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.

Saturday, June 11

45s on 33 – #87: “Fortunate Son”

Chief Blackberry Blossoms the ceremonial leader of the elven peoples of the Seven Islands, local to me, clarified his knowledge of Ellabell, the orb spirit mentioned previously throughout this thing. I guess I’ll paraphrase and just type it out instead of use quotes, because I didn’t record it, and I’m not a journalist or anything. But basically he told me that he had an older brother called Floodhead, who had a different name at birth which nobody remembers, but as a toddler there was a big flood in the James River. Whenever this would happen, the elven people would climb the trees in case their islands got flooded, which was preferable to crossing over to where the human people lived. Floodhead got bit by an enchanted dragonfly, which are shaped like normal dragonflies but glow bright green like the lightning bug. This made Floodhead enchanted. He was 47 full moons older than Blackberry Blossoms (the elven tribe keeps calendars by the moon, like all sane peoples on this earth) but Blackberry Blossoms said Floodhead was really different, tapped into an awareness uncommon, even amongst mythical creature cultures on mostly unknown islands.

Thus Floodhead was recruited to work in the in-between realms, known to you and me as the aether. Those realms are where all the various shit that various organisms consider their reality connect together. But Chief Blackberry Blossoms said that once you joined the aether, you never came back – it was a lifetime commitment. I figured it was like classified military work for us (you are human people like me, I assume). In fact, I asked Blackberry Blossoms, “You mean like an intelligence officer?” He looked at me like I was a fool and said, “No, not intelligence. The exact opposite – intuition. Intelligence is what you are taught; intuition is what you already know.”

The elven clan got word back on Floodhead every now and then, through the dragonflies (not all of which are enchanted, but enchanted dragonflies and regular ones live together and share lines of communication). Floodhead did good work and had found love and apparently had had three children, all daughters, triplets in fact, with some sort of indigenous South American fairy female. The triplets were named Chillabell, Hollabell, and Ellabell. And being they were all three born in the aether to parents working those in-between realms, all three were automatically recruited to work there as well. You’re not exactly allowed to leave, at least not here. You have to be relocated a couple universes away, which often takes the entire lifespan of a creature to even get there, which ultimately means if you are born there and don’t pan out as a second generation aether worker, you are shot into space. Kind of felt to me like the “travel to a neighboring universe” part might’ve just been added on to make family members feel okay that their kids got shot off into space until death.

Hollabell was loud and abrasive, far too rough spirited for the in-between realms, so she was shot off pretty early on. Chillabell was quiet and tended towards pleasantness, but Chief Blackberry Blossoms wasn’t really sure whether she was still there or shot into space. But Ellabell had taken to the work marvelously. He said, “My older brother Floodhead was always considered the most fortunate son of our people for generations. He was destined to be an elder from birth, even before he became known as Floodhead the one with ultra-awareness. The dragonflies said that Ellabell was as fortunate and aware as Floodhead, but times three. She is said to be one of the greatest elven people of recent times, even if she is only half-elf. I do not know what her maternal fairy people were like, but I imagine that influence has helped make her even more of what Floodhead was, multiplied.”

“So she’s cool? I can trust her?” I asked the chief elf. Again, he looked at me as if I was foolish, but then it was as if he remembered, “Oh yeah, this motherfucker is only human.”

He smiled at me a deep old dude friendship for naïve youngster smile and said, “My friend, I would do anything she asked of me. I trust you are doing your own self a favor by doing the same.” So then I went home, but not before rolling dice with Chubb Rock on my way out. (I lost seven whole chunks of white quartz to Chubb Rock. I suspect he might’ve been cheating.)

poison ivy/honeysuckle 
the feral rural yin/yang 
of cultured abandonment

Friday, June 10

45s on 33 – #88: “I Washed My Hands In Muddy Water”

Whenever I got complicated shit to complicate, I go to the river. Being a human, dark actions always are gonna end up staining your hands from time to time, so going down to the river to baptize yourself in the muddy water, get yourself cleaned for a few hours, is always going to be a worthwhile endeavor. Once a week makes sense, but we’ve regimented our lives to where the old spiritual calendars are hard to apply. (Perhaps that is the point of the gridlock.) But I try to get down there to the river, specifically the James River through central Virginia, specifically the CSX river-hugging train line between mile markers 120 to 56 roughly, but micro-focused around mile marker 70, right where the Seven Islands are situated in the James River twists a few miles past the lucky horseshoe bend of Scottsville. I hung out at and around these Seven Islands for years, scattered haiku spike magic all around them, and always thought of them as uninhabited. Eventually, after having left hundreds of haiku spikes, I found out – or it was made aware to me – that an elven people live there, and have done so, for as long as regular-sized people have been around. (That’s a self-centered fact, because I am assuming my size is regular sized. I am ashamed but am going to leave it unedited, with apologies to the elven people.)

