new book - LOOKIN' FOR A HOME

I released a new book a few weeks back called Lookin' For A Home, which is a selection of haiku I wrote over the course of 4-5 years on my patreon. These are the best of that patreon process, so it's an insight into my life from right after moving out of the house I'd had as a part of marriage for two decades, up through finding the house I'm currently blessed with in Schuyler, Virginia. Upon being accepted by this house, I realized it was the first time in my life I'd ever actually felt at home, in my entire life. That was a strange realization, but a good one to be on the positive end of it. I'm very proud of this book, as it's great insight into Southern Gothicc Futurism, life in the rural south, during the digital age, and growing older while trying to fight the doom settling into your bones as the failure demons circle.

You can buy it at Amazon, or from me in person at haiku slams or other Southern Gothicc Futurist events.

4W4R3N3SS 0F L4RG3R W0RLD...

awareness of larger world 
complicates the purity 
of internal processes 

SP34K1NG P03MS T0 G14NT...

speaking poems to giant 
hulks of metal, hovering 
all ‘round my one-man cipher 

SONG OF THE DAY: I've Been Searching

searching for something resembling meaning in this mundane 
rabbithole with the metaverse I landed in 
curse-blessed with consciousness 
attempting my absolute best to just vibe 
but so many electronics cloud existence 
leaving me feeling angry and down 
and full of resentment rather than 
excitement 
are there protonic devices as well 
which would boost my natural orgones 
and aid me in not running on 
deficit dopamine with diminishing 
returns as well as a more solid 
serotonin infusion 
from time to time 
to time to time 
perhaps the time part 
is root of the problem anyways 
limited ass existence 
complicated by existential crisis 
all the god damned time 
and yet still my dumb ass 
seeks 
searching for something 
that feels halfway okay 
in a world teetering on crooked axis 
dangling precariously over an 
imagined abyss 
which like the horizon never 
arrives 
on time 

C4RV1NG P03TRY 1NT0...

 carving poetry into 
rock faces where I live now - 
cold mountain meditations 

SONG OF THE DAY: Legs

VIDEO LINK

I have found my best stress response is to walk, preferably where there’s not a lot of human activity but with the detritus of civilization still around. Railroad tracks obviously are great for this, but so are back roads through dying towns. It’d be great to be walking ten miles a day, without all the time constraints of a job, and just scribbling the weird shit that comes into my mind on trains or notecards or tiny doll-sized dollar store composition books. Ideally, I’d even just be walking twenty miles a day, but not counting the miles either, just knowing I walked enough that it was probably that amount, composing scraps of poems in my mind, like a late American Taneda Santoka, or even a new school Vachal Lindsay. I mean, obviously I’d just be Raven Mack, not anybody else, and the fact I think I’d be a reflection of some earlier entity is probably why I’ll still honor my responsibilities of employment and financial obligation, and not walk off after the horizon. But that’s the ideal life. My legs would grow as big as ox, and I’d stick and poke tattoo my favorite poems on them, or maybe just freestyle poems onto my legs in those moments where I felt most attuned to the universal magnetics, slowly stick and poking the words into order. Yeah, that’s the dream right there.

new Workingman Book - LIFE IN CHAOTIC STATE... THEN SILENCE

So I dropped a new book called Life in Chaotic State... Then Silence, which is a collection of renga poetry I wrote in monthly batches on twitter. The feature renga was done October of 2018 during a three-week period where I rode the Amtrak from the east coast down south, out to California, had a week-long residency there, did a haiku slam in Oregon, then rode the [t]rain back through the upper midwest and Chicago, back down to Charlottesville. It's a pretty great book in my opinion, as are the other ones. All are available on Amazon, or from me in person.

MY 3NGL1SH 1SN'T P3RF3CT...

my English isn't perfect

but the woods always made sense;

that's why I write poetry

D41LY G4MBL3R4KV D0N3...

daily gambleraku done

in pocket composition

books for four years (and going)

DR34MS 0F B31NG 4 ST31NB3CK...

