Soul writing

Tell them it’s me.  Phone 71B, loca­tion 2 Crew (B).  Novem­ber 2011.  Some­where off the coast of Oman I sit in a same-ness insti­tu­tion­al room, open­ing my mind to the full cir­cle encom­pass­ing dark­ness and light.  I have sat here all over the world.  The tan walls, the don’t-give-a-shit mat­tress, the white sheets and thin soft blan­ket on a bed not mine but for now.  Train­ing in Arkansas, wait­ing in Nicaragua, a tus­sle in Alas­ka, a Noosa Head space­ship ride direct from the beach.  Here I am again, won­der­ing what I should do with my life, for­get­ting until I push back Bur­ton’s black dog night that I’m doing it.
Arrives this wild and pure ker­nel of spir­it fire in me, slips it out in heavy weath­er, in big wind, in the hiss of heavy wood­en pok­er chips slid­ing off the table, when my cor­po­re­al being fal­ters, when my true spir­it rises.
I have begged for it to show, I have for­got­ten I had it in me.  On a cold moun­tain in the Tetons when all I want­ed was to be safe and com­fort­able, with no quar­ter giv­en from the mer­ci­less earth it was unre­mem­bered in sick fear. 
Some­times too late, after a con­fronta­tion with one in a long line of alpha males who won’t admit wrong­ness, some­times as unnec­es­sary as a warm ejac­u­la­tion wak­ing me from sleep. What is this spir­it that seems at times to be of ulti­mate impor­tance, exquis­ite joy, and at oth­er times like torn plas­tic float­ing on the ocean, a use­less and unwel­come rein­car­na­tion of its for­mer self?
I return to the moment, relieved of con­ver­sa­tion with utlanning, strangers of my own cul­ture.  The wak­ing sea falls away at every hori­zon, the ship’s white deck high off the water, dark clouds heavy over­head, warm drops of rain fleck­ing my shirt.  The wind ris­es, the sun sinks away blood orange.  Tricked by genet­ic response to rain-dark-anger, my spir­it awak­ens yet I am already safe.  Rage, sub­lime joy, a tem­pest of emo­tion, an uncon­trol­lable belief in self all sear through my veins.  Anoth­er deci­sion made, anoth­er poor action con­quered, my weak­est self beat­en again, raw fluke, gen­e­sis inevitability.
Look­ing for proof of exis­tence I for­get I live in a vapor of faith, that I breathe it in every time my chest expands.  I step once, twice, into space.  My self puls­es, an explo­sive oval thud, the ter­ri­ble heat only burns brighter my fire.  I fly.  I am gone, here forever.

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