Nissan smashed deer in Dillwyn;

Estonian replacement

hood slowly became canvas

middle of nowhere mossy

oak wrapped with marking tape, but

nobody’s here to obey

the elven folk celebrate

any day still alive as

holy; I am too humane

DIRTBOT 69000 BABEL CODEZ: first expedition

THIS BEGAN AS A SOMEWHAT CONDESCENDING EMAIL FROM A SNOBBISH PRO WRESTLING FAN THAT WAS SENT TO THAT ALLAH-FORSAKEN DEADSPIN SIGHT A FEW YRS AGO AND THUS MADE INTO A QUIRKY & WITTY INTERNET POSTING AT THE TIME, HELPING TO FURTHER THE CAUSE OF GENTRIFICATION OF THE INTERNET. AS I AM WONT TO DO FROM TIME TO TIME, I TOOK THE TEXT OF THE EMAIL AND SMASHED IT INTO GOOGLE TRANSLATE, FROM ENGLISH TO ARABIC, THEN FROM THAT ARABIC TO POLISH, THEN FROM THAT POLISH TO WELSH, THEN FROM THAT WELSH TO ENGLISH. HERE IS YOUR POETRY FOR TODAY: 

The story is set some time after the deposit of ECW, when a group of very talented wrestlers to perform in front of tens of thousands of independent wrestling programs in gyms High School in front of 50 people.
 I love ECW and I was a big fan of Steve Corino and his grip OID School King. Then it was on display at the local high school, my address, my brother-in-law and I decided to go. We show up, not knowing what to expect. They set up in the middle of a ring shitty plastic chairs surrounded by basketball. The ability to 2000. Probably 50 people there. Do not even need to use the stalls. And depression. The most frustrating from the crowd, comprising 50 members, maybe five to Juggalos - Crazy Clown Clown Posse devotees full of grease paint.
 Sitting in the first row and shout abuse at runtime. "It was Fiqir- GOT! (Applause, applause, applause, applause, applause)", for example. Small worms breath. I want to part of the ceiling fell on them.
 Juggalos and guided by brutal, I call the blue hair, because, well, he had blue hair silly. The four other children are obviously stupid. I mean, like, you might not be able to read stupid. Blue Hair It is clear that the most intelligent and daring than five, and therefore the leader. The biggest boy I call Slim because it is like a 6-foot, but it is grown in a man's body yet, but believes that there is a strong man. blue hair tends more than slogans and assholery year.
 Very good show indeed. Some players call it, and some wrestlers hunting hungry for a chance to sing in mind more. Finally, comes the main event. I was wondering whether it can Corino, used to show the largest, will be sent by post. Oh, no. Put on a virtuoso performance. He worked very hard. This puts everything by himself. We are really trying to get some fun. I expect him to put in the game 15 minutes superficial, but refers to the 30, and it takes several large bumps, sweating heavily. This works so severe, as if the crowd is 50,000 people. I know it sounds exaggerated, but it was kind of right and inspire art for art and performance.
 This is impressive, especially when you consider that these fuckers some crazy shit screaming in his face when he is not singing "Jug-GA-LO! Jug-GA-LO!" Yes, this is a show all about you, shitheel.
 Corino until the game ends. There is applause, even from just hate chest hair. I Corino spent, covered in sweat, and bows and leaves the ring and went to his desk GIRL selling more hockey jerseys. That's when it happens. blue hair being dropped altogether suddenly, as if going to the bathroom, or to one of the other tables Girl gladiator. But -clearly planned in advance - it turns on a dime, jumping and shouting next Corino in his ear: "Corino in a bundle of firewood!" Corino, anger, turned as if to measure. Dance blue hair, smiling. Slim, inspired by his boss and said, "Oh, Corino want to throw away?" Corino and loans, and ready to swing at it
 And then I saw that in turn activate the Steve Corino. It's tired, sweaty, irritated. He lay on the performance of his life in front of 50 people ungrateful absurd. Now some mouthbreather overgrown going to hit him? OH HELL NO. Corino grabs the child. He put his front edges. Fucking shit out starting fail it.
 Three other children, which of course he was going to attack Corino as well, suddenly have big eyes and mind. This guy is in good condition, pissed off, and even if not the rest of the crowd jumped to help, will be able to take all five of them easily.
 Wait, do not say five? blue hair smiling like the Cheshire cat and disappeared into the crowd. He had planned it all together, it seems to know his friends would take the dumbest ass kicking him. The other three, and see Bounce leader, peace quickly too. For the rest of us, we just stood there, watching Steve Corino bombing of the child until he holes. Some of us are cheering. Some of us approval. This is not exactly the one we are trying to stop him.
 The next day, I looked up Corino Internet. I wrote him an email thanking him for his outstanding performance, he said that all they really want to do what he did, and told him that if he has any legal problems as a result, I can confirm happy for him, that Juggalos shooting first, so I tell you.
 I got an email a nice back thanked me. It was signed "good luck, SC."

