Writing Future Histories

I am writing future histories:
unborn ideals that have yet
to hold a hammer for one hot moment.

On a shelf on a shelf on a shelf-
now fast foreward and enhance
to see the synaptic branch extend
in cerebral bloom, then wilt
to be mixed with the earth.

Then this muddled speck may be picked out
and left within one of many canyons
where it is quickly coated in layer after layer
of nacre and, like a lustrous tumor,
pressures its neighbors for just one cup
at a time while the host asks for one minute
to show off something that shines.

The first shot is something to behold
and if it were to miss instead
of lodge itself in someone's breast
we would surely put it on a pedestal.