dreams of being a Steinbeck,

dreams of being a Rumi,

dreams of being an atom

twitter renga #0818

[twitter renga done one tanka at a time, 

at my @_raven_mack_ twit acct] 

one year after "bad 
people on both sides" comments, 
bad energies rise 

life in America feels 
more fascist than not most days 

I sit at bus stop 
right where people were beaten 
most days of the week 

walk through that intersection 
multiple times every week 

information shared 
through digital means is not 
real information 

educating yourself by 
clicking links is false knowledge 

then again, nothing's 
real; all's a conspiracy; 
life has no meaning 

grasping for explanations 
like drowning fingers at air 

already declared 
state of emergency for 
downtown Charlottesville 

one thousand geared-up cops shall 
arrive, but for what purpose? 

community on 
edge pushed closer to edge, with 
no explanation 

we're left to dwell on hearsay, 
rumors, and filtered info 

the past week felt more 
like a month to be honest - 
your boy's exhausted

proud of my community 
though, surviving together 

psychic exhaustion 
hard to sleep off - can't unsee 
stealth panopticon 

"sharing openly" online 
means self-snitching - DON'T FORGET 

community cares 
for themselves when/wherever 
institutions fail 

the quality of this care 
is also vastly improved 

world continuing 
to cave inward, withdrawing 
to only safe space 

withdrawn, and lacking support, 
navigating the darkness 

why are so many 
others' needs tethered to me? 
what about raven? 

how the fuck do I escape 
this heartless plough horse feeling? 

"it will get better" 
people assure, but nothing 
suggests this is true 

the tethers become further 
tangled, more complicated 

anxiety and 
anger, anxiety and 
anger... on repeat 

remind myself to breathe deep; 
one day I'll breathe red clay 

my inheritance 
is addiction, depression, 
and self-destruction 

the privilege to destroy 
self in unobserved margins 

how much of whiteness 
is feudal servitude to 
lords, and not brothers? 

I'd rather slit golden throats 
than bemoan broken borders 

el jefe es un 
bastardo, this has always 
been true, from day one 

his father is greed, thus none 
of us seen as his equal 

patriarchal hymns 
and western civ progresses 
sown into young minds 

those who take pride in settling 
are denying themselves growth 

a universe grows 
in ways antithetical 
to economics 

hoarding resources with armed 
fist is not actual growth 

fearmongerers might 
control the digital fog 
machines, but not me 

tear down all the fences and 
your "both sides" argument dies 

twitter renga #0718

[twitter renga done one tanka at a time 

at my @rojonekku twit acct, monthly] 

gonna stick-n-poke 
homemade tattoo "freebird 
guitar solo" soon 

probably on my leg, 
but maybe on my forehead 

gripped by loneliness, 
basement apartment full of 
craigslist furniture 

siren song of ethanol 
and opioids sings softly 

not lonely for sex - 
pointless thrashing of bodies 
in physical acts 

it feels so Sisyphean 
sometimes - weak serotonin 

I want the strong shit, 
the never come down shit, the 
"life's but a dream" shit 

desiring oblivion's 
comforting fog yet again 

too many humans 
occupying recurring 
roles in my life's fake 

lost in their own fog, likely, 
projecting their blinds on me 

fake motherfuckers 
in abundance in this late 
capital era 

very few brothers willing 
to get dirty if needed 

I write poetry 
utilizing tradition 
of obscurity 

long history of lost folks 
scribbling words into the void 

oral tales explode 
from voiceless hearts trained by fists 
to silence themselves 

just another piece of shit 
loser writing poetry 

never mastered this 
fine art outside of my own 
daily practices 

illegitimate arts grown 
beyond "real" institutions 

when I die, scatter 
my ashes on Rivanna 
line, mile 69 

let the detritus of me 
leech back into James River 

mixed with creosote, 
through glyphosate-laden corn 
fields, back to essence 

down James floating backwards through 
"western civilization" 

