The brainbox nukes among the shells of softspace. Space is soft, like the
noise from a soft vinyl record. It's warm, like a night in the
Everglades. And there hang the many nightlight crucifixes.

Locked in this violent box, violated in this velvet box, my naked ghost
folds its arms and refuses to corporate. Corporations and nations radio
the corporate radiations, and the ghost-infested man refuses to manifest.

Many very early men stand naked in boxes of rain. Ghosts ride in boxes of
brain, sealed in diplomatic brainpouches, bathing by the sweet salty
celerywater. The brain is a monstrous fetus, floating in an amniotic
fluid. When we die, our skulls open up like dinosaur eggs, and our
shellbodies are abandoned. The trepanations on early man skulls — adepts
who popped the top and metamorphosed into Gods right then. Perhaps one of
them became Jehovah? Ur-jehovah bursting from his brainpan?

Manamorphosis, manna synthesis, man synthesis. Man in synthesis with
anesthetists. Anesthetists pry symphisis. Anamorphic anaphors at
anaphase. Anamorphosis — man grows, becomes a god. What's so odd about
that?