When I here Swiss Army Knife, the word strikes a cord with me
bringing to mind a device for wilderness survival, a catch 22,
a real man's man tool,
the peak of human ingenuity
yet once I heard this word and my mind,
as childrens minds often do, was caught by a breeze and slid off my shoulders,
freed to fly off the Earth and role around in the inky depth of space
carrying only impressions of the life many stars behind me
Yet one of the impressions pulled at me gently, my mind ignored it in favor of the stars,
still the impression tugged at the hem of my mind as insistant as a child on their mother's skirts,
once again my mind rebelled in favor of the infinite expanse
but now the impression would not be ignored, it manifested itself into three entities of Thought,
each lassoing me with a strong rope and the first Thought poised this question,
the should not the creators of the Swiss Army Knife be as honored as their creation?
Dismissively I agreed as I struggled with my bonds
yet when I tore at the bonds they only reformed
the second thought poised this,
yet how did they make these fine blades?
With machines I said hastily with bitter kindness
machines that click and clang
Yet the third Thought stepped up and poised this,
and how did they make the machines?
Hands! I yelled, go far enoough back and everything is made by hands!
It all...starts...with hands...
I was startled by my own words,
I look at the Thoughts and see a nod of satisfaction
then...they say as they loosen my bonds...use them!
I crawl back to Earth and plop my head onto my neck, I pick up my pencil,
and begin to write