Sometimes Sinister

Tonight's a poetry night for sure. I'm leaving for Calgary tomorrow after I wake up and pack for an overnight trip. The reading on Sunday is filling me with a lot of anxiety because right now I think my goal is to be memorable, not necessarily well-liked, but memorable. As it stands I'm hoping to rattle off some of the poems I've written for my Sometimes Sinister project. I'm pleased to say that at this point in time I definitely do not have enough time to read half the poems I've written for that project so far (and that's not even counting the drafts that I'm not even confident enough to include in the project yet). So I thought that before I head out on the road I would leave you with a short piece from the project. I have a series of short poems written in prose-like blocks that list of ominous concepts and closing with the refrain: Sometimes sinister, like the way I love you. I won't transcribe all of those short poems for you here, but here is one of the ones that seems to have caught my eye just now as I was reviewing my work for my possible setlist for Sunday...

Sometimes Sinister

A bad idea. Nape hairs prickling themselves at premonitions. Feeling the long staredown with death through a complete absence of light. Hearing the axe remove itself from a block of wood. A neighbor's television set turned up too loud and muffled, though still audible: commentary on the latest round of prostitute murders. Creamsicle street light: rain, baby, rain. The semicolon suggesting there is more to the picture that is disjointed, maybe not even there. The way fingers twitch when they've clutched too many knife handles, too many gun butts, and now find themselves without something to hold. The masturbator's posture. Carpal tunnel.

Sometimes sinister

like the way I love you.