The Center of Descartes Soul





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 third-sight to be reignited again,

From the mere presence of the mammalian pineal gland.