Our destinies are molecular, uniformly bonded, an immaculately charged cluster fuck of singing clinging particles wedded to a liminal bubble bath … that is the beginning … we are not alone … we see god drop the soap, intentionally, perhaps the precursor to a gag, and watch her slip under to retrieve it, when she remerges, face caked in frothy foam beard, we laugh and laugh, god is a champagne rabies monster, we laugh and laugh till our sides ache, till it hurts so bad, we consider drowning as a viable port to dreaming … so this is what it is like to take a bath with god … recognition and awareness recall that old glittering adage, all roads lead home, so if you were to slip under the water as god did, your eyes may become dreaming eyes and your breathing dreaming breathing.

where is god the champagne rabies monster? has she gone? did she take the soap? it appears it is just you and the tub and the water and this is how the resounding what-ifs begins, how the inconceivable becomes a minor plague, and as you search for the means to drain the water from the tub you wonder if this is what is meant by throwing out the baby with the bathwater, in other words, you’ve contracted the bathwater blues, its timeless riff and melody causing many everywhere to wake up weeping motherless, god the champagne rabies monster is the ventilator through which the weeping breathe, but where is she, what happened to god with all her wonderful antics like sporting a beard of bubble bath foam, where’s the gag, and alone in the tub, you find yourself contracting and expanding, contracting and expanding, a fear-inflating pufferfish with amnesia,  and not knowing what else to do or how else to do or why else to do you begin singing—I’ve got the baby bathwater blues—and the echoes of your voice, coming from a far distance, splinter you to no end.