over falls above 
Richmond, where the James widens 
into fat river 

back down to Chesapeake Bay, 
dirtgod ashes now just sand 

reunited with 
primordial ocean, one 
drop in vast expanse 

individual mandate 
to exist finally gone 

what a blessed day to 
be freed from suffocating 
liberty ideals 

this myth blasted into brain 
through ceaseless propaganda 

parades of cosplay 
veterans and various 
police vehicles 

fire trucks throwing candy at 
children, sugar-coating the lies 

free flags and bibles, 
fifty stars, new testament, 
water's two dollars 

fuck this American myth, 
stab these fuckers in the face 

public pool full of 
poor choices in personal 
tattoos and diet 

jiggle ass in abundance - 
late stage capitalism 

love too make poorest 
choices possible; I seem 
gifted at it, too 

scatter my ashes when dead 
across Chinese buffet spread 

dirtgods born to die - 
ritual traditions of 
anonymity 

return essence to sender - 
worthless southern red clay mud 

writing poesy 
on my phone nobody will 
ever read - birdseed 

Columbus discoveries 
require Columbus, not land 

never be no arts 
elite - illegitimate 
like most my cousins 

"real" writers and artists are 
often propped up by own wealth  

love too all losers 
doing art as survival - vast 
galleries of doomed 

our marks never gain value, 
but they heal poison culture 

love too sow words 
in scattered garden plots, real 
life and digital 

whether they blossom or bear 
fruit is up to them, not me 

owning your own thoughts - 
intellectual property - 
that's some weird ass shit 

explosions of nonsense in 
your head can't be colonized 

love too be busy 
exploring territories 
further and wilder 

a universe inside just 
like outside - no time for flags 

copy right or wrong, 
compelled at basic level 
to compose this prose 

can't help it, and in fact feel 
like dying when it's stifled 

digital designed 
to distract innate divine 
desire to create 

chasing outside dopamine 
when it's inside all along 

bought an Alpha Smart 
battery operated 
word processor thing 

no net to trap me, I sit 
on public benches, pecking 

am I "alpha smart"? 
not likely - intelligence 
is a test, a cop 

think of the assholes who say 
"gathering intelligence" 

I'm a simple mark, 
sitting here believing in 
American myths 

"I could still be succesful!" 
I think, when already am 

meritocracy 
mark, politely behaving, 
calling boss "mister" 

also accumulating 
machetes because you know 

guillotine memes shared 
are funny, but how many 
of y'all got the guts? 

when actual heads get lopped 
off, you gonna turn away? 

the human darkness 
we're about to enter will 
not be all for lulz 

the eyes of those who cannot 
unsee what they've seen - piercing 

hyper-awareness, 
every man in passing is 
a possible threat 

weapons stashed throughout daily 
path, identified, reckoned 

machetes, milk crates, 
and tarps - a solid start 
to surviving shit 

I will accumulate all 
three whenever possible 

kukri machete 
currently my favorite, 
but bolo's strong too 

traditional latinx 
version's cheap and abundant 

machetes, milk crates, 
and tarps... machetes, milk crates, 
and tarps - the staples 

set up, organize, defend 
camp, against all invaders 

metaphysical 
invaders are abundant, 
serpents posting hiss 

they apply judgment from their 
comfortable precipice 

serpents slithering, 
wearing manskins, whispering 
promises of more 

I keep my hatchet handy, 
and barefeet away from mouth 

snakes eating own tales 
of merit and hard work and 
so exceptional 

I desire to disappear 
far more than any career 

wanting a bigger 
piece of the pyrite, been tricked 
by devil hisses 

declaring bankruptcy 
of system's morality 

stick and poke circles 
around my gutted torso, 
with stars on my legs 

stick and poke meditations, 
an hour or so every day 

stick and poke the pain 
away with my trash culture 
acupuncture acts 

green splotch codex unfurling 
slowly across wrecked body 

twitter renga #0618

[twitter renga done one tanka at a time 

at my @rojonekku twit acct, monthly] 

wonder "is this real?" 
all too often lately; life's 
a strange clusterfuck 

continue the fuck forward, 
without an ultimate point 

no purpose to life - 
that's not nihilist's cop-out, 
but life's still simple 

it's not a game to be won; 
there's no movie-like ending 

each day is a chance 
to either let life straddle 
your face pleasantly 

or squeeze your heart with tension; 
I shoot for serotonin 

too poor for hobbies 
other than writing nonsense 
and also fucking 

both boost positive chemflows 
into internal jihad 

more poetry should 
be for the broken and bruised, 
less for the bricked in 

embossed masters of fine art 
delude themselves for most part 

give me poetry 
written by dirtbags hiding 
out in bathroom stalls 

give me poetry written 
while riding the bus nowhere 

give me poetry 
grounded in taking each step 
with actual feet 

feeling each crack in sidewalks 
never seen from above clouds 

I walk to work now, 
when motivated; riding 
the bus when I'm not 

sharing space with parolees, 
homeless, crows, life's slow rollers 

I'd disappear if 
I could afford to, stealing 
moments back from work 

embezzling minutes for self 
I owe system by design 

could you miss a day 
of work, without pay, and still 
survive? week? month? year? 

