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"I love good ole hamburger joints... This is one located deep in Southern Tennessee near Chattanooga. The color from the neon almost overwhelms you as you drive by. It also backs up its claim as one the best shake and hamburger joint in the regional area."
Ed Rode, photographer


Scott-Patrick Mitchell


re: WRITING the city (anonymously)






in sect signage (ph.) minority based semiotics where meta-ghetto sub-cults usurp authority through an aggressive iconographic lexicon, one where neo-collectivisim reconstructs deviations into a unified art form of territorial expression, heterogeneity usurped to directly tackle political actions which disregard diplomacy.


or, in mega-basic:

label yr tribe


confuse art & advertising


paint yr message on the pavement


stick to yr ethos






they tattoo, trademark tags

, steal space, spray like dogs


. they kidnap

, hold hostage


. to them, bricks are canvas

, mortar a crossbeam


, on which they graf against those governing

, a coordination in how to be notorious


. they have names:

ˇ      victim

ˇ      trevor

ˇ      hitchcock

ˇ      mcpherson

ˇ      ghengis

ˇ      fiend

ˇ      revolt

ˇ      sins

ˇ      spoine

ˇ      yok


. some are real, some imaginary. together

, they are the urban artists of the meta-ghetto


, propelled by the momentum of moving,

as though plot could write itself.





in the City of Perth a victim laments

buffed designs of grand territorial takeovers


. he paints himself in where others

have painted, & been painted, over & over


again. white crosses at speed crash sites

own their own design, suffer it.





chickens are loose, are hungry space eaters

. they follow the storm, these new northians.





smash yr television, cornice floorboards

. the master of suspense has become a chinese detective!





yok yok yok yok yok yok

(it’s as though they are laughing).





to say their name is to invoke discordia

, is to say “yes…of course…i have that one


…photographed.”. or adorning

fridge, cupboard, wall as exhibition.





in the a.m. the new north travels to the ghetto (meta, satellite &

burbial), tagging public works of art right there on the facade


. they invade space, as it were

, like french in an australian play-yard.





these are the architects of the urbane gardé

, plotters surveying where to piss aerosol


. they culturally chrome, dribble their zone

, are high on the fumes of vandalizing (the vandal…



Scott-Patrick Mitchell is a theoretical construct. These days, he mainly writes, although in the past he has been many things – club kid, stylist, manager, street art collector, pop culture enthusiast. These days, however, he mainly writes. He is a poet, a journalist for OUTinPerth (, the editor of literary street art zine MoTHER [has words…]., and the editor of monthly narrative art zine “COTTONMOUTH” ( At current he is writing a poetic spatial street art experiment called The Trickster’s Bible, which he will debut at Australia’s National Young Writer’s Festival ( in October 2008, ten days before he turns 31.


PJ Nights



*Madness and promiscuity are excusable in poets. I love him.*

the girl standing in the corner awaiting
chastisement is not me – he hasn’t yet decided
on the application of a switch of sinner’s hair
plaited and stiffened with time
or the forgiveness of feathers, but his
indecision is filled with miracles as
her birth would have gone unremarked
except for her passing through the sun,
unnoticed but for the eyeball which rolled
under the bed

his impulses are a labyrinth
within which the eyes of reason disappear
that planet their grass the
only well lacking
they ply bamboo paddles, clothing
flying though beatnik
air shedding routine, she sees seas
the trip designed caramelizes
her and the years

he is irresistible here in my neutral gray,
neither subject nor object, neither inner
nor outer, neither tension nor relaxation
this gray is not an occupied territory,
but a border and he holds out a passport

I take it, the sunflower to my highway
tongue phone a night
of butterflies and first
histories the lead in the play
a singing wind
to bear my head



PJ Nights lives in the wild and ravishing state of Maine. She publishes and co-edits (with Ray Sweatman) the quarterly poetry journal “from east to west: bicoastal verse”, teaches physics, and stargazes. Her poetry has appeared in journals such as “Ocho”, “Blue Fifth Review”, “Animus”, “Wicked Alice”, “Slow Trains”, “andwerve”, and “Centrifugal Eye”.

URL for "from east to west" -


shali Nicholas




I referenced your dead father

too many times tonight.


I felt the inaudible click

of locking metal

and silent slam

of some door inside—

your red-rimmed eyes

glared up at me,

hating yourself

and him.