I’ve known the elven people for four or five years, and always try to call in on their chief, Chief Blackberry Blossoms. I guess I should probably share a little background info on how the local elven tribe is structured, sociologically though.

The eldest seven males, only the eldest seven, decide who is chief amongst them. It doesn’t have to be the oldest necessarily, because sometimes the oldest elven dude is done having to make all the decisions. Except the elven chief, as decided by the oldest seven dudes, is a ceremonial leader only, as the elven people are a matriarchal culture (thankfully… this is how they have preserved their ecology and secret existence and mostly peaceful history), and the chief answers to and executes the wishes of the eldest seven females, who are the de facto leadership council of the elven tribe. Due to it being the eldest seven males and females, and due to elven people being lifelong monogamists, this means there are personal relationships between members. In fact Chief Blackberry Blossoms’ wife is one of the eldest seven females. As you can imagine, this leads to comedic situations as old elves make tribal decisions in the midst of some inter-personal relationship bickering. I’ve often wondered if that’s why they created the ceremonial chief position, so that only one male had to be at the important discussions.

Anyways, after all that had been going on, I decided to roll down to the river to immerse myself in the dirty waters and cross over to the Seven Islands to confer with the elves. I didn’t really mean to ask them specifically about any of my troubles, just kind of wanted to kick it. Elven people are by nature chill as fuck, and it’s beneficial to soak that up through the osmosis of lounge.

But I was down there, kicking it, trying to recharge to the Power of Lounge, when Chief Blackberry Blossoms came down to sit with me. “Any railroad spike haiku for us today, son?” he asked.

“Yeah, I brought three. I left them with Chubb Rock.” (Chubb Rock is one of the elves; he’s not the famous Chubb Rock of human world, but instead a pretty chill sentry elf of central Virginia river islands.) But as I looked at Chief Blackberry Blossoms, for the first time since all the nonsense in my field, I realized he had the same look in his eyes, the same eyes in that weird way hominid eyes remind you of somebody else, as Ellabell. So I asked him, “Blackberry Blossoms, I have a humble question for you… Do you know a fucked up fairy type person who floats around in glowing orbs named Ellabell?”

Chief Blackberry Blossoms grinned a huge heart-full grin, and said, “Ahh yes, sweet little but way too smart Ellabell. Has she visited you?” And honestly I felt fucked up that elven people and other versions of me and floating light orb fairies were all interconnected. It was heavily harshing my humane superiority complex buzz, to be honest.

as stardust composes me, 
cheap digital camera 
pointed at clouds takes selfies

Thursday, June 9

southside virginia back porch -
native youth wearing tie-dye 
chasing porchlight moths around

45s on 33 – #89: “Frankenstein”

Ellabell, the metaphysical fairy spirit, explained to me and my hesher friend Rey-Rey, about a future version of us who was apparently now a malevolent force working against us in space-time continuum sort of suicidal struggle:

“One of the futures of you born from same baseship somehow slipped into figuring out a backdoor to time travel. Most creatures such as yourselves are limited to your present time, which is fine and not a limitation at all. Too many creatures in the universe traveling fourth dimension scale would create clusters and chaos on many astral planes, so it is for the best and nothing anyone should feel lesser about. Just as some things are limited to two dimensions, which you consider flat, some things are limited to three dimensions, which also is seen as flat.

“Thus you can see the dilemma in a third dimension creature traveling through time – their knowledge of what they are traveling is flat, literally limited by their own reality so that they don’t understand the full implications of what they do. A particular future you who we don’t know specifically which you it is yet, has pieced together things beyond his intelligence. When I say ‘we’, I mean the protectors of inspiration, which we do in order to sustain creation. Without creation, there is no color, no suns, no constellations of collaboration, no rainbows of what might be, and darkness swallows up all of it. Nothing can survive darkness, ultimately.

