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Posted on 2008.05.03 at 16:10

To: Manager, Security Services
Re: Security Officer positions.

Thanks for taking the time to consider my application. I understand the need to review the criminal records of potential employees, and I support your position in this matter one hundred percent. When you are hiring someone to guard a property against burglary and vandalism, the last person you are going to want is a vandal or a convicted thief. That makes all the sense in the world, I totally agree.

A repeat burglary offender is likely to steal from his own employers. He would make a horrible employee in a security capacity, being a security risk himself. But you need to ask yourself this: Does it really matter if he's been convicted of first degree murder? Could there be anything less relevant? He isn't likely to encounter his back-stabbing best friend on the job, or anything. That friend is already dead.

He's dead and buried and I have already served my time. I've paid my debt to society, and now I would like nothing more than to resume the career that I laid out in a guidance counsellor's office oh-so-many years ago. I would like to come to work for your company, and I think I would make a fine addition to your team. I am crazy tough looking, with prison tattoos all over, and a raspy voice cultivated by a combination of the harsh air conditions in my cell block and an erratic supply of good herbal tea.

I am a people person, and I love to work with the public. I have extensive experience working in a security capacity, having worked security on such high profile accounts as Microsoft Headquarters, the McDonald's head office, and with Securitas Canada in a number of important capacities.

I am a man of my word, and I have strong convictions. You will not find a more honest and trustworthy employee anywhere. I murdered Jimmy with a kitchen knife, and I would do that again. He did wrong by me, and it made me so crazy. It still makes me crazy. I stabbed him again and again in the face, and I used the knife to carve a small poem about my feelings on his back. "I went to rent a movie / but they said I had fines / so many fines / I couldn't / rent again / until I paid / you said / you took that movie / back / I trusted / you "

I look forward to speaking with you again about this position. Yours,

Joseph Comeau

Posted on 2008.04.20 at 20:19
Enjoy the day. You too.
Hey! It is night for me already
This is true; enjoy the night.
I do.

Our king said: I feel responsible,
but I did fix that and this
little girl--
longing for a kiss.
You not let me (he, us, we)
Her boy yell his favorite comfort.
She laugh: hard smile gentle frown.
Changed into quiet smoke.
Earn my being, love, best smell.
Ask about my day, tell me a story
in which we dance together, angel.


Posted on 2007.11.16 at 21:05
Art or No?

This journal will set out to determine what is art and what is not art, but I can pretty calmly and confidently assert that it will never hit that mark. As this is most likely the case, let it be a discourse instead on why it is but a silly question brought about by prejudices and closed minds. “Is it art?” is, in my mind a question kindred in spirit to the statement “That is not art” which is only a short skip from “That is garbage/my kid could do that.” So, let me show you how I get there and with what philosophies I battle on the way.
The first order of this business would, obviously, be to define art. And the first task to defining art in my mind is to make a distinction that nothing is art until presented as art. Secondly, let us, for clarity and expediencies sake, check a few online dictionaries to see if they concur. Wow. Well, I’ll just provide the first three:
1. the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.
2. the class of objects subject to aesthetic criteria
3. Generally art is a (product of) human activity, made with the intention of stimulating the human senses as well as the human mind; by transmitting emotions and/or ideas. Beyond this description, there is no general agreed-upon definition of art, since defining the boundaries of "art" is subjective.
So, there seems to be some disagreement here, but I think what the composite of these definitions states is that art is an idea, activity or object which is pleasing to some sense (visual and sonic being the most typical, as they are the most accessible) and “transmits” or stimulates the formation of ideas/emotions/sense of beauty. At this juncture I feel comfortable saying art’s function is to convey an idea to or provoke thought in a sensor , and these things are individual—ideas and emotions are certainly subjective and “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” or is culturally defined—and thus cannot be denied. If some idea, activity or object generates any of the reactions described above in one sensor then no other individual may deny the reaction of that sensor.
But wait! This conclusion must be erroneous for surely there exist people and movements who do this very thing: deny that provocative and evocative sensual objects/experiences, which are presented as art, are not, in fact, art. Who do these people—Objectivists, Stuckists, Daniel Isaac , thatsnotart.com, countless other sources, both intellectual and banal— think they are? If art is as I have defined it above, than it is impossible for someone who is not me to tell me that something I think is art is not. It quite valid to discuss whether a particular work or type or movement of art is important or successful, but to say that something presented as art, with all the qualities described above is not art seems to me to be groundless.
I thought, when I embarked on this paper, that I may come to some understanding of Objectivism and all its offshoots, but I have not. Their principles prescribe a definition of art that defies my imagination and must, if it is to be correct, not just devalue but destroy much of the art made the in the 20th and 21st centuries that I personally esteem highly. In fact, much art that I myself have made “is not art.” So, while I have not really given a duality of viewpoints in this paper, I do believe I have done something that I think is quite difficult: defined art to my own satisfaction (at least at this present juncture) and defended my definition. If I went into the detail and specificity I wanted to (discussing Duchamp, Warhol, Tracey Emin, Rauschenberg, Pollock, Joseph Beuys and countless others) I would end up writing an extended essay on conceptual art, which would be inappropriate, so I will end here.

Judith Shakes

Posted on 2007.11.14 at 07:26
Judith shakes when she cries, much as she’ll shake when she dies,

But now she’s been turned away again from the stage

And she trembles with all her shame and sadness and rage

So I take her in my arms, take her in my home;

I well know her brother and I’ll not have her be alone.