You know I was well within my right

to drag his trembling

alcoholic hand

up from the dust

to shake in your face

and startle you.


Forgive me, the intrusion

but I would rather have

the frightened boy

than the 35 year old drunk—

the sour reek of failure

stinging against my pores


as you grumble loneliness

to yourself

and your father

killing the both of you

and me,




shali Nicholas has a BA in English and also Psychology from Pitzer College.  She writes and teaches in the mountains of Southern California where she lives with her husband and three kids. 



Belinda Subraman



The following four pieces are from a longer work I wrote when I was a psych nurse which collectively I call "Late Night In The Psych Ward."


From the outside


my job may look easy.

What could be so stressful?

Never mind no one I work with makes sense

and I cannot sleep at night.

There's a cemetery

by the psych hospital

with only the width

of a two lane road

between them.

Every night from the third floor

I look down on the past

and the future.


Every night

I turn into work.

I drive myself

between the insane

and the dead. 


Peter tells me what's missing


in his life is

"clarity of psycho insight,

integrated entity,

singularity of thought train,

emotional isometric order,

systematic equational interlude,

local creation,


atomization, singularization,

a natural Gibraltar,

a mother and a nuclear family image,


a mother."


Peter orders dinner


in a note stating,

"Please give moral character of GUN SMOKE and HIGH NOON

in my supper meal.

Give Bible character lessons of GOD'S LITTLE ACRE

in my supper meal.

Give love and security of LEAVE IT TO BEAVER

in my supper meal.

Give character of MY THREE SONS

in my supper meal.

Give simple love of John Boy from the WALTONS

in my supper meal.

Give universal knowledge

in my supper meal


and coffee."


Peter is back after only 8 days


He was caught directing traffic, naked,

claiming to be Charlie Manson and Hitler.

He's sunburned, scratched up.

His feet are cracked and cut

from walking barefoot.

His voice is garbled, sounds like he's barking

with a mouth full of gravel.

But he continues dropping lists at the desk.

Some lists tell us who he is:  "a homosexual and a lesbian

and Zar governor of Andromeda Strain..."

Some tell us diseases he wants cured:  "Soviet's tongue,

Heineken's turmoil, defecation rot..."

Other lists tell us who he wants

at his "ordination breakfast"

where "wurlitzer coffee" is to be served.

He wants Clinton, Popeye, Queen of England,

Daffy Duck, Mortimer Snerd, King Tut...

In the past he's told me

he sold dope to Jerry Garcia,

shot up with Grace Slick.

Said he likes "combo shotgun"

and rattled off a list of drugs.

He showed me "tracks" on his arm.

But I didn't see much, two or three red dots.

And I just got his toxicology screen results.

Negative for all drugs.

His problem is his brain.

Schizophrenic for 50 years.


He's basically harmless.

Claims to be God-fearing




Belinda Subraman's main website is   Her poetry is appearing in print journals, online magazines and podcasts around the world. Belinda is a contributing artist and show host for Gypsy Art Show played on streaming Bzoo Radio, TYNE FM and VI Radio. Her shows are available in podcast form at or available through itunes under Belinda Subraman Presents (podcast). Also she is an RN who has worked 6 years in hospice.



Suzanne Roberts


Surreal Landscapes

After I toured your studio, viewed

the enormous oils-the canvases swirling

with gray domes of granite, yellow spokes

of aspen, the green sway of pine,

and cloud-spangled skies-

I dreamt I crawled past the threads

of canvas and layers of oil,

entered the meridian of your painted

world. The mountains melting
in the liquid terrain of your body.




Running with an Old Dog
Lake Baron South Lake

We run the familiar path to the lake,
Riva cutting trail so she still stays in front.
The sun peels off the late afternoon,
flares and ripples in the wake of a boat.
Riva splashes through the water, the light
and lake gathering in her fur.

And before I can abandon the thought, I wonder
at the space left when she will have gone-
the familiar losses resurface. I remember
the cartoon flipbooks I made as a child,
where the girl and the dog walk off the page.
I follow the path away from the lake, call
This way, and she follows.


Suzanne Roberts is the author of Shameless (Cherry Grove Collections, 2007) and Nothing to You (Pecan Grove Press, 2008). Her poetry has been most recently published in The MacGuffin, Eclipse, Smartish Pace, South American Explorers, 13th Moon, and Divide. She lives, writes, and teaches in South Lake Tahoe, California. For more information, visit her Web site at






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