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.