Scrolling through old posts in my 'offline journal' I came across this.

One more attempt to sort-or-understand it all.

2/11/12

There was a magazine next to the crapper, of course.

So 

Sometimes after wine, maybe a little too much wine

you will read something. And what had previously escaped your

razor sharp intellect®

is now blazingly, blindingly clear.

The former Poet Laureate whose book on poetry

you’ve labored over

has a poem published in a magazine (which you have fortunately stored next to the crapper)

and every word - instead of being rectangular and indigestible

now actually describes an individual leaf on this 

tree

of life.

The poem - it’s about mules and old sayings and getting kicked and breathing. Indeed, what else is there?

This too-much-wine evening also happens to be 

the same day as your visit to a church

for a funeral of the mother of a friend.

This church - as it happens - is the same church which for at least a decade in your life was the only reason that you tied shoes onto your feet on one morning each week from mid-June to the end of August.

This church from your past, this moment in your present, 

your questions about the hereafter

all condensing, crystalizing right here in this too-much-wine evening.

So today I tied presentable shoes to my feet, tied a tie around the collar of 

a presentable shirt and went to the old church and listened to the priest speak.

It’s a moment. 

There in the church - the flood of thoughts - how many funerals in this country each day?  How many people utter words meant to sum something up? 

This - today - is about the moment when whatever it is 

that the universe has - or is - separates itself (it would seem) from 

a speck - a prism - that focussed the energy of the universe into an identifiable form for eighty-odd years. 

So

All of these beams align today - shoes, energy, wine, poetry - and I feel as though I flail and flop like a throw rug in the dryer. 

A throw rug walked on by saints and soaked in spilled wine.

Religion. Who’s yer daddy? Jesus? Buddha? Mo-freakin’-hammed?

Raised with Latin phrases 

echoing through my brain,

today  I realized that what we all want - no matter whose picture is hanging on the wall - 

is just something that we can all put our hands on at the same time

and look each other in the eye

and say, “Yes - this is something we agree on”.

The darkness is so vast . . . .