all this manmade shall return

to earth, but no reunion -

we ain’t even separate

on-the-road children a wild

blur of queen bed bounces across

chaos and elvish giggles

thankful I live where slave plants

and wage slaves both got big sky

overhead to take deep breaths

don't pretend to comprehend

the strange maths inside my head

which be/cause such behaviors

all of us are terrorists

so long as we don't sustain

unsustainable systems

wholesale nursery plant slaves

transported without consent

throughout subservient state

self lords performing supreme

mechanical maths to keep

them buckets back-and-forthing

sacred bird stencils lost to

untended grasses by where

oak logs host mushroom congress

where men wasn't expecting,

nature still blossoms, blasting

feral counter-proposals

achieving peace-meal compound

slowly over the decades,

building simple Shambhala

45s on 33 – #67: “Nobody’s Fault But Mine”

Got lost for a little while, nobody’s fault but my own. Sometimes all the daily battles become overwhelming, but you walk through the woods while it’s raining and notice the ghost pipe congresses blossoming, and you realize all those daily battles out there navigating the immense gridlock, both infrastructural as well as psychic, just isn’t all that important. Even the Other Realm gridlock of time tunnels and future versions of me trying to enslave all other versions of me seemed trifling and unnecessary. I can’t control it all, can’t even control tiny portions of it, and in fact try to remain grounded in the fact that it’s all energies and chemistries and the most I can hope for is to be at peace with all this shit, just tune my energies to flow smoothly with all else.

The complication becomes the infrastructure that civilization has put in place, meaning the physical gridlock. We, as humans, don’t really respect the larger biosphere’s equality too well, and still have a pretty strong sense of god-ordained or even god-like dominion over all else. As I was on the forest floor, contemplating the ghost pipe, this was really driven home to me.

Ghost pipe looks fungus like but is in actuality a chlorophyll-free plant, which grows in long straight stalk, white as white, with single flower on top that shows signs of pink. They grow in clusters – and I always think of them as little beacon congresses of hope. They are scientifically considered parasitic, because they feed off the mycorrhizal woodland sub-strata, and they’ve never been grown in captivity because there’s too complicated a relationship between trees and fungus and sun to replicate them.

Are they real though? Of course they are, even if they look ghostly and a strong example of Other Realm-looking shit in our real life. But scientific thinking suggests that real can be replicated in the lab, that those conditions can be recreated by man. Ghost pipe can’t be grown in cultivation though, never has and likely never will. Thus, according to scientific egotism, it doesn’t truly exist.

It seems to me easy to extend this to much of the other Other Realm things that have happened to me, that though science can’t explain the shit through re-creation, it doesn’t necessarily mean it doesn’t exist. But mankind, when armed with militant mind, regardless of the hollow point philosophy behind that militancy, is so quick to judge and demean and demoralize. It leaves me feeling drained, and not really wanting to fuck with it, not caring about Heart Stars or making words have rhythm or finding images that capture magic or bother with any fucking art at all. It makes me disappear into the woods, sheltered from judgmentalities and the gridlock.

Of course, even in the woods we’ve built our footpaths, and we have our maps from previous travelers and the gridlock still sneaks its nefarious little philosophical tentacles into our actions. But yesterday I was walking along through the woods, hit a crossroads of two planned paths, and a turtle was there, in a direction I wouldn’t have gone. So I figured he was pointing me that way, so I went, and then that path ended, and I should’ve kept going, into the wilderness, but I was afraid to leave the gridlock completely, wasn’t ready for that just yet, might not ever be, because heart can’t completely commandeer this spaceship body from monkey-minded egotism, so I went back. It hadn’t been but ten minutes tops, but the turtle was gone, nowhere to be found in any direction.

