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.

Monday, July 4

Wilhelm Reich meditations
while sipping hibiscus mint
tea out of quart mason jar
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Sunday, July 3

always hovering buzz drone
predators stand quietly,
pretending invisible
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Saturday, July 2

mass-produced kids' bicycles
remain unrusted two years
before requiring newness
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elder elf stick and poking
his cryptic heiroglyphics
into my leg, blood ash ink
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Friday, July 1

RUNNING FROM ELVEN PEOPLE'S
ENFORCERS, HAVING STOLEN
AN ENCHANTED AMETHYST
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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.



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man monkey's insane gridlock
utilizing eternal
acrylics plus devil maths
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Thursday, June 30

TOP TEN DIGITAL SONGS OF INNOCENCE & EXPERIENCE











#1: s0ngz 0f 1nn0c3nc3/spVn thrV d1g1t4l f1lt3rz/'t1l m0r4lz l4Vnd3r3d
#2: pVr1tY 3x1stz/0nlY 1n mYth1c g0db00kz/w0rld 1z f4r t00 r34l
#3: m0n0-l1th1c w0rld/crVsh3s h0l1st1c sp1r1t/b3n34th 1ndVstrY
#4: 3ntr3pr3n3Vr/m4k3r cl4ss c4rt00n 34gl3/vVltVr3 pr0gr3ss1v3z
#5: d0n't b3 trVst1n' th3s3/4d-v3ntVr3 c4p1t4l1st/v1c3-sh4r1ng g3ntrY
#6: 3xp3r13nc3 s0ngz/- gr1mY & t0rtVr3d - s4mpl3d/f0r sh1n3f4c3 r3m1x
#7: 1n r34l l1f3 Vnr34l/3nt3r Vn r34l l1f3 1nt0/s4f3tY n3t s34rch b4rz
#8: sh1n3f4c3 bVrnz thrV 4ll/c0-0pt3d w1ld stYl3z s1nc3 y'4ll/r3m41n s4f3 & s0ft
#9: p4r4d1s3 c1tY/l0st t0 k1tsch & qV1rk - w03 1z/th0z3 n0t d3v1l b0rn
#10: r0m4nt1c 4ng3lz/r3m41n fr4nt1c w1th scr1ptVr3z/scr1bbl1ng 1n l0st sp4c3
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TOP TEN MEANDERS THRU THE RECLAIMED WILDERNESS FACTORY











#1: WALKiNG THRU WiLD WOODZ/WHERE MANMADE RETURNZ TO EARTH/THRU RUST JUNK SCiENCE
#2: STRiCT ORDER MAiNTAiNED/ONLY SO LONG AS GRiD HOLDZ/THRU APPLiED TENSiON
#3: TENSiON'Z ATTENTiON/SPAN REDUCED AS LiFE'Z FERAL/FRACTALZ BLOSSOM FRESH
#4: WALK THRU RUST TO BUiLD/BAREFOOT NOMAD CALLOUSES/GAZE WiTH iMMUNE EYEZ
#5: ViNEZ FiRST LiNE RECLAiM/HOLD MANMADE THiNGZ DOWN ALLOW/NATURE TAKE iTS COURSE
#6: PURiFYiNG RUST/- OXiDATiON BAPTiSM/BACK TO SiMPLEST SHiT
#7: SiMPLE MEN MiGHT SEEK/SHELTER AMiDST DETRiTUS/THRU POWER OF LOUNGE
#8: CLERiC’Z PURE WHiTE ROBEZ/ONCE iMMERSED iN REAL LiFE SHiT/BECOME DiRTGOD-STAiNED
#9: ONE MAN'Z STAiNZ EQUALZ/ANOTHER (SiMPLER) MAN'Z PURE/- PURiTY OF SOUL
#10: THRU POWER OF LOUNGE/DiRTGOD THEORiEZ OXiDiZE/GRiDLOCK DOWN TO EARTH
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TOP TEN NEW-FANGLED STICK & POKES AT THE FUN PARK