“This particular future you, we give him no name so as to not allow more power than he deserves to be present in him, he cobbled together from different versions of future you different qualities seen as successful. These successes were not in terms of quality of life, or in terms of feeling the joy of creation, but more attached to the financial fruits of those labors. We are certain this perversion of spirit came from the demons and their vile suggestions, but generally that only takes hold to an individual you in existence. We’ve never seen this flourish across multiple versions, and threaten an actual baseship.

When I say this future you has pieced these things together, he has only done it to himself, by traveling to these other versions born from the same baseship, and frankensteined the little portions he’s observed into his own ways. He is the Frankenstein monster but also the creator of the monster, which goes against the universally known fable, I know.

“But now that he knows he can travel, he hopes to get to the original source baseship, and apply his dark learnings to those original membranes, so that the Heart Stars of inspiration which are produced are fogged out with his perversions of goal. This is dangerous. Generally speaking, throughout the universe, the dark delusions can congeal an individual heart, which is conduit of the source baseship, so that the individual heart no longer receives inspiration, and spirit shrivels up and dies. But never before have we seen an actual baseship go dark and potentially begin producing dark Heart Stars pre-lost to demon desires. We’re not even sure what would happen if this began to be. The fact creatures such as yourselves shriveled up spiritually when the darkness overwhelmed was certainly sad, but it was also a self-defense mechanism for the larger universe, in that you did not create further demon desires. Thus creation has always meant life, and color, and the universe’s quintessence is associated with that. But if this Frankenstein of a man can accomplish his wretched goals, he will maximize the abstract wealth of future versions of him, but we don’t know for certain how it’s going to change the basic nature of the universe.

“You two are two of the only three of you who have actually been to your source baseship. We, the protectors of inspiration, ask that you contemplate its connection to you, and what you might be able to do to protect it, and thus yourself, as well as each other.”

Me and Rey-Rey looked at each other, both flummoxed by how complicated this shit was, both of us kind of simple dudes anyways, and then Ellabell was gone and Rey-Rey was gone and I was in my field, like everything was normal, no Frankensteins, it wasn’t even close to Halloween.

naked trees so beautiful, 
lustily dangling in sun's 
erotic angled spotlight

Wednesday, June 8

45s on 33 – #90: “Sin Sangre En Las Venas”

Me and Rey-Rey was sitting there by the creek bottom, comparing our own mental notes about that futuristic me which we assumed might be futuristic us since we’d connected on the level that we were very similar in many unexplained ways, and also connected to that vivicolor tunnel that shot us to Rey-Rey’s baseship for birthing his creative arts (mostly epic space raps) and that seemed might be source of mine as well, though the direct connection had not been made. Rey-Rey had seen a dark fog vision one time with a similar future dude, not an office with giant writing computer but instead a music studio with ancient growth hardwood everything and foam soundproof padding made from the slave cotton dabbed with the tears of innocent children so that future Rey-Rey could have the utmost perfection to his hollow sound’s reverberations when recording. Apparently future Rey-Rey did no actual writing of music and had an minor army of ghost writers – literal ghosts resurrected through dark metasciences – who composed the melodies and music and then future Rey-Rey stamped the output with his name as executive creative controller, and by law this made it his. (The law is fucked up, and protects those who have access to how the law reads, not those who are forced to read by the law’s words.)

“He had dead eyes is how I saw him,” said Rey-Rey about his encounter, “Which I’d seen in me when I felt dying, but never all the way dead like that. It was fucked up to see, because I don’t want to be dead in the eyes like that.”

I understood all too well, as when I’d seen those type eyes in the morning mirror, and thought about how I used to twinkle with hazel blue-green hope in photographs from my youth, it concerned me. What was different? Could I get that glow back?
But all our commiserating must have triggered warnings to the aether, because our conversation was quickly swallowed up by brilliant lime green shade, and here came Ellabell bouncing into our collective consciousness, perhaps there perhaps not because logically I’m not even sure it makes sense Rey-Rey was there, or any of this. (I just can’t think about logic, or at least not psycho-logic of earth, and keep it to astro-logic of unexplainable realms, or else I’ll consider myself lost to the craze.)

