I’d spent months
working on the vector-calculations,
checking, verifying, rechecking, rechecking, rechecking
in a circular-order, a daily ritual,
infecting my mind with worry.

Such things were important,
so very critical for mission success.
A careless subtraction,
a meaningless missed-detail,
one minor error in the numbers
and my chances went up astronomically.
The chances I would not make it back,
not make it back to see all those nice things
going on down on the surface.

Strange, how your mind can play tricks on you up here,
this lonely place where dreams are made
& lost. I know she’ll be sorry when she finds out
about my mistake, but things
should have been better between us.

Sadly, they weren’t.

Stuck
in a ***** two-room apartment
almost out of cigarettes ,
at one in the middle
of a sweaty Chennai night,
sobering up after two days,
famished
and restless
dreaming of mid-night
cigarette shops that never were,
dreaming of alcohol
(just enough to pass out),
checking and rechecking
the spent bottles
and giving up in the end
and settling to tolerate a night
with myself,
walking and babbling
and writing and thinking
and floating up on a great idea
and circling back to the floor
looking for cigarettes,
just waiting for the shutters to lift,
just waiting for this to end,
just waiting.

It was the best metaphor for life
that I've ever known.

Darkness has pressed up against our lattice windows. Classes start again in the morning. I’m being reabsorbed by college life. I’m a planner. I’ve been going over my syllabuses, repacking my bookbag, charging my power banks, checking and rechecking the assignments due tomorrow. After watching me prep for hours, Peter said, “You’re not going to the MOON.”

Peter asked me last Friday, “Are you excited for Monday? (I’ll find out if I get my fellowship.)
“I’m more excited about tonight,” I said, “I like going out on the town.”
“Wow,” he said, “you’re so different - not like the other girls at all.”
“No!” I said, laughing, “We’re stuck in a rut, we only go to one or two places, ever - if we go out at all. When people come to New Haven, I need places to take them - places besides pizza. At home, in Athens (Ga), I know twenty places - this is RESEARCH.” I assured him.

Peter settled back into his doctorate-fraternity-house yesterday. Tonight (Sunday), there’s music in the suite, the crazy noises of people and the comfort of returned friends. All the roommates are back, greeted with hugs and kisses, as they dragged in their luggage.

Lisa arrived with dinner, for 10, from Dominick's, in Manhattan. Spaghetti, salads, rolls, extra sauce - in six, small, suitcase-sized insulated bags. It was a logistical marvel. It’s only 90 minutes from Manhattan to the residence - we didn’t need to rewarm anything. “I KNOW we could have just eaten in the dining hall,” she said, shrugging, “call it zany - one last hurrah.”

Everyone seemed happy to be back. There were travel stories, questions, and laughter. Oh, and Zeppole, little powdered sugar custard desserts that seemed the worst for travel. Everyone seemed to have an eye on the clock though. By 11pm the suite was quiet. Très unusual.

OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER

Seconds, minutes, hours and days go by
I have to count every minute and don’t know why
Cleaning, dusting, washing and planning
All must be done or moving on is just not happening

Routines and rituals are a daily task
Why can’t I escape it I have to ask
Things have to de done in a certain way
Or, I am truly afraid things won’t be okay

Checking and rechecking consume my day
It’s difficult to keep my daily rituals at bay
Things I own always have their proper place
Or, I cannot relax in my very own space

Doing things out of order will just not do
Moving things slightly makes me crazy, too
No matter how hard I try to refrain
Actions are overridden by my own brain

I am told this is one of my mechanisms to cope
If I’m not careful, I will be hung by my own rope
I can only take this one day at a time
But, if I continue to work on it, I should be just fine.

We were flying over the Rocky Mountains, but you couldn’t see **** out the windows. I only knew because of the captain’s voice groaning from the speakers. The oval portholes only told of hazy fog and jet stream winds. Winds that caused the cabin to bounce causing babies to cry causing mothers to panic causing the repeated “ding” of the fasten seatbelt sign.

