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benjamin-valenzuelaPoems
Pick axe in hand The ground laid out before me There is no ”X” Just a solid exterior that is beginning to erode Some where below is the prize I pick among visible lines The obvious Start where it is already coming undone Grinding the dust into my hands The smooth grain worn into a natural grip A focused vision comes into view Marking the ground with my sight Lifting and straining against the weight of my tools I have not yet begun I feel myself dispersing into the ground below me Patch verified axe rising like the new sun Then quickly drawn down upon the soil Solid even in the fissures The vibration resonating Pushing back at me Swing Man! Swing! Bring on the ultra violence soon Standing on a barren plane Soft winds lapping at the gently rising dust As small shards find new places to rest Progress is slow & shallow Stopping regularly To clean and prime the site This ritual promoting Images and feelings of being prostrated Before some long forgotten deity Many hours gone progress is measured I have not gotten far This will be weeks Not days or hours I stop to consider the plan Too late ultimately I started here No rhyme or reason why Just here This is the scar upon my psyche That will give way I say.
0
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 7:35 AM UTC
axe in hand
Pick axe in hand The ground laid out before me There is no ”X” Just a solid exterior that is beginning to erode Some where below is the prize I pick among visible lines The obvious Start where it is already coming undone Grinding the dust into my hands The smooth grain worn into a natural grip A focused vision comes into view Marking the ground with my sight Lifting and straining against the weight of my tools I have not yet begun I feel myself dispersing into the ground below me Patch verified axe rising like the new sun Then quickly drawn down upon the soil Solid even in the fissures The vibration resonating Pushing back at me Swing Man! Swing! Bring on the ultra violence soon Standing on a barren plane Soft winds lapping at the gently rising dust As small shards find new places to rest Progress is slow & shallow Stopping regularly To clean and prime the site This ritual promoting Images and feelings of being prostrated Before some long forgotten deity Many hours gone progress is measured I have not gotten far This will be weeks Not days or hours I stop to consider the plan Too late ultimately I started here No rhyme or reason why Just here This is the scar upon my psyche That will give way I say.
Written by
benjamin-valenzuela
American
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 7:35 AM UTC
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