money

when i was a child, i saved
my five-dollars-a-week
to see what
$100
looked like.
at the time i thought
it was all the money in
the world, those crumpled
bills, nearly war-torn
from tours in my pockets.

my father lost his job, and i never
saw his shoulders slouch like that.
i pushed my money
in his hand and he said,
honey, this wouldn't feed us for a week.

.what's.he.building.in.there.

Did you ever have Tinkertoys as a child? Or K'nex? Of course you had Legos. Everybody had Legos. Especially sons of clockmakers.

I built little houses
at first. And cars later
down the line, followed
by ships, and tanks, and subs
and I grew weary of
human transportation altogether.

I wanted to build something, not to move me around in this universe, but something that was an aspect of the universe itself. I wanted to build something pure and unarrogant, something that was prescribed by the universe, and not imposed upon it.

So like all little boys
I looked to the
stars:
blueprints for a grandiose machine

Have you heard that Tom Waits song, What's He Building in There?
That might as well be about me. What am I building in there? and out here? and everywhere. The stars are a subtle plan, but there is method in the madness, and as I narrow down the possible connections, my great device inches closer to completion.

::::::

"What's he building in there?"
"A celestial machine from the stars.
And he's not constructing it.
It's building him."