My forehead itches in anticipation,
For the longing to begin, the inauguration
Of sensing the past before all prescience
Can distill the mind’s juices pouring
From some mystical eye in the center
Of my brain, shedding its calcium like
A bad tooth, a histrionic showing of its glowing sphere
Of inexistence chasing me down through
The fields of stars in my head; stricken shills
Of neurons bouncing on ballooned glial cells--
Dendrites aching with each introduction of
The dopamine triggers produced by this
Tiny pine cone and the spinning thought
Injures my ignorance of my
Possession of this second-sight to be reignited again,
From the mere presence of the mammalian pineal gland.
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