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.