Our destinies are molecular, uniformly bonded, an immaculately charged cluster fuck of singing 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 he remerges, face caked in frothy 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 and call to dreaming … so this is what it is like to take a bath with god … recognition and awareness flicker recalling 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 he 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 begin, 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 side effects may include amnesia dry mouth shortness of breath, bathwater blues as a timeless melody and riff causing many everywhere to wake up weeping motherless, god the champagge rabies monster is the ventilator through which the weeping breathe, but where is she, what happened to god with all his wonderful antics like sporting a slathery beard of bubble foam, where’s the gag, and alone in the tub you find yourself contracting and expanding, contracting and expanding, a fear-inflating pufferfish with water on the brain, and not knowing what else to do or how else to do or why else to do you begin singing I’ve got the bathwater blues and the echoes of your own voice, coming from a far distance, splinters you to no end.