Ellabell assured, without explanation, “What you saw, both of you, is in fact future versions of you both. And these versions of you both are versions from the same base, which you’ve begun to deduce. But those future versions were clogged by the dark clouds, and their heart stopped functioning to where it allowed Heart Stars to exist. They still believed they were using Heart Stars, but their actual blood stopped flowing behind the metastasized congeal of stifling blackness. Their veins no longer pump blood, and instead subsisted off the flow of abstract numbers, sharp-edged and immoral little shrapnels of ones and twos and fours and nines and zeros poking through their physical form, not dead in physical sense but no longer alive.”

Me and Rey-Rey both was like “what the fuck”. Ellabell continued, “You have both had these visions, and been brought together not by chance but by purpose. Those future you’s are planning great internal attack, through time, on your shared baseship. It threatens all color to your lives, and could plunge all you know to be real into endless mundane hopeless grey – an eternal dreariness to existence. You will have to fight this future, but unfortunately from the space of the present, to which you are attached, which is not a bad thing necessarily, but does leave you susceptible to the dangers of the future.”

Me and Rey-Rey again, we was like “what the fuck” and stared with hype and fire of infinite activated caveman molecules, full of fool adrenaline.

mirror fennel garden hose 
milk crate full of twine clusters 
abandoned compost buckets

Tuesday, June 7

TOP TEN SHOELESS MEDITATIONS UPON SOCIETAL CONSTRAINTS











#1: because barefoot life/long grasses caress away/numbed callous nature
#2: because barefoot life/crush civilized cultural/crap expectations
#3: because barefoot life/ten nude toes philosophy/points out proper path
#4: because barefoot life/monkey toes cling to creek stones/ripple baptism
#5: because barefoot life/glass shards can't cut thru evolved/hard-bottom sole (soul)
#6: because barefoot life/walk thru hot coals channeling/mind over matter
#7: because barefoot life/three-hundred dollar sneakers/made irrelevant
#8: because barefoot life/no shoes no shirt no service/to devilish lords
#9: because barefoot life/direct connection to earth/immaterial
#10: because barefoot life/Because Barefoot Life Because/BAREFOOT LIFE BECAUSE

TOP TEN ROBOT NEWS HEADLINES











#1: SENATOR TWEETER/FIRE-CASTIGATES DEVIL TRUMP!!!/ - robot "news" headline
#2: REVOLTING OLD MAN/COMPLICATES ESTABLISHMENT!!!/ - robot "news" headline
#3: HORRIBLE PERSON/FROM OLD NEWS STILL HORRIBLE!!!/ - robot "news" headline
#4: YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT/MIGHT KILL YOU IN FIVE MINUTES!!!/ - robot "news" headline
#5: MOSQUITO BABIES/WILL BE THE NEW AUTISMS!!!/ - robot "news" headline
#6: RADICAL ISLAMS/STEAL YOUR CHILDREN THRU SMARTPHONES!!!/ - robot "news" headline
#7: POLICE SHOOT CHILDREN/GOFUNDME MEMORIALS!!!/ - robot "news" headline
#8: MALNOURISHED DOGS FOUND/BY HUNDREDS AT LOCAL HOME!!!/ - robot "news" headline
#9: MORE JOBS THAN EVER/ECONOMY IS BOOMING!!!/ - robot "news" headline
#10: DON'T LOOK DISTRACTION/SMOKE MIRROR DIGITAL FOG!!!/ - robot "news" headline

