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, 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.

a freestyle sonnet about Sisyphus flipping the script

Probably best practice to keep your bindle light, 
as this world pretends to be far heavier than 
it really is; unreal expectations ghostwrite 
failure. Attempting to remain a simple man 

amidst a maze of complications is work worth 
doing (which I don’t say all that often). All needs 
are easily provided when treading the Earth 
lightheartedly, scattering good nature like seeds. 

Picture Sisyphus pushing a feather instead 
of stone, all his failure demons told to go home; 
civilized progress is a blaspheme breeding dread. 
A hewn man’s thoughts and feet were always meant to roam, 

but we staked claims to whole world, which became confines 
while navigating these empirical declines. 

a freestyle sonnet about being hype about drawing the fool card (again)

Outlaw minds don't do well with domestic guidelines; 
rules made by rulers blind to mindframe of dancing 
fool carrying worries in small bindle. Sun shines 
on other side of darkest storm clouds advancing 

in worst times. But end times are a myth engineered 
to manufacture fear and loathing inside brain. 
Gut intuition remains hopeful despite smeared 
futures stained with weak visions hoping to sustain 

insane, self-destructive existence. Knees weren’t made 
for walking on… feet was, so cast a prayer but 
keep it moving, and get going - the past is staid, 
and living there leaves one rather weighed down with what 

can’t be replicated now… that’s the true fool’s plight; 
probably best practice to keep your bindle light.