#1: b0ld n0 fVxxx g1v3n/n0-br0w t4tt00 sp3ct4cl3z/4t 4mVs3m3nt p4rkz
#2: s0 m4nY d14m0nd ch3st/t4t cl34v4g3 t34s3z p33k1ng/0Vt b1k1n1 t0pz
#3: fVll b0dy l1z4rd/sk1n 4ll-0v3r c0v3r4g3/fr0m ch34p t4tt00 sh0pz
#4: cVrs1v3 n3ck t4tt00/m3m0r1Vmz - R.1.P.z/1n m4ss 4bVnd4nc3
#5: bVt th3m th1ck th1gh fr0nt/4rtz - l4wd h4v3 m3rcY - c4v3m4n/m0l3cVl3z g3t l1t
#6: r41nb0w d0lph1nz p33k/0Vt b4ck 0f sp4gh3tt1 str4pz/f4d3d bY r34l l1f3
#7: n3v3r n0 p3rf3ct/th1s w1d3 0p3n mVs3Vm/0f f0r-r34l fVck3rz
#8: 3xp3ns1v3 w3ll-pl4nn3d/t4tt00z 1s f0r pr1v1l3g3d/p30pl3z 0f l31sVr3
#9: p30pl3 0f c0l0r/f00l l1v3z t3nd t0w4rdz bl4ck 1nk/wh1ch spl0tch-f4d3z t0 j4d3
#10: fl4Vnt th3m crVd3 m4rk1ngz/b3l0w cl4zz 4m3r1c4/st4y g1v1ng n0 fVxxx
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TOP TEN REMEMBRANCES OF THE ASH FOREST











#1: 0nc3 c0mm0n f0r3sts/0f 4sh t0w3r3d 4s 3ld3rs/0f s4cr3d n4tVr3
#2: w34k-m1nd3d m3n s4t/1n th31r sh4d3, c0nt3mpl4t1ng/Vnr00t3d m4n th1ngs
#3: 4l0ng c0m3s j1h4d/0f 3m3r4ld 4sh b0r3 c3lls/1nf1ltr4t1ng c0r3
#4: tr33 bY tr33, 4nc13nt/s4cr3d c0nn3ct10n t0 34rth/r3nd3r3d d1sc0nn3ct
#5: 3m3r4ld 4sh b0r3/l4rv43 l34v3 c4ll1gr4phY/0f d34th thr0Vgh b0r3d0m
#6: d1sc0nn3ct3d tr33s/d0n't r3-gr33n, r0t wh1l3 st4nd1ng/tVmbl1ng b4ck t0 34rth
#7: d1sc4rd3d b4rksk1ns/r3v34l j1h4d p03trY/1n l4rv43 b0rn p4ths
#8: th3 w4y 0f n4tVr3/- 3v3n 1n d34th, 4sh f0r3sts/l34v3 b3h1nd l3ss0ns
#9: d3c1m4t3d 4sh/l1tt3rs th3 f0r3st fl00rs f0r/fr3sh mYc3l1Vm
#10: 1t b3g1ns 4g41n/th3 pr3s3nt 1s 4lw4Ys h3r3/wh4t's p4ss3d 1s jVst p4st
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45s on 33 – #68: “Puerto de Amor”

I was back at the picnic table when I heard the Space Espanol, so I figured I’d drive to the time tunnels for the fuck of it, by myself. Rey-Rey has such a better sense of direction in that expansive void, I wanted to do a little in real life recon mental mapping on my own. But as I walked through the yard, my youngest boogie chillen was playing by the calf-hutch she’s turned into some sort of self-universe. She was sing-songing some relevant but strange words, too:

“Watch out railroad time, don’t miss the right switch/or find yourself yourself, yourself caught in a glitch.”

“What are you singing?” I asked her.