look forward to retiring, 
six feet down, back into Earth 

"thank god it's Friday!" 
except there is no Friday, 
just more part-time work 

stitching multiple paychecks 
into insecurity 

"save more and spend less" 
assumes level of income 
without discretion 

"float a check for groceries" - 
computers killed my #protip 

like my bio says: 
Raven Mack is forever 
doomed to be zero 

my math: zero times zero 
times zero equals zero 

my math always fails; 
by payday, always full of 
negativity 

insufficient funds, also 
insufficient hope - fuck it 

my emptiness full, 
my foolishness reckless yet 
refined, slowed by years 

crank bumps distant memory, 
I wake up already tired 

don't wanna be young 
again - value the knowledge 
all these scars gave me 

life's a maze - if you get stuck, 
fuck it, shortcut underground 

disappearance should 
never be removed from list 
of real life options 

the maze is complicated 
by design - do not get trapped 

easier said than 
done - responsibilities 
chains accumulate 

you'll find yourself weighed down by 
the untenable mundane 

not much actual 
life left to this concept of 
"making a living" 

though I may die, can't wait for 
this trick system to collapse 

freedom is just an 
other word for marketing 
slow death to dumb marks 

wave our little meaningless 
flags madly at each other 

nationalism - 
cartographer's science gone 
horribly astray 

yet I love Blue Ridge mountains - 
skinny thicc and succulent 

twitter renga #0518

[twitter renga done one tanka at a time 

at my @rojonekku twit acct, monthly; 

lol only one tanka in May]

halfway through the month,
and have yet to begin a
fresh twitter renga

life's been mad complicated...
art becomes secondary

twitter renga #0418

[twitter renga done one tanka at a time,

at my @rojonekku twit acct, monthly]

blossoming afresh
like the redbuds - raven mack
the dirtgod's next phase

stability is a myth
at best; I cuddle with change

me and change curled up
like honeysuckle vine on
old barbed wire fences

dirtgod life theories feral
in nature, and IRL

change's seductive
siren song says "disappear
west, then south, then east"

change whispers promises of
una vida nueva

transitions into
next phases lack actual
defining moment

there is no line in the sand
as life metamorphoses

metamorphosis
of unseen metaphysics
only felt in heart

foolish philosophy of
science - all can be broke down

that "bend but don't break"
flexible philosophy
doesn't always work

born broke, still struggle, zero
safety net, no time to dream

dating app swipes right
on progressive privileged
women with bright smiles

generally left behind
by them, online, in real life

my type is cookout,
not brunch; mustard greens, not kale;
with it, not with her

expensive well-planned tattoos
sure sign we don't really match

broke ass genetics
predisposed to embrace doom - 
self-medication

drunk dad said "quitters never 
win and winners never quit"

civilization's
not real progress from simple
caveman times (it seems)

"progress" assumes a purpose
exists for people as whole

if no collective
purpose, why should I assume
singular purpose?

sobriety suggests I
should be progressing... to where?

craving opioid
stratocumulus escape
from bleakest landscape

the light on the horizon
keeps moving further away

no blessings to be
found, each day seems a bigger
shitstorm than before

what am I doing wrong here?
what lesson do I ignore?

