Stepped in a puddle of vomit on the way to maorning mass. There is a symbolism there, however you wish to take it. From a pragmatic view, the cold night had rendered it frozen, so there was no lingering stench. Heard Al Purdy poetry on the radio; poetry about him in a bar talking about fighting and about hockey and sipped beer and sucked on my cigarette saying to myself, damn he was good, his poetry was a living, breathing man thing with balls and beer and boisterous bravado, brazen and ballistic withy weary and fury, unmitigated by the isms and jisms of literary whimpering, just a man and a pen and eyes, and ears, and an earnest Canadian spirit that lurched my earnest Canadain spirit to once again take up poetry pen, a poetry pen I discarded one marriage ago, because all the poetry that can come out of ruined unions is watery, insipid, whiny poetry. Poetry with hair on it, that's Al Purdy poestry. Poetry with hair on it, sweat, spit, hallitosis, callouses; unwashed poetry with a damaged liver, with wheezing lungs that still can sing joyous gutteral and dance a shuffling scraping dance within a drewary dirge. Poetry that embraces the fat, pink, pimply flesh of humanity. Poetry that steps in puddles of puke on the way to morning mass with its significant symbolism for however you want to take it. ...and its fun to say outloud...alpurdypoetry, alpurdypoetry, alpurdypoetry......