“Oh, if you hear me talking, it’s just part of my game.” She always said this as she babbled unexplainable prophecies from the oracle of child’s play. “By the way, Ellabell was in the field. She asked where you were?”

“Wait, what? Is that part of your game?” Even my real world tends to be confusing.

“No, of course not. Ellabell really is in the field. I’m not lying.” She never stopped whatever it was she was playing, and shifted right back into sing-songing, “Watch out railroad time, don’t miss the left switch/or find yourself yourself, yourself stuck in a ditch.”

I walked down into the field where my rock altar was, and the magic broken jukebox was plugged into the red maple dirt foundation, and sure enough the lime green orbs were floating like dollar store bubbles. I sat by the rock altar, made sure the orgone generator’s wiry tip was still pointed in the best possible direction, and waited to see if Ellabell was actually there. Quick enough, a bigger, bolder, brighter lime green aura bubble of Other Realmsy realness manifested and enveloped my sensory perceptions. And of course, there was Ellabell. But she looked worried, not chill at all.

“Don’t be distracted by trying to explain all the unexplainable things you are finding out about the larger universe,” she said. “You have a destiny, even within the confusion of destinies that is this larger truth you’ve been exposed to. You’ve been shown all this for the purposes of your destiny. Do not get caught up in sidetracks involving emotion attached to this one realm you call reality.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I don’t mean anything. My words are clear. It is only your filtering of them into understanding that needs clarifying.”

And then the bubble burst. But the Space Espanol was still playing, very low, background noise level, so I jumped in my 4-cylinder 1993 Toyota pick-up inherited indirectly from my grandfather, and pointed that raggedy machine towards Buckingham, specifically Dillwyn, more specifically the playground behind the elementary school, to see if there was access to the time tunnels there, being that’s where Railroad Time had brought us out when he changed into a wolf.

Sadly, this is an uneventful chapter to this ongoing saga, as I stopped off at Ali’s country store on the ride to Dillwyn, wondered if Rey-Rey might show up there by chance, but he didn’t, so I got a styrofoam cup of country store coffee and headed on further south. By the time I got to Dillwyn though, the Space Espanol was gone completely. I poked around at the playground for a few minutes, as there was nobody else there, but honestly the external sense of awareness that I looked weird as fuck, a 43-year-old man staring up a sliding board tunnel at a small town playground, all by myself, that was a little too weird. So I went home. But I stopped at the dollar store that ends up being a grocery store in the future, and bought a bunch of scotch tape for making zines, transparent not invisible, because it is clearer and makes strange diffusions of photocopier light sometimes. Also I got thousands of index cards, because one can never have too many index cards in a reality like mine.

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old juice barrels which never
made it under gutters plus
leftover beadboard, at rest
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Wednesday, June 29

perfect white blotter clouds drift
aimlessly through baptismal
blue sky; depression eases
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45s on 33 – #69: “Get Back Baby”

A main issue with In Real Life is its refusal to acknowledge Other Realm impact on daily existence. Every baby is born not necessarily the complete clean slate we assume with scientifically-validated mind. It’s easy for you, the reader of this, to comprehend the time tunnels of this recollection of events as futuristic Other Realms, and you likely assume this is from an imagination of reality that I – in this physical existence – own somehow. But past Other Realms weight fairly heavily, on me, on all of us. Perhaps some have had relatively smooth Other Realm tunnels from their past burrow into their present – I cannot make that assumption, but I know plenty of people trying not to be broken by these unexplainable Other Realms, not possessed in any “I created this” way whatsoever.

This goes back to self-medication again. Folks like this (like me) self-medicate to become functional In Real Life (as in “functional alcoholic”). Often times the medication we choose though might get too strong as we attempt to be functional in Other Realms existence that we lose functionality In Real Life. Then we are judged as negative participants In Real Life, generally jailed, at the very least prohibited. Even in the realm of therapeutic care, this ends up crossing over into official-medicated (not by self). This does nothing to address the Other Realm realities, and only works to make us functional In Real Life.