got given a car
with sunroof, even when cold
mostly kept open

when the outside is inside,
that's a natural blessing

'bout to go outside,
see what's poppin' with all the
fresh redbud blossoms

playing dominoes with crows,
freestyling feral fool flows

sitting in back yard
I'll soon enough abandon -
melancholy breeze

airplanes flicker like lightning
bugs in lower atmosphere

nearly two decades
spent accumulating an
artist's aesthetic

pack in boxes since someone
else's identity changed

angry children in
next room watching another
shit redbox movie

I stare at the wasp making
drunken circles overhead

no women want me,
no real friends able to step
out their comfort zone

in a world full of bitches,
left alone, played the fuck out

should've known better
than to trust motherfuckers,
or believe in dreams

suckers are born everyday;
I certainly did my part

another day means
already convinced myself
to keep on trying

strange hotel room with two beds,
pretending all is intact

desire acceptance
so badly due to that ol'
inner-child bullshit

"little raven, chill the fuck
out," deep breaths telling trauma

many got it worse,
and those that have it better
likely pretending

"to exist is to suffer"
said stoner tramp named Booda

met Booda outside
the Columbus, Ohio,
Greyhound station, drunk

he was drunk on wine; I was
drunk on traveling strange paths

drunken universe
unfolds supreme mathematics
along strange spirals

I ain't complaining - just sit
back and enjoy Earthly ride

sobriety feels
like a mistake on Friday
nights lacking purpose

fine line between pointlessness
and hopelessness - I'm straddling

also wavering...
life as I knew it falling
apart in hard ways

all our life's stability
is nothing but sand castles

me first selfishness
camouflaged in earthy words
which lack backing acts

my needs are secondary,
and likely always have been

the naivete
to think "it'll work out" since
you always get help

as if privilege is the
universe blessing your acts

twitter renga #0318

[twitter renga done one tanka at a time

at my @rojonekku twit acct, monthly] 

failure demons spring
forth from dysfunctional mind
steeped in hopelessness

sown seeds decades, still no fruit;
perhaps my path is poison

the horizon keeps
moving further and further
away; and I'm tired

"sleep is the cousin of death"
cursive letter chest tattoo

futile swiping right
on dating apps for cursive
letter chest tattoos

love women who's making poor
choices at lifetime level

"only god can judge
me" - not even then though, we're
both consensual

priceline express deal hotel
room smelling like feral love

rental car smelling
like fried chicken gizzards from
random country store

contemplating bad tattoos
together - a crow dragon

ended up getting
"CURSIVE WRITING" but done in
old English letters

on my neck line from behind,
can be covered by collar

she got "OLDE ENGLISH"
in cursive writing tattooed
on fleshy left breast

obviously, I'm in love;
guess we'll drive further westward

wild and wonderful
promise of deep southern West
Virginia awaits

let us disappear, and build
fresh chaos, elsewhere, for now

responsible life
has death grip around my throat...
struggling, but choking

the right thing is a shackle
which keeps me in line, like corn

psychic slavery
born from meritocracy
myths sown early on

justice remains a social
construct, never seen in wild

social bankruptcy - 
I declare myself free from
these devils with fire

the smell of burning bridges
makes my dick hard to this day

perhaps not enough
burned bridges to be honest; 
bitches closing in

sulfur keeps fake asses at
psychic arm's length, maybe more

most people fake as
fuck, selfish, yet personal
brand as most righteous

fuck y'all fake motherfuckers
FUCK Y'ALL FAKE MOTHERFUCKERS

no love for dirtgod - 
my natural shine given
nothing but skidmarks

folks who think the world's gone to
shit must be new to losing

laid in hotel room
half the day, afraid to leave,
afraid to still live

went for walk tonight - so much
wealth... where does it all come from?

they've enslaved palm trees
down here, forced into single
file between wide lanes

the grass manicured tightly
as proud cop's shitty haircut

back home, they've enslaved
spirit, planting wild dirtgod
in cubicle bed

or perhaps cubicle grave...
"work sets you free" it's been said

Monday afternoon
just before 2 - first thoughts of
"my job sucks" this week

no progress to be made, just
looping through same old circles

meetings to discuss
meetings where we'll finally
decide what to do

decisions tabled for now
'til further meetings are held

working within this
immense bureaucracy like
building sandcastles

artistic purpose ignored
for "being responsible"

fuck all your fake ass
responsibility fears - 
it's a goddamned lie

my dumb ass gonna be dead
one day, wasted most my life

send psilocybin, 
fat asses in stretch pants, tape
decks banging that Screw

send sunshine and bad tattoos,
please send the Power of Lounge

warm day with promise
of spring, promise of rebirth,
promise of real lounge

this life I'm in feels like trap,
gamecock confined to a cage

domesticated
beyond the abilities
of my genetics

too feral for sitting still,
too wild to not burn bridges

sitting in sedan
air freshener crisp, but hands
smell like gasoline

open the sunroof and let
all fucks given blow away

ya boy the dirtgod
tired of a lotta people's
bullshit fake ass ways

surrounded by these human
facades, pretending they real

the algorithm
ignores "real recognize real"
self-meditations

people think algorithms
are as real as rain today

within limited
scope of this electronic
power gridlock? sure

but there's a much larger world
where data metrics don't help

I'm not no fucking
machine; I'm not no fucking
computer either

perfectly imperfect man,
stumbling through shit existence