I walked the path back out the woods and went home, eventually, but sat at the ghost pipe for a long time. I didn’t write shit, and tried to think as little as possible, at least with my brain. I breathed in all the world’s suffering and exhaled relief. It helped, but as soon as I hit the asphalt with truck tires, the judgment started beaming in from a myriad of manufactured sources again. It felt like a losing battle when I thought about it too much.

late model pick-up truck kept

clean enough to remain proud,

not just jacked for no reason

one last prayer time after

dark, underneath satellite

crescent reflecting sunshine

Wilhelm Reich meditations

while sipping hibiscus mint

tea out of quart mason jar

always hovering buzz drone

predators stand quietly,

pretending invisible

mass-produced kids' bicycles

remain unrusted two years

before requiring newness

elder elf stick and poking

his cryptic heiroglyphics

into my leg, blood ash ink

RUNNING FROM ELVEN PEOPLE'S

ENFORCERS, HAVING STOLEN

AN ENCHANTED AMETHYST

heroic crown web traffic audience interaction INTER! ACTION! thing

UPDATE #9: Nobody sent further suggestions, then it got buried in the ENDLESS DIGITAL MAELSTROM, so I just went ahead and finished it this week at work:

picking up pieces of existence in blindspots,
them low-regarded crows swagger with confidence
through both woodsland and gridlock, avoiding buckshots
by backlot persistence, unseen but evidence
of their presence punches the air everywhere,
punctuating caw caw of "fuck y'all", no manmade
good/evil notions of damn given, grabbing spare
scraps left and right, hovering above from green shade
of remaining tree canopy overlooking
man's artisanal madness, mundane makerspace
of undertaking fake tasks forever; rooking
from black crow always takes white knighting human face
and makes it look arrogant, self-important, fake,
true freedom's just laying around, ready to take

true freedom's just laying around, ready to take
whatever comes one's way, born to bum beneath shade
tree for eternity, but gridlock demands make
me turn left or right where direction has waylaid
natural intention; I'm not made of stiff squares
and close-cropped hairs - I am wild as thousand feathers
riding whirlwind creation beyond vacant stares
of undeveloped selves; civil get-togethers
far too confining, I'd rather wine and dine chance
underneath stars shining; no ON/OFF control switch
when for-real feral spirals begin happenstance
yin-yang dance of fine chaos, no amount of rich
can escape unscaped land encroaching well-planned plots,
down systems designed not realizing all wood rots

down systems designed not realizing all wood rots
tried to millwork the past into fine mantelpiece
detail, but fire cleanses all transgressions, tight knots
of cloverleaf genius unraveled by release
of furious earth element, reclaiming through
rust and rubble simple elegance of untouched
raw existence; amidst this mess, little cuckoo
whistles song of rebirth, free from monkey-fist clutched
too tightly to self-ordained might and eminent
domain over all eight directions, from the waste
grows off-the-grid fractals, not full of arrogant
pride; and fool cuckoo continues with its fast-paced
freestyle mocking disgraced man, who - for heaven's sake
made overly organized mess mostly mistake

made overly organized mess, mostly mistake
more than progress, but lucky for large biosphere
mankind can't fly away, only bulldoze and take
pieces they have access to; thus, nature takes care
to initiate safe spaces in strange places
man's deranged basis for decisions is missing -
corners of existence where lazy breeze chases
sunlight across the days, fertile greens sprung kissing
blue skies, and vast conference of birds whistling words
of purest prayer, blessing endless time's parade
with heavenly symphonic sounds; no stomping herds
of stubborn people to buzzsaw away the shade,
or resist the loose fractals with which most things grow -
missing from true paradise is fist forcing flow

missing from true paradise is fist forcing flow,
exporting know-it-all god syndrome in all ways,
sentient energies becoming tornado
of supreme destruction, possessing spaceward gaze
yet unable to escape wayward phase of mind,
defined too deeply by "mine", not inclined to share
beyond survival of self needs, been known to grind
mountains down to dust, creating species despair;
and yet spaces are still out there, lacking brain fat
with dominion myths, where all can still live within
grazing distance of each other, arriving at
balanced state lacking classified stations, akin
to planetary family, letting earth show
there ain't no heaven except space where men won't go

little birds confusing direction of man’s walk
man could never know true not knowing treetop perch
deeper truths come from strange tongues medicinal talk
high up in old oaks, red maples, dead pines, white birch;
bitches only believing in over-explained
ways, losing track of self-owned path The Man gridlocks;
accept universal tendrils can’t be contained
unleashing potential promised by planet rocks
picking up pieces of existence in blindspots,
true freedom's just laying around, ready to take
down systems designed not realizing all wood rots
made overly-organized mess mostly mistake,
missing from true paradise is fist forcing flow;
there ain’t no heaven except space where men won’t go

