exists, but it very much still does). But I'm still here (even though you won't know it, unless you do because you are already here by other means). Rerouting my lifestyle.


always burn bridges before 
you feel like jumping off them - 
lighten your own psychic load 

W3 4R3 0NLY GV4R4NT33D...

we are only guaranteed 
this one existence (from what 
we know); no need for squander 

Monday, February 13

SONG OF THE DAY: Riding High (kudzu'd)

One of my favorite 45s to play slowed down. Wish I had 9 copies of it. This track got sampled a lot, most famously by EPMD probably, and showed up on a couple DJ Screw tapes too. Screw tapes, as they got digitized, often got mislabeled, so the most common versions of this track of a Screw tape are credited to Rick James. But it’s a group called Faze-O, who was almost like The Ohio Players B-team. I always make fun of the state of Ohio (for good reason), but man, it’s actually pretty crazy the funk history of Dayton. The Ohio Players, Faze-O, Zapp, Slave, Lakeside… all from Dayton. If you took that collection of groups out of hip hop sampling history, you’ve changed it immensely, especially the west coast sound. All out of Dayton? Ohio? That’s wild.

4LL 0VR "3NDS" 4R3 SYMB0L1C...

all our “ends” are symbolic - 
even life’s finality 
ultimately ain’t final 

Sunday, February 12

Saturday, February 11


a person’s best and worst selves 
cohabitate heart and brain, 
congressing as mindfulness 

Friday, February 10

SONG OF THE DAY: Sitting in the Park (kudzu'd)



recognized by word patterns 
representing who I am - 
but it’s all temporary 


wander the wasteland’s edges 
and ponder the pointlessness 
of chasing your false purpose 

Thursday, February 9

SONG OF THE DAY: My Place, My Time

The world is feeling triflin’ today, so I’m just keeping it slow and easy, taking deep breaths, know that spring is right around the corner, and you can’t ever convince natural born haters to not hate. Their heart is clogged with unlounge. It must be miserable to be like that to be honest. But I got no time for empathy today, because y’all are stifling my vibes; so I’m sitting in the yard watching the clankyjangers spin. FYIFYFMF.


celebrate simplicity, 
embrace the traditions from 
before “modern tradition” 


drowning in the clutter of 
consumptive identity, 
purchasing an existence 

Wednesday, February 8

SONG OF THE DAY: Che Che Cole (kudzu'd)

I got this mostly dope book the other day called Boogie Down Predictions, but there was a chapter on DJ Screw’s whole movement, which I’d gotten excited about seeing in the table of contents, but ended up incredibly disappointed. The whole thing was written in hard academia style, which is great for academia but doesn’t really translate all that easily to normal people. Too many big ass words all for the sake of being big ass word usage. Folks struggling to still pay last month’s rent don’t have a lot of time for shit like that. Mostly, when I finished the chapter, I thought it could’ve used more Big Moe flows on it. Like just explain your whole idea, in your academic ass overwordy way, in detail to Big Moe, then let him flow for about 32 lines over an instrumental and explain it better than you. That should be how we peer review things to be honest. This is my thesis, because I am Professor Lounge (Ph.D. in Fuck That Shit).


material lust will cloud 
an outlook with negative 
horizons, every time 

Tuesday, February 7

SONG OF THE DAY: Rolling Stoner

I didn’t know until I just looked up Yaya Bey to write about this song that she was the daughter of Grand Daddy I.U. of The Juice Crew. I am so old that boom bap figures have grown ass children making songs I listen to now. Also, what the fuck, he died in December? The internet is great for helping me find out some music I was listening to is related to a guy I kinda remember from back in the day, who also just passed. Life is precious; the internet is a distraction.

Monday, February 6

SONG OF THE DAY: Can't Stay Away (kudzu'd)

Coming back to all the worst forms of digital engagement, due to the MSE (Myself Serotonin Egotisticate) embedded within, delete and deactivate but the urge don’t stop, can’t suppress it. We give tiny human beings access to this shit, and expect them to think clearly enough to exist in some sort of utopian aspirational state. The psychological triggers we claim our western civilization is built upon, freely and fairly, is actually execution style shots to our own neurological makeup. I ain’t no different – no better, no worse… just another hue-man be-ing, fucking around chasing those dopamine doses in increasing values, like Sisyphus but with regards to internal chemistries, pushing them buttons up the same fuckin’ metaphorical hill every damn day, and end up right where I started. All you can really do is waste enough time in the endless addiction that you don’t have to manually refresh the cyberfeeds and it does it automatically and you can just sup the 0s and 1s until death swallows you.


natural born losers will 
never feel accepted as 
winner without compromise 

Saturday, February 4

Friday, February 3

Thursday, February 2

"S0 34SY T0 G3T L0ST" C4N...

“so easy to get lost” can 
be a blessing or a curse… 
change path when necessary 

Wednesday, February 1


Not sure how but I guess I’m a track suit when it’s warm, oldies type guy now. What the fuck? Still ain’t got no Cadillac though.

4W4R3N3SS 0F L4RG3R W0RLD...

awareness of larger world 
complicates the purity 
of internal processes