The Center of a Man

This hurts
today there is nobody to share with
I don't know how to be so inspired by little things
at an age where everyone has grown out of that
or had it pushed out through obedience

A simple breeze through leaves
still feels like a temple to me
I count the folds of plastic
in the front of a shotgun shell
I forget how to spell Karen
and paint with oil
to trade speed for alchemy
I have learned patience

My tribe has scattered
every last one of them
so I will go to Wal-Mart to buy camouflage
and tomorrow I'll hunt for the center of myself
down the barrel of a shotgun
pointed at a wild turkey
with another man who's tribe scattered
I will be in my feral center
that only I can hold
this instinctual core
that my culture would see me surrender

But I can't
it's where all the beautiful things
I've ever had
get created and destroyed
Where I make art
where I take risks
where I can kill an animal to eat
where I make love
and where I apply a blood choke

The center of a man
is a little big bang of violence and creation
Without it many would go hungry
and the babies would be too cold in the winter

Somebody always has to break the ground
and I'm sorry it's so hard for me to be sorry