I am struck by the somewhat opposing forces of being functional versus actually healing. Is the goal to be functional, or heal? And if it’s only to function, what are we functioning for? When the Heart Stars start floating around me, when I am home at the Bird Tribe Sanctuary compound, indulging in Other Realms exploration, it seems observationally to be as close to healing from Other Realms from the past as I get. But these are only my observations. The problem becomes a conflict of time, in that a majority of my daily allotment of actual existence if dedicated to being functional, not healing. Thus healing is squeezed in around the edges of function. If too much trauma affects an individual, they then become “dysfunctional”, or unable to function. They are, in that moment, worthless to the functioning system. And it seems the goal is to get them functioning first, without healing a secondary objective.

This seems completely fucked up to me. I am sitting at the far back picnic table in my yard, contemplating the time tunnels, contemplating what Heart Stars of inspiration mean to me, what they mean to Rey-Rey, and wondering how this all relates to the future version of both of us that is somehow fucking that up. Rey-Rey and me are healing in our different ways, recovering from the same shared time tunnels of the past, in our fragmented tendrils of the multiverse. That’s not functional to any future financial benefit – it’s just growth, no different than a vine growing up a wall or tree aging some fresh roots off-shooting from the thick ones already holding dirt tight.

When I saw that future me, writing in what appeared to be a successful manner, that definition of success was financial. He was a functional writer, existing as that entity. But very little economically-rewarded writing is done for healing purposes, because there’s no coin in healing. There is coin, however, in perpetually functioning, always working, buying, consuming, exchanging abstractions of wealth. Most of the writing that succeeds in accumulating these abstractions of wealth is a momentary escape from function’s mundane existence, a complete and total distraction. Rarely does it address any healing, on individual or massive scale.

I don’t know, this chapter ain’t really got nothing happening, other than me sitting at the picnic table contemplating the purpose of all this. Rey-Rey and me are gonna have to go back in the time tunnels, and address whatever the fuck it was Ellabell was talking about with regards to the future version of us fucking up the main Heart Star transmission, dissipating those moments of creativity into darkness. I guess I’m feeling existential as fuck today though, and meditating on the differences between functioning and healing, and wondering if it’s enough to just function. I mean, is that lowering the goal? Is that accepting a lesser reward to benefit somebody other than yourself? I don’t know. But I hope the fucking Space Espanol comes out the jukebox, because I could use a new adventure to distract me from functioning far too far into my head, when I’d rather be burrowing into my heart, trying to better connect past Other Realms with the present and those future ones, let that shit heal together a little (or a lot).

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navigating planned gridlock
over old bridges which span
rivers more ancient than men
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Tuesday, June 28

45s on 33 – #70: “Too High”

Got a couple dudes I play dominos with on Friday evenings, and I’ve found it becomes difficult to talk about these recent endeavors with them. Before I can even get to the realities of time tunnels and shape shifting, even something as simple in the beginning of this story as music coming out of an old weather-beaten jukebox in the field gets them tripping, being like, “Damn, you must’ve got too high!” or looking at me side-eyed with the judgmental gaze of devil scientific knowledge born deep in the infertile fissures of mind. So I’ve learned to keep it to myself.

This creates a new dilemma in that In Real Life friends start to suffer, those relationship are not nurtured, because they negatively judge and are generally dismissive of these Other Realm friends and realities, seeing them as not real. The conflict between In Real Life and Other Realm gets too much, because honestly I am far more comfortable in the Other Realms. In Real Life is mundane and repetitive and many days, for ten hours of it, I feel like one of those genetically engineered white chickens stuffed into the cages on the tractor and trailers rolling west on I-64 to the slaughterhouses. I’m just riding along, stuffed into my little work pen, administratively tasking after the tasks that are most pressing, pushing the others aside, not invested emotionally at all – in fact deeply detached from feeling anything because to let feeling in would be painful.