My stomach growled, turning as violently as the plane from over-priced airport whiskey and complimentary black coffee from an artificially amiable flight attendant. I had to take a **** but the overweight ginger sitting next to me was as immobile as a boulder — drool in the corner of her lips, a trumpeting snore escaping her hairy nostrils. Before passing out, she had told me that people from New Zealand where called either New Zealanders or Kiwis. But like the bird. Not the fruit.

Abrasive turbulence had the plane’s inhabitants on edge. Humans always crack at the slightest indication of danger. Like death is so much worse than having to sit next to a stranger who farts in their sleep while breathing in recycled air for 5 hours. It’s like before a snow storm. Everyone rushes to stock up on bread and milk. Fearing for the worst. Except in this case, everyone was checking and rechecking their seatbelts and making sure that the tray in front of them was securely fastened.

I could give two ***** if the plane suddenly lost altitude. Just started plummeting through thick milky clouds, losing mechanical parts like a dandelion being turned to seedlings in the wind. It wasn’t that I wanted to die. I just had so much on my mind. A **** storm, if you will, of anxieties and worries and feelings of inadequacies. I wasn’t wishing for death. I just wanted something more real to worry about than paying rent, or falling in and out of love, or landing my dream job, or which ******* tie matches my shirt.

But as the aircraft sliced through the fog leaving behind a wily jet stream, my window became engulfed by a clear blue sky. Below, the Rockies stretched across the land like a lovely spinal cord. Only the purest white light spilled down from space. In that moment, life was too brilliant for paranoia. The past, as irrelevant as the souvenirs that tourists had stuffed in the overhead compartments. The future, as uncertain as your chances of being in a plane that actually does fall from the sky. The only thing that mattered was I was floating above the clouds and not even Mother Nature — the **** responsible for earthquakes, floods and menstrual cycles — could bring me down.

no matter how many times
i've crossed these tracks
nor how old i might now be
i will still feel
that childlike excitement
building within
as i look cautiously
left then right and
left then right again
just to be sure
before stepping across
that first metallic line
a symbol of both
danger and adventure
rechecking the signals
as i cross the second
i have never understood
what those lights tell
of the next train's progress
red yellow green
single or double
flashing or constant
no matter how clear
the tracks appear
the uncertainty of
what might soon be
unstoppably approaching
always sets me on edge
momentarily apprehensive
yet exhilarated by
each rushed step

Koozies keep the beer cold
They keep your hand warm
And your beer cold
Which is nice
When most thing are more complicated
Or more intricately disappointing

I find little to do
Besides stare from one screen to the next
And back and back again
Rechecking the same websites
The same hiss of the tab being popped

Sitting in one room
While thinking of many rooms
None of it really makes any sense
This inherited feeling of unease
Wanting just to be close to you
To actually kiss you
Meaning it
Having some feeling behind something

Not wanting to rush from one thing to the next
Just wanting to be stuck in that one moment with you
Tasting your saliva
Feeling your tongue, probing
Like some rogue octopus tentacle

There is nothing that fills the hollowness
Like you  
You are the echoing clatter of pebbles
Thrown down a dark ravine
Replacing space with substance
One haphazard toss
After another

looking out yonder,never really seeing to far, did you know there was  one more

It is no wonder, simply forgetting your own self worth is all part of the matter

Carefully watching the steps of others,not for guidance  but possibly something new to explore

Becoming suspicious of our own character,rechecking boundary's seems to come faster

Preponderance of potions poured in our lap forming a barrier guarding us from what we were before

Seeking some fantasy, not blind but still limited ,will we ever become our own master

Forgiveness a fantasy just for a good nights rest? grasping blindly for parts of the past to restore

Hazy horizons,scattered views change like the news,adjusting by thinking faster

Personal health now the most honest wealth, looking out ,not for what may have been before

Simple wisdom from a compass,pointing to truth,acceptance your guide no longer needing a handler   R.C.

