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I just wanted to share with you all that my racy little essay is getting published by Mad Hatter’s Review! I’ll share when it’s up!


…for Erica

and chasing trains,
the smell of the tracks
beneath that one rainbow
who the hell can see forever

I think of you,
I respond to your letters,
I picture you across
the ocean, painting houses
to get by on your trek across
the continent with your love.
I picture you gardening–
maybe Mexican Paintbrush?
soil and seeds in your hands—hands
I’ve held while leaping into
unknown waters, our handshake.

I read your search for yourself,
and your courage to find it,
You were always fearless.
It wasn’t the world that
frightened you.
That was a thing we
had in common but didn’t know it—
what frightened us
was ourselves.
In dark corners across the globe
facing down hell
in shacks and hospitals
I read your eloquent graffiti
you wrote in a rush,
and I was there hovering
over your breaking heart
as you held mine

I heard from someone
you’re still beautiful

See, you started living
from the outside in—
you grabbed that great big
old world in your arms
squeezing it until you hugged
only yourself


Beauty Walks a Razor’s Edge

…My weariness amazes me I am branded on my feet I have no one to meet and the ancient empty street’s too dead for dreaming… –Bob Dylan He is standing at the end of the dock with a cigarette hanging from his dry lips. Late July sun is rising, warming his bare feet on the…


My Yellowed Reminder, The Bell Jar

“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.” “but when I t came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn’t do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn’t in that skin…

Diary of Dawn PowellPhotographed in New York, 2012

Red Tides

The journal at my bedside. I stare at the white winter light coming though the double-paned glass and crystal dust drifts in empty air. The nurse comes in her alcohol and starched scrubs tells me to shower. Pills come in paper cups Paper ornaments on the Christmas tree so we can’t harm ourselves. The journal…


Sex, Abuse, Dreams, and Taboos

My hands are actually sweating writing this.  I’ve wanted to write it for a long time but how do you talk about it?  Well–you don’t.  So you write about it, and then no one can look at you.  Childhood sexual abuse, a well-known internet topic, but not-so-known is the secret many victims share–the abuse aroused…


My Brain a Splitting Continent

Because nothing was wrong with me. Nothing was wrong with me.
(noticing the dissociation/derealization—coming to in the middle of a task and not being there, Plath and The Bell Jar and that feeling when I read it, my heart made me literally sick, and I threw it away. I was sixteen, and it was like looking into a mirror and I was disgusted and yet more so terrified. Of my future. ——and college too, the way the words began pouring out, the way in the end I was sick, my brain a splitting continent, the Bipolar and Psychotic episodes and anxiety creeping up. Everything was creeping. Crying in the professor’s office that I had nothing but all these parts, and she said these parts were so amazing to just keep going with them because we could, together, piece it into a book. My dream had come true in that little office, and I knew I was too sick to do it)
(And I hear my Advisor, bumbling around her office that was stacked to the hilt with shelves of books and plants and aboriginal art and photographs of exotic places she had lived—
“Amy, there is a lot of goot talk about choo among the professors, you are on many lips.” I felt dizzy. Then I confessed to her (because my Dean’s List standing might fail) that I was in trouble. that I was diagnosed with bipolar and I was all scattered and all I wanted was to write. And pose the real questions I did in class, and implore and learn and pick apart. “I vill tell you von thing, some of the greatest artists and writers in this world…were bipolar. It is two opposites inside of you, and that is what feeds you. Be positive dawling.”
I wanted her to adopt me. I wanted to sip her tea and ride around in her dirty Passat and be told I had something in me, some kind of talent. That it was born in me stronger than my sickness. She looked at me the way I craved—as a young ambitious woman with talent, sick or not.)


When it Makes Sense (Temenos)

“And it is so simple…you will instantly find how to live.” –Dostoyevsky Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes. –Walt Whitman Temenos:a Greek word which refers to a universal instinct to create a protected, safe space in which to heal, reorganize and regenerate the fragmented personality; taking…


Not to Touch the Earth

I’m standing on the roof of a four-story building downtown in a city. I’ve just taken Ecstasy. I don’t feel ecstasy. I feel what I learned later to be verging on a psychotic panic. I’m going to jump off if someone doesn’t stop me, if someone doesn’t touch me. The sky is clear. Alisha spins…


The Elements of Loss

I don’t hear you say my name as you ask why it is I let no one love me. I feel something stir and I laugh. This is my way. There’s no room for clumsy. Take me or leave me, I say I’ll give you one chance when I know I won’t give you any.…


Daddy’s Game

published in FRiGG Magazine, Issue 35 2012 DADDY’S GAME I imagine you must’ve shut yourself off somehow–the way you’d eventually teach me to d0– before you entered my room like a king’s shadow. I hear the scrape of your jeans your hands hot and big like swings;

Henry Miller “Reflections on Writing”

Today I went to a used bookshop across the lake from my little hometown.  It’s probably one of my favorite places in the world.  It’s in an old, 18-foot-high ceilinged long rectangle of a room with shelves and shelves up to the ceiling with ladders all over.  The wood floors all old and creaky as…


Humming Birds

“Amy, you’re gonna get it,” Nikki tells me. I’m hiding between the lilac bushes, Barbie’s head in my hand. It’s our weekend at our father’s old farmhouse. “What’d you use?” “Daddy John’s pocket knife.” I’m not afraid. My father is harmless, even almost scared sometimes. “I’m telling!” And she runs toward the house. I fish…

Poet Scott Hastie Writes “GRACED”

I have been fortunate enough to meet and chat with this talented poet over at LinkedIn.  Amazing, sincere, and a damn cool guy–poet Scott Hastie wrote this poem GRACED.  It’s beautiful.  Be sure to check out his blog Scott Hastie for more stunning poetry. This poem is published HERE, at his blog. Click the link and he will take you to a youtube reading of this, as well as a ton of other amazing poems …GRACED Graced with the chance to be here, Even if only fleetingly, Embrace whatever comes your way And, in so doing, However enchanting Any treasures…