TOP TEN PART TIME SECOND JOB OPPORTUNITIES FOR THE DOOMED











#1: BOTH PARENTS WORKiNG/SEND KiDS OFF TO FACTORiES/FOR ACTiONS TRAiNiNG
#2: MEMORiZATiON/PLUS MECHANiZATiON PLUS/ASSiMiLATiON
#3: "BEHAVE & LiSTEN"/SCHOOLZ TEACH CHiLDREN TO BE LiKE/"BEHAVE & LiSTEN"
#4: CRiTiCAL THiNKiNG/TOO CRiTiCAL, TOO THiNKiNG/"NONE OF THE ABOVE"
#5: WORKiNG TO RAiSE KiDS/NOT YET CRUSHED OF SPiRiT BY/iNSTiTUTiON "L"S
#6: "ECONOMiC NEEDS/OF OUR MODERN SOCiETY"/MEANS WE ARE RE-SOURCE
#7: REFUSE THE RE-SOURCE/GO TO ORiGiNAL SOURCE/ALWAYS PULL LOOSE STRiNGS
#8: "BEHAVE & LiSTEN"/FOR MONEY - MONEY FOR CHiLL/- CHiLL FOR HAPPiNESS
#9: NOT ENOUGH MONEY/TO GUARANTEE HAPPiNESS/(MAYBE NEVER WAS)
#10: UNSCHOOL MORE CHiLDREN/UNMECHANiZE MORE ADULTZ/UNMOOR MORE DEViLZ

TOP TEN MILLIGRAMS OF GENERIC HYDROCODONE










#1: dull continuous/pain in chest, without a throb/- never no throbbing
#2: if aura is real/clouds of fog now envelope/my simian skull
#3: feeding myself trash/helping manifest death wish/slowly, internal
#4: dull pain in chest plus/fogged out stream-of-consciousness/plus starved gut congress
#5: desire to feel numb/desire to dead end nerves which/feel too much too-much
#6: nerves overloaded/marketing predator drones/sensory bombing
#7: there is no escape/- sink into medicated/fetal position
#8: self-medications/I-Self Lord Am Master dirt/god meditations
#9: "this is a god dream"/delusions - fog keeps getting/thicker, dull pain grows
#10: this painkiller looks/like an anthropomorphic/fetal position

TOP TEN TRENDING TRENDS IN THE NEW KNOWLEDGE ECONOMY











#1: CLEVER WHITE FUCKERS/COMPOSE BUZZING FEEDLOT LISTS/LACKING NUTRITION
#2: EVEN PEOPLE OF/COLOR CREATING CONTENT/SOMEWHAT STERILIZED
#3: HASHTAG INTERNET/GENTRIFIED AS FUCK, CYBORG/BIG-PHARM-TO-TABLE
#4: CROWDFUNDING HIP NEW/DECOMMISSIONED GRAFFITI/MURALS IN PRIPYAT
#5: LONGFORM TWIT MOMENTS/HAND-SELECTED BY PAID BOOST/THUMB'S UP MASSES' ASS
#6: DIGITAL CLOUDS BE/ACCUMULATING DATA/YET DROUGHT OF REAL THOUGHT
#7: UNIFORM CLEVER/CODED INTO SUBCONSCIOUS/WE LULZ TOGETHER
#8: NEVER SHARED SO MUCH!/NEVER FELT QUITE SO EMPTY!/COPPER ENDORPHINS
#9: IS IT POSSIBLE/WE KNOW MORE INFORMATION/BUT ARE STUPIDER?
#10: YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT/HAPPENS WHEN HUMANITY/DISCONNECTS FROM NEXT!
solitary simple man 
in dilapidated writing 
camper shoots words into clouds

45s on 33 – #91: “Tragico Destino”

A powerful dark cloud emitted, swallowed my consciousness whole, to where all lifely colors were momentarily lost, but then within the darkness I was able to focus (whatever part of “I” was experiencing sensory perceptions, which is probably questionable at this point), and there was an older form of Raven Mack, in what looked to be an office space, not a speck of dirtgod to be seen though, which unsettled current me trapped in prison of present moment. This was a form of me? Some of the same shit that bedazzles my present haphazard life was cleansed, framed, polished, and displayed in this office territory very foreign to current camper cave oracle studio mentality (where I create my Heart Stars).

Futuristic Raven Mack stared at monstrous chrome silver computer contraption, finger pecking language. I thunk, “Well good, I am writing in the future,” but I micro-scoped in and it as missive demands to others to write words to finish his (mine) projects. I read over his (mine) shoulder as he angrily chastised  perceived lesser-thans, who it seemed were in a manufactured creative labor to him (me). His tone was foreign and off-putting to present me, and yet he still signed off with “peace, Raven Mack” (as if that atoned for his demeaning behavior with actual words in the message).

I scanned the grey scaled room for signs of color, but there was none – just sterilized greys and pasteurized off-whites and unconscious-realized blacks, meaning the darkness seemed to have swallowed me. Obviously this was disconcerting.