i'm scared to speak of her
it validates her existence
***** her from the crevices of my mind
and places her on this piece of paper

as if she's on the same level
as some work of art.
she begs
to be shown off,
bragged about.

she's usually more subtle
historically she
shrunk my waist
and my legs
and my arms
and my strength

but she's ******* gorgeous
people love to see her
mistaking her for
health

ha.

she demands the affection of others
and worst of all
convinces you to do the same.
reinforcing every choice
that led you here

do you realize
how many choices that is?

every glance in a mirror,
bite, meal, event,
run, walk,
exercise in general,
photo, social media,
shopping, outfits,
the way that you sit,
feeling parts of your body,
checking,
and rechecking,
and rechecking.
all to make sure
they fit her ridiculous ******* standards.

she's unreachable
until she kills you
and even then
you still won't be thin enough.

she doesn't stop at thin, either
she's permeated my confidence
stained it,
trashed it. to be honest.

she's not even real
but my god does it feel that way
i hear her
allthegoddamntime

i've starved her for years

that's not true.

i like to think i have, though.
pretending to be stronger than i am
i'm faking it but still
not even close to making it
out okay.

i've breadcrumbed her

i haven't starved the way she likes since ninth grade
but i've become """health conscious"""

i eat
but i eat healthily.
i check ingredients on almost everything in the supermarket.
i don't cook or bake anything
that didn't come from a health food blog.
i run, i hike,
i still sometimes google my calorie burn

every morning, every outfit, every window and mirror,
every shower, every photo,
every time i ******* think about it
i check my body

i check my body
so much
that i don't even know how many
times per day that it happens
constantly
measuring and reconsidering my self worth

so, no,
i'm not starving anymore
i haven't been for years.
but i still feel like her prisoner

and i keep feeding her

and i work in ******* therapy
i know i have control
my helplessness is an illusion

i'm just
so
tired
of
fighting
this
endless,
exhausting,
ridiculouslystupidcomparedtosomanyotherthin­gs
battle
with her.

I was standing outside a downtown building one morning with my friend Trudy when this somewhat scary looking homeless man walked up to us and started talking to us. He asked us for a cigarette probably because he saw us both smoking. Trudy gave him a cigarette. I wished that she hadn't given him a cigarette because I was sure that he would be obliged to smoke it and continue to talk to us and I was right.

Trudy was six feet tall and from what I have gathered throughout my life experiences, the rules of a six foot woman are just different than other, less tall women because of their height. They seem fearless of other people whom I am sure they view as midgets and munchkins.

The homeless guy told us that he went to Chicago and a famous person gave him a million dollars. He said that when he went to the bank to try and open a bank account that the bank teller tried to take his money away from him and he had to go through a lot of trouble to get it back. I remembered my experience with a bank teller who shorted me exactly one hundred dollars and when I spoke up in a loud voice, she dispersed the missing one hundred bucks without rechecking anything or batting an eye lash except there was a clear look of guilt in her eyes.

The more the homeless man spoke the more apparent it was that he was mentally challenged or perhaps on drugs. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He opened his wallet and produced a million dollar bill. He said the banks in town would not break the bill for him so that he could have smaller bills to spend.

I couldn't believe my eyes that this homeless guy was wandering the streets and had a million dollars in his pocket. I saw the bill myself and it was authentic. He wanted me and Trudy to help him. I referred him to the Community Center and told him they would probably help him set up a bank account and straighten out his financial affairs.

For the rest of the day I was bewildered by the homeless man wandering the streets with no place to go and not even enough money for a pack of cigarettes and meanwhile he was a millionaire!

My astonishment came to a halt when I found out there is no such thing as a million dollar bill.  The authentic looking bill is how they make them since they are fiction and are not a valid currency amount.  The bill felt to the touch like paper currency too;an exact replica of something that does not exist.  Apparently the bills were handed out to people as a promotional smile for fun and the man who was given one believed the bill was real.   The End