I pity her situation and her vulnerability begs me

To stand by her and do what I can so we

Take off our clothes because I don’t have anything to say

And Judith needs a place to stay.

We twist and turn and swim in each other

she wears an expression dutiful and ashamed.

She lays and looks away, smelling both of sweat,

We were sugary sweet machines but between us, in between

Something was planted in the furrows and soiled and sexed.

For weeks we fucked and spoke with our own dialect:

A mixture of our dependence and regret

And she spoke like she knew that nothing would be all right.


Judith shakes, she bends and she breaks and

The life buried warm inside upsets her stomach, makes

Her need more than anything to escape.

Judith piles all her pages and pens;

She puts on a brown coat and memories of friends

That she left at home that winter when

She walked her way to town.

She piles it all and stands herself on top

Like a martyr on a post outside a butcher’s shop.

Judith shakes, she twists and turns

And looks briefly to me before her eyes drop.

She rummages for matches in her deep brown pockets,

Her voice breaks, her match strikes, her shapely body burns;

Her supple scent lingers, rank and sensual by turns.

Her thick black smoke spreads and stings my eye sockets.


She stands like a burning beacon in my memory:

A girl only seventeen who once held

The knack but is no longer speaking

To me.


So lover, loop your fingers with the rings in my spine

And erase the memory of that dead lover and child of mine—

Now buried at the crossing by the pachyderm pub—

That lover so fine when she first lay with me, clothed and reclined,

we were not in love but she made me so alive.

He's dying to lie to you.

Posted on 2007.10.17 at 19:49
Current Music: Love Outside Movies
All these people drinking lover's spit
They sit around and clean their face with it
And they listen to teeth to learn how to quit
Tied to a night they never met

You know it's time
That we grow old and do some shit
I like it all that way

All these people drinking lover's spit
Swallowing words while giving head
They listen to teeth to learn how to quit
Better take some hands and get used to it

You know it's time
That we grow old and do some shit
I like it all that way

Posted on 2007.10.13 at 09:42
Why do you build me up (build me up) Buttercup, baby
Just to let me down (let me down) and mess me around
And then worst of all (worst of all) you never call, baby
When you say you will (say you will) but I love you still

I take my clothes off in the dark

Posted on 2007.09.15 at 23:15
I take my clothes off in the dark,
I am cold—I ask you where you’ve been.
You don’t know; I am alone.
My face gets hot, my feet get cold.
(Like talking to a ghost, I whisper to myself)
Your skin is soft, I remember it that way;
your voice is light, your words were sharp;
it’s been some days, are things okay?
(With me, with you) you speak your darts,
you move your arms, are things all right
you move your heart, you move your smile—
all I have are how things seem; you’ve got me.
Are you happy just to see me, now, like you were?
I don’t feel that way lately and maybe
we’ve gone on too long, written all our songs
righted all our wrongs written too many words
we wouldn’t say aloud. My heart beats loudly;
I don’t remember when it began.
I wonder will it end, will we let it, when it asks,
when it’s done, when it’s ready
when it’s set to stop beating beating beating b—
you’ve been out with friends, at home with the TV.
You’ve been alone, but not lonely
I don’t understand; there are people here always
and I only want to be with you
the covers are warm but not comforting.
I’m not alone but I’m so lonely
you could fix it but you’re by yourself tonight.

The Kiss

Posted on 2007.08.23 at 20:04
Current Music: Broken Social Scene
He perches on the edge of the chair ─leather, light-brown, public─ nervously not knowing where to put his hands. Does he drape one arm nonchalantly over the back of the chair, over her shoulder as she sits and reads, does he simply brace himself against the chair, the wall, anything to avoid an embarrassing fall, does he…the book she reads is romantic. Not pulpy or clichéd, no windblown shirtless man on the front leaf, but romantic in a familiar way, a vaguely tragic way. The bit of the book she is reading features as its central character a girl standing in a hallway waiting for a kiss. He places his hand on the opposite side of the chair from where he sits.
Himself braced, the girl claimed ("My arm is around this girl, my girl") he considers his move made. Like a lion cub on the hunt, old enough to know that the knack lies in creeping silently through the high grass but still inexperienced enough to not quite know what comes next in this art so central to his happiness and wellbeing, he has made a tentative move. Slowly, inexpertly, practiced intellectually but untested in the wild the move is made. She looks up into his face, acknowledging the movement, waiting to see what happens. Expectant.
She hasn't given him much room to sit, despite her invitation to take the seat some ten minutes before. He balances precariously, braced as he is, knowing what is expected to come last in this situation but not knowing what comes next. Face to face now, the book ignored in her lap; the subtly present romance unfolding has taken, momentarily, the place of the subtle literary romance which seemed so engrossing only a moment ago. Positions shift infinitesimally. She leans back into the chair, letting it take all her weight, displacing slightly his arm which he does not feel comfortable leaving directly adjacent to the skin of her neck. He leans forward slightly ─ever so slightly─ and, with a nervous twitch of his cheeks, smiles. She returns the expression kindly, gently, encouragingly (he takes a brief mental note of this last). He has crept silently on padded feet through the tall grass and here he is, knowing it is time to act: he must pounce he must move he must not─
"How's the book so far?"
─break the fragile moment he has before him. He must not, under any circumstances─
"Oh, erm, it's all right. I mean…