UPDATE #8: I AIN'T FORGOT ABOUT THIS! The down-the-back-road-holmes CK had requested sonnetizing for the tufted titmouse, thus this is the next part of this process called bird nerd heroic crowning thing-a-mahjong:

unleashing potential promised by planet rocks,
with deep dedication to Bambaataa's vision
comes little tufted titmouse, forming voltron flocks
to ride out winter's bleak cold weather condition;
black-or-white truths rejected behind grey mohawk
brain, tiny titmice subsist off insects, hiding
out in tree cavities, with sweet song lacking squawk
of larger bird; keeping it stealth while abiding
communal laws handed down from above - perhaps
natural example of bird world bureaucrat,
surviving off bottom of pyramid scheme's scraps,
but never born to be bigger than three plums fat;
too small to fall victim to ballistic birdshots,
picking up pieces of existence in blindspots

UPDATE #7: Finally up to date, and back on the freestyle sonnetry pattern more regularly. There's still six slots to request nonsense to this thing, so get in where you fit in (if you'd like). Basically, send me a bird and a thing you think sucks about civilization, and I guess I'll work together some sort of freestyle sonnet that covers that (kinda) while also weaving into the larger over-arching heroic crown tale of a spread of woods where there aren't really men.
This has been sitting on the back burner for a long minute, so much so I got three requests unanswered since last time I updated, so gonna do all three right here, but in reverse order to match the reverse order of the heroic crown. That might not make any sense to you BUT IT PROBABLY WILL TO THE FOUR PEOPLE WHO MATTER.
Friend #3 had requested splendid fairy wren and money:

bitches only believing in over-explained,

trained to think so by The Man - the sad creation

of a power mad abomination; bird-brained

civilization lacks a "The Bird" type station,

no chirping for The Bird happens, even with small

noisy magpie congregation - intelligence

deep as any creature - them little fuckers squall

without fear of any over-bearin presence

of "The Bird", forcing them to work against own will,

forcing them out of ownership of their own days;

birds know power corrupts, they know predators kill,

so predatory forces get side-skipped, all praise

given to wing-leg-leg-wing-head supreme congress, blocks

ways losing track of self-owned path The Man gridlocks

Friend #2 had said tree swallows and concern for body hair (which I kinda stumbled with, but working all this nonsense together while wasting - or more likely improving - moments at work sometimes requires more than 14 lines I think:

ways losing track of self-owned path, the Man gridlocks

as much as possible, but even within grid

mapped far beyond natural chance, shadow boondocks

exist to subsist outside sight; nest boxes hid

in architectural crevices or other

manmade corners occupied by small tree swallow,

composed of twigs, grass, feathers by bird-brained mother

(which is not meant to insinuate of hollow

intelligence), and species thrives, shadow dwelling;

similarly, in these woods outside the Man's known

realm, still exists actual men, wild-haired, smelling

of woodsmoke, remaining way woke to lessons shown

by natural fractals - chaotic, unexplained;

accept universal tendrils can't be contained

And friend #1 had suggested magpies and working for the man:

accept universal tendrils can't be contained

and you will excel/accelerate through heart space;

example: the splendid fairy wren's life sustained

flashing magic turquoise colors despite home base

in southern Australia wilds (and developed lands),

facing Darwinistic threats with unparalleled

visual flair, brighter than any gold stone men's hands

clutch at with self-justified logic; men excelled

always at worshipping abstract value more than

bright blue ass feathers - but ass feathers real as fuck,

no doubt, despite contrarian thinking by man,

manufacturing wealth from raw mineral muck,

but fairy wren got splendid not through living stocks,

unleashing potential promised by planet rocks 

UPDATE #6: Moa and humanity in general (scroll to the bottom for explanation... or whatever).