Such unsettled blasts of two-and-two togethering a seemingly potential future did not prepare me for when future Raven Mack turned around in his rather nice ergonomic office chair. He did not see me, as I guess I wasn’t present there (which makes logical sense as I am present in my own time) but as he turned he looked in my vague direction. His eyes were stunningly devoid of any soul, blanked out though still obviously functional. This blasted me with deep molecular fears, as some mornings I’ve seen vague hints of that same look, when the fog has thickened and is taking a toll on me, “up and atom” in the morning but not feeling motivated to be living the life I follow, and looking in the mirror to blank eyes, no longer alive but only going through the motions. It always struck me as too similar to chicken eyes, not just the ones from my back yard flock but when you pass those big rigs on the interstate with one white body stuffed into each metallic cubicle cage, and they just flop there in transit to their own slaughterhouse demise, resigned to their tragic destiny without even questioning it, not even realizing it, just fucking stock fodder for other creatures further up the pyramid to live off of.

But this future me had not fogged out eyes but those eyes of the believer – one who has accepted the tenets of some false philosophy and has the grey-glazed eyeballs of scientific delusion. I’ve always considered myself a somewhat woke motherfucker, so to see this future me as textbook antithesis to my own notions of who I am (presently), it shook me, I cannot lie. It shook me hard enough that the dark cloud vision started to choke me, like water into the lungs but a spiritual lung not physical.
Pale orange life preserver appeared in far left periphery of my choking vision, and got brighter until it took over, and there was Rey-Rey again. His face was concerned, and then the red maple from my field fleshed out around him in the background.

“What the fuck happened? Why you on the ground in psychic seizure mode?” Rey-Rey asked. I couldn’t put words together (probably for the best) nor could I even think them together correctly, so Rey-Rey’s ability to penetrate my thoughts with comprehension was no good. An unthinking brain cannot be read.

memories blur into fuzz 
lost in tall grasses around edge 
of dark mental dimensions

Monday, June 6

45s on 33 – #92: “Sombras”

As I chilled inside the vast and vivid membranes, Rey-Rey continued to explain, “This is where we counter the darkness, where we fight off those manufactured shadows meant to swallow up all this, and people like this.” Sitting in the midst of this vibrant lava lamp baseship structure, I couldn’t really fathom the power of the darkness in the moment. I mean, I knew that shit existed – it swallows me up regularly, the shadowed depression of comparison, of desire, but right now with Rey-Rey in his baseship, it made no relevant sense.

Rey-Rey still reading my mind though was like, “It might not seem real in this reality, but this reality don’t penetrate the whole universes. I mean, it did, that’s what universes get born from, but it ain’t like that no more. Go back, and you’ll see.”

Many years ago, as a teen, after a period of sleep deprivation, I was deep breath meditating in the backyard behind my mom’s house (which was then mine too) right where we ended up building a Unabomber shack, and I had what I would consider an out-of-body experience. I was floating up in the air over myself, watching myself sit there on the ground, good twenty feet above. But then my conscious mind registered, “Oh shit, you’re floating above yourself looking down!” and immediately, as if connected by unseen umbilical cord, my seeing self was sucked back down into my physical self. I’ve never been able to recreate that moment either.

Until now, because as soon as Rey-Rey said, “Go back, and you’ll see,” the psychic umbilical cord activated itself again, and I shot through the technicolor tunnel for ten seconds or so, and found myself right back in the field, near the broken ass jukebox, sitting on my favorite orange milk crate. No colored orbs were pumping out the jukebox now, but I could hear the gears jiggling and something manifesting. With a cough and sputter, a coal dust grey cloud of sound bleched out the jukebox.

It was warbling some horrible unscrewed and unchopped sounds I couldn’t make it, but it float at me, and I heard horrible demon voices singing of desire and want and lust and greed and all that nasty shit that pretty much every mythological spirituality since the dawn of monkeys thinking of themselves as better than monkeys has spake about. The jukebox kept spitting out the dark grey demon bursts, but then – finally – a little colored cloudburst sang out in contrast. It almost ran to my head (or me to it), and it sang in slow syrup Space Espanol, “Easy to get lost in shadows, but the demons lurk behind; beware of getting lost in shadows, to where demons control your mind.”

