SONG OF THE DAY: Shoes

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

SONG OF THE DAY: Tip On In (Part 1)

Motherfuckers don't say "sock it to me, baby" nearly as often as they should anymore. And yet people still say "motherfuckers" all the time. Like me. I am the people, and also problematic af still. Part of being people is being problematic. If somebody's perfect, they ain't real people. And there's a lot of that type around. Motherfuckers.

SONG OF THE DAY: Elephant Pants

I try to write the things for the songs but it feels useless. Everything is channeled into social mediums now, and those also feel hollow and dull, like a drum with a torn head, or driver side door speaker in aging vehicle that is blown out, and if you can’t fix the clutch no way you’re gonna fix the stereo, so you ride it out. That is the internet right now – riding it out until it dies, or somebody gives you a new one.

Try to write my thoughts to share here but it feels useless as do people still read? Is reading a privilege at this point? Even now, today, co-worker asked me “do you listen to podcasts?” as if this was intelligentsia in the today world, because she drove from Ohio to here and listened to a crime podcast. I don’t know y’all, everything feels fucked and all I’m interested in is scattering art, and at one point this method of scattering art was fulfilling (using the internet, on this very site, to the tune of thousands of posts, as is the case) but now it feels performative and like a waste of time. The drumhead has been torn. The door side door speaker is blown, but nobody has given me a new ride, so I’m still pumping out the hits in this thing where the bass is warbled fuzz and nobody gives a fuck. These are dark times of being told a void is not a void so we all scream into the void, never hearing each other because we are all screaming so loud ourselves, hoping to hear ourselves reverberate back from someone else, but it doesn’t happen. The diminishing returns of intellectual property in the colonial experiment called America.

They shot teargas across the border and folks are shocked at Trumpian America, as if Obama America didn’t hose down Standing Rock protesters, and as if Clinton wouldn’t have turned away this migrant caravan as well, albeit probably in a less heavy-handed way, although one never knows. These are selfish and crude beasts who are in charge of the empire’s coffers, and they don’t give a fuck about regular people any more. And this holiday season is more about you and I spending money on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, forever, than anything else. I have no money though. The metaphor of the blown speaker and failing clutch is no metaphor. The diminishing returns of class transition are closing in. There’s no inherited wealth to bail me out, only me, and I am fine, but also I am doomed.

Wonderful art comes from being fine but doomed. I looked at wonderful art this weekend and am hoping to channel myself into inspired over the course of the coming hours. I don’t share that stuff here as much. It is useless. We all know that, but we are pretending otherwise, that this is a wonderful means of staying engaged, instead of fogged out and distorted of view.

P30PL3 WH0 TRVST C0PS 4LS0...

people who trust cops also

trust politics; guess they get

returns on their investment

R04D 4H34D C0MPL1C4T3D...

road ahead complicated

as fuck, lacking a roadmap,

but fuck it - no turning back

going dark...

website will not be updating any more 

for the foreseeable future 

peace 

- raven mack

TH3 L4VGHT3R 0F M1L1T4NT...

the laughter of militant

police as they recover

from tear gassing the public

N1GHT SH1FT PR0GR3SS M0V3S PR3TTY...

night shift progress moves pretty

slow because motherfuckers

tend to lie unsupervised

forests conceal rainbow veins

but motherfuckers too scared

of the dark, never see it

middle path motherfuckers

often get left behind in

this egotistic ass world

"JET FUEL DOESN'T MELT STEEL BEAMS!"

said the ironic web ad

shilling six-dollar t-shirts

beneath the bridge they spray paint

middle fingers pointed at

respectable world up top

winter came but winter's gone,

poison eyes see break of dawn,

there is no right nor no wrong

freestyle sonnet #033: DERAILMENT ON-PURPOSE

Raven Mack dirtgod is real metaphor, mostly known
not to civilized power structure, existing
purely as junkyard outsider, overgrown
concrete plastic webbed world seems to be resisting

feral freestyle poesy, but I keep with these
tomewolf digital ripples within collective
blip-bloop mechanisms, only aiming to please
own impulses (perhaps genetic defective)

related to wild language mangling - not so much
"manhandling" as "crow rambling" - cawwing whatever
the fuck comes to mind (or heart?) without letting touch
cognizant awareness; fuck thinking forever,

unless thinking deeper than educated brain
(which mostly just follows installed tracks as in "train").

crudely spray-painted symbols

like coyote piss marking

“stay the fuck away – this mine”

Friday Love/Hate

I hate the fact we helped some unemployed fucker who was looking for scrap metal, and he came while I wasn't home, even though I gave him my day off to do it, but he didn't show up in time and I had to get my shitty truck inspected, and he took the shit my wife pointed out. Then he came back for something we wouldn't let him drive across the yard for since it had been raining, and I was throwing up on the couch, and he got that other thing. But low and behold I go outside the following weekend to hit the dilapidated weight bench in the field by the pig pen, and it's gone, as is the barbell, although the weights got dropped right the fuck there. So I remember vaguely where the dude says he lives, and I go and find his house to be like, "Yo dude, you took my weight bench," and he was like, in his jibber jabber 40-something fucker talk, "your wife said..." and I was like, "No she didn't," because that type of old school always tries to blame the old lady when the old lady ain't there. I'm a modern man though, and know my wife ain't no joke. But I chalk it up with him as a miscommunication. But on the ride home I think about two other things sitting there that I bet that bitch might've took too. Sure enough, he did. And none of it is valuable, and was sitting in the woods for sure. But at the same time, I'm a guy with an old truck hood, two pieces of rebar, and a couple of bungee cords for a gate to my pig pen, so obviously I make use of the alleged trash. So when we told that guy what he could take, that meant that's what he could take, not anything else he thought we might've not been using the right way. So fuck Charles Christmas. Yeah, that was his name, which is almost too fictional to be real. But if some jibber jabber asshole in a white pick-up with some shiny ass wheel covers rolls by your house asking to get some scrap metal, and his name is Charles Christmas, tell him to fuck off. Although probably you don't have the type of house that has scrap metal. Man, what an asshole world I got born into.

I love bright colors, big asses, brown eyes, The Return to Sky Valley, listening to Yelawolf and imagining there's a whole genre of music like that but there ain't except there will be but it won't be something I love for the most part. I love having a job that's steady and I get my science on and I have a pink dress shirt I wear because a bearded fuck-up who shouldn't have such a job has to rock a pink dress shirt, with some pleated brown pants that look like I'm in a Big Daddy Kane gospel rap video circa 1998 or something. And I get off work and it's warm out as I leave the building and I unbutton my stupid wrist button and that one weird ass nice shirt button that's halfway down the slit by the wrist, and I roll them bamas up three times each, which ends up an inch higher on my right arm because my roll technique is slightly crooked from the Chilean earthquake, and I get my stop at the grocery store and buy a twelve-pack on.