There was already enough pain embedded in my existence already, perhaps from born DNA clusters, perhaps environmental, likely a combo deal of both (with a free super-size by society), and I come from clans who are adept at self-medication. This I understand all too well – the desire to numb the pain, to let the dark unexplainable hurt be swallowed by opioid or alcoholic fog. The sharp edges of suffering are not gone, but you don’t see them so clearly, and don’t feel them nearly as much. Thankfully, I recognized that as a cycle going nowhere, and stepped off it, not without a lot of struggle, which continues to this day.

In Real Life seems to be getting more pokey, sharper, shivs and shanks and broken glass from all directions, and yet the civilized fog seems to be pumping harder, probably to dull our sightline on all those painful realities which should be obvious. And when I look around at others In Real Life, it seems to be working. They don’t seem to be freaking out, many of them are shinefaced and successful, able to buy things. Often I am not able to buy simple things like more groceries, so comprehending how to get the complex things like houses built in the past twenty years or vehicles less than nine years old is almost like reading Urdu, in that it certainly looks great but I got no idea what the fuck.

Thus, as I am forced by circumstance to navigate In Real Life more and more, it becomes more painful, and I want to disappear into the Other Realms. But In Real Life won’t let me. In Real Life has timely demands that require timely response and expect timely reactions. Flux time Other Realm nonsense only gets in the way of In Real Life demands. So I am forced to ignore the Other Realms, and take care of business, so to speak. Take care of business. Taking care, of “business”.

That shit is painful, a clenched fist of a heart painful that sometimes becomes unbearable, and you want to actually go ahead and get too high. But you know you shouldn’t, because that repeats failures you saw as a kid, as an adult, through both sides of the family tree. So you suffer it, and try to keep going, without giving up and laying down on the train tracks and hoping to sleep forever, no more In Real Life to fucking judge you.

Thus, I am thankful for the Other Realms. Without them, all I’d have is In Real Life.

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twisted tendrils spiraling
upwards, looking like impulse
charges striking at blue sky
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freestyle sonnet #049: EIGHTEEN WEEKS 'TIL THE MUCH-BALLYHOOED AMERICAN ELECTION OF PRESIDENT 2016

Clinton co-opting Sanders support with well-thunk
Senator Warren, who seems bit too happy to
suddenly be spotlighted; egos become drunk
with historical power's potential. States blue

stay blue; states red remain red. Trump still remains Trump -
political dumpster fire, yet many folks still
ready to burn all bridges; frustration's quick jump
into "fuck it". Don't underestimate the will

of "fuck it" demographic. It may seem like coast
to victory for Clinton from both coasts, but mass
of flyover country's passed over people host
much resentment for establishment, whether ass

or elephant. But inelegant bridge burning
through ballot box won't keep our small worlds from turning.
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45s on 33 – #71: “Fireflies”

After we got back, Rey-Rey and me went home, meaning our realm homes. After stopping off at the store for butter and milk and bread and contact lens solution, I got to the house. It’d only been about two hours since I left, though it felt like I’d been gone for weeks. Time is fucked up enough when it’s normal, but this off-the-grid fluctuating fourth dimension shit was going to be hard to configure to keep a personal schedule.

We had fried rice and chicken and tofu (separate skillets) cooked in tamari for dinner, and then I went out to the main looping path meandering through the woods behind our cultivated Bird Tribe property. Once you circle halfway around the main loop, there’s a secondary loop I built following animal paths that cuts back near a debris pile from decades ago. I’ve got various rock altars and hidden Buddha figurines all around back there, so I like to walk those non-circular circles to scope out the always-changing advanced mushroom technologies, and try to get my mind to settle.