The grey was everywhere though, and a few of those clouds fogged over the little colored cloudburst. I heard the demon shrieks of “great American novel” and “genius grant” and oh god the wretched ear worm of “M.F.A. master of fine arts, creativity mined from well-trained minds, never hearts”. I tried to hear the Space Espanol shadow chant again, but it was being drowned out by the others, and I wanted to get up – I was in my own fucking field again, wasn’t I? – but I couldn’t. The shadows were literally weighing me down. I recognized this as what science calls clinical depression, what I call not being right, or being lost in the fog. The fog is shadows and the shadows are made by demons and it gets thick to where, even though it’s not necessarily a scientifically validated physical thing, it weighs you down, and you can’t even get out of bed in the late morning without exerting a day’s worth of effort. It sucks the life right out of you, just to be alive.

majestic goat contemplates 
sweetness of "feed" as compared 
to fresh spring sorrel blossoms

Sunday, June 5

overhead gridlock remains; 
beyond that is real life cloud; 
shoot my ashes into space

45s on 33 – #93: “Ain’t Nothing You Can Do”

Ain’t nothing I could do – Rey-Rey had snatched me up in his colored fog and we floated off together through blitzkrieg of visuals which was like those roller coaster-like intros to Imax movies where they show you all the awesome epileptic shit they could do before slowing back down to the feature. But we didn’t slow down. It felt like a thousand hours of travel through color tunnels which twisted and turned like tree roots tendrilling down through the dirt, except we were shooting through I don’t know what. I didn’t really have time to think on it, as it all was happening faster than my cognizant ability to process. Rey-Rey floated right beside me, his shaggy cactus jack hair flapping behind him, and it felt like he was holding my hand, firm but not tight, like a stereotypical business handshake greeting, but his hands were visible, held out in front of him, mime-like.

Finally his voice hollered through the rumble of travel we were having, “WE’RE ALMOST THERE!” His head never turned nor did his mouth move, but the sound had the effect of somebody yelling at you through tropical depression winds. Our physical movement stopped, along with color blurs along periphery, with cacophonous vacuum shutting off sound, and without plop, we stopped and were standing in some sort of science fictional contraption, but instead of sharp electronic gadgetry, everything pulsed like muscle tissue, even though it had lots of weird brightly colored nodes all over, which seemed like electronic devices but part of a living thing. Again, it had the feel of that dream state where one thing is like another thing you recognize, but not that thing at all, except underneath, built from foundation your consciousness recognizes, but in unconscious ways.

I was about to ask the obvious “Where are we?” when Rey-Rey laughed and pre-emptively answered, “We on my base-ship. This is for me what you have with them raggedy ass campers in the field. One and the same, just different planes… astral planes not aero planes.”

I realized this motherfucker had telepathy on me. Rey-Rey laughed again. “Yes. But we’re the same. Infinite strings twisting around to form the same mosaic set of electrical impulses that we both call ‘me’.”

Looking around at all the throbbing membranes in brilliant vivid colors sidetracked me from my scientific indignation this shaggy-haired Rey-Rey dude was shooting conversation straight talking with my internal brain. That area has normally always been monologue territory. But even having that notion of reality hijacked got lost to all the dazzling pulses of what looked to be organic actual life matter, but in sci-fi spaceship basic structure. But he had called it a “base-ship”…

“Yeah, we call them base-ships, but that’s where motherfuckers like us, well like me because that’s both of us, build our Heart Stars to manifest decoration to fresh universes. Gotta bedazzle all these universes, ya know?”

I didn’t like him calling us all part of his “me”, because that felt subservient on my part. But I thought that in my brain, so Rey-Rey caught it, and corresponded with, “No tops or bottoms to our ‘me’, man. All them different strings twist around together, equally, building the strength of the whole. Ain’t nothing you can do, ain’t nothing I can do either to take ownership of ‘me’. Don’t no known body own who we are. No unknown body either, as a matter of natural scientific universal fact.”

Rey-Rey smiled. His shaggy hair was long but not long enough to have that evened out look of long-hair masculine, but with the shaggy bangs eyeballs could hide behind and peek through like curtains of growing irresponsibility. He had that old school stoner metalhead look, like my own 9th grade yearbook photo.

withered apple tree branches 
creepy crawl after children's 
shoulders as they’re running past