high up in old oaks, red maples, dead pines, white birch,
still chirps the small avians who've survived men;
in the woods below the flightless lumbering lurch
of the bulky moa still stomps - extinct for ten
eras amongst fickle humanity, but still
exists mightily deep in these woods, standing tall
as two men, but with aura ten times greater, chill
in demeanor concealed from predatory call
of capital; aboriginal creatures like
moa (and dragons and elves and wild shit like that)
will continue to breed alternate world dark hike
too deep into natural for people gone fat
with regard for own (owned) creation - chubby-brained
bitches only believing in over-explained

UPDATE #5: Crows and cubicles.

deeper truths come from strange tongues medicinal talk,
caw of the crows from ancient oak congress above
abandoned forest moves in spirals, gridlocked walk
and gait hasn't yet gated; raw elements love
natural spirals, perfect cubes only exist
inside madnesses, the gated cubes of humane
productivity make little sense to resist
once trapped inside - working labyrinth half-insane,
half-downright devilish; but crows have blue-black wings
forever escaping the organized confines
divined by master planners mad about all things
still controlled by natural impulse not designs,
but no man can plan the chorus from wild bird perch
high up in old oaks, red maples, dead pines, white birch

UPDATE #4: A friend emailed suggesting eastern diamondback snakes and Brahma, so I went with it.

man could never know true not knowing treetop perch,
trusting his five senses without four directions
of gaze; deep in this forest, a congress of birch
trees with all-seeing eyes protect inner sections
of this land untouched by manmade master planning,
often called snake, except here where massive slate
stones poking through surface, histories spanning
millions of years, within these nooks and crannies, great
true snakes (not metaphor) explore being alive,
large eastern diamondbacks with rattle warning all
that poisons are present, in order to survive
one must navigate poisonous path despite fall
into dark pits of self threatened each step of walk,
deeper truths come from strange tongues medicinal talk

UPDATE #3: Hoping to finish freestyle sonnet project in next two months so sent the link to a bird nerd friend, who suggested red-tailed hawk as the bird, and politics as the useless people thing...

man could never know true not knowing treetop perch,
trusting his five senses without four directions
of gaze; deep in this forest, a congress of birch
trees with all-seeing eyes protect inner sections
of this land untouched by manmade master planning,
often called snake, except here where massive slate
stones poking through surface, histories spanning
millions of years, within these nooks and crannies, great
true snakes (not metaphor) explore being alive,
large eastern diamondbacks with rattle warning all
that poisons are present, in order to survive
one must navigate poisonous path despite fall
into dark pits of self threatened each step of walk,
deeper truths come from strange tongues medicinal talk

UPDATE #2: I think the internet is different now & people don't look at websites any more other than cell phone things. Or I suck. I don't know, maybe both.

UPDATE #1: got an email suggesting starlings as birds and money as aspect of people that's not so important...

there ain’t no heaven except space where men won’t go
with trees along the edges grown hundred feet tall
populated by commoner starlings with flow
of incessant mimicking songs for border stall
against men’s advance; starling understands man’s words
better than most birds, thus can make distracting babble
to keep these heavenly woods free from people herds
and their possessive philosophies which grabble
after every resource, attaching abstract
value of man-papers pressed from tree flesh;
these papers don’t make nests well, and in fact detract
from all others’ quality of life, and enmesh
man’s thinking into larger psychic nest, thus squawk
little birds confusing direction of man’s walk

Perhaps you know I’ve been writing a huge amount of sonnets. Perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you know I have a love/hate (mostly hate) relationship with social media. Perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you know my email address. Perhaps you don’t. (It is raven mack at the gmail, if you are a don’t.) Perhaps you are seeing this actual website page still. Perhaps you are not. Let’s combine these things. Send me an email saying who you are, and what is the most important bird to you, and what is the least important part of human civilization to you, and I will freestyle a sonnet about those things. If you've already emailed, please leave it for someone else (in the off chance someone else actually exists). If this post is up, it means I ain’t got no email. (It will disappear as I am working on some sonnet.) Once we have a full heroic crown of 15 sonnets, then this will be done, until next time.

man monkey's insane gridlock

utilizing eternal

acrylics plus devil maths