On that secondary loop, right at the beginning, in fall and winter it is brown and angular, and the winter freeze squeezes up a fresh batch of trash quartz for harvesting in the spring. Whenever I pick up a quartz rock, I gently touch and tug at first, to feel whether it’s ready to come with or not. It’ll usually tell you. But in summer, once everything’s gotten bright green, by that debris pile on an angle it looks luscious with the sun filtering down into the ground-level green, giving everything a lime aura. Crows are usually back there in the distance, over at the wizard-looking neighbor’s land, dropping crow freestyles into the sky. It’s often times my favorite place on earth that I’ve found thus far. (This earth, meaning my specific earth – not all earths.)

As I was out there, summertime was official because the fireflies and lightning bugs were flickering up out of the green undergrowth as twilight started to get lit. Fireflies and lightning bugs are almost exactly the same, excepting fireflies possess a slightly higher upward mobility. So I sat there by one of my Buddha stumps (one in which the Buddha had long since left… I think sometimes maybe they come alive, or perhaps the crows took him, because I used to leave them peanuts at this same stump altar) and contemplated the fireflies and time and all this that had been going on.

A good exercise against the anxiousness is deep breathing, and I’d had a lot to be anxious about in my normal existence before all this other realm foolishness injected itself into complexifying being. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, at first concentrating on the breathing but then unconcentrating on it. The best way to think of it is that old Taoist mantra often seen in kung fu flicks about how you have to first know something, and then secondarily not know it, meaning it goes from conscious to unconscious. Once I get my deep breaths washing through my rib cage, I try to detach from thinking about it, or anything, always with my eyes closed to decrease the sensory distractions which always threaten to lead us astray. It’s fun to do this for a while and then open your eyes and see the world with supernatural crispness.

As I kept breathing, I imagined the fireflies floating up, and started to feel like I was floating up physically, just a touch. I’d like to think I’d be more lightning bug than firefly, but the floating sensation started to cease as I thought like that, so I went back to just breathing. Just breathing. Just. Breathing.

It felt as if I was floating for a good while before I finally opened my eyes, and there I was at tree levels, higher than human feet could know, and luckily my brain didn’t become startled and look back at my body like had happened when I was a teenager. I felt higher than a firefly so kept floating forward through the trees, towards the crow calls in the distance.

One translucent black grimy crow was nearby, who I didn’t see until he squawked at me, “Who the fuck are you?” He spoke crow, but I heard him say that specifically.

“Raven,” I answered.

“You’re not no fucking raven!” he squawked back, then flew off, zipping in the direction of the symphony of other crows further off. I thought about being Raven, and saw my body sitting by the debris pile back in the woods, and felt the umbilical cord of consciousness pull me back into that body.
I opened my eyes – my Raven the human dude eyes – and got really excited. I think I had actually turned into a crow. I know for sure I did, but still, I wasn’t quite confident in my thinking so.

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Monday, June 27

June 27th Mix 2016

In honor of June 27 - DJ Screw Day, I had meant to do a write up about how much screwed music has been part of my life the past decade-plus, and how that spirit is influential on why I bother to listen to and rip old 45s at 33 speed and write convoluted serialized tales of time travel and bastard overlords and such (45s on 33 – daily operation all through the summer, last year and this and hopefully beyond), but then life became overwhelmingly depressing, and it’s been all I could do to keep moving through the sludge. But here is a mix of the 45s on 33 from last year’s list of 100 that have been the most played, according to iTunes data analysis. Please enjoy responsibly.

track listicle
1. tR0GL0DYT3
2. fLy l1K3 4n 34GL3
3. dR34Mz t0 r3M3MB3r
4. s4m sT0N3
5. cRYST4l bLV3 p3RSV4S10n
6. b0Rn p00r
7. r4MBL1n g4MBL1n m4n
8. sT4GG0L33
9. tVSh
10. c4LL1Ng d0CT0r l0V3
11. m1ST3r sP33d
12. y34h y34h y34h
13. d0Wn 0n tH3 c0RN3r
14. gH0St w4Lk

15. tH3 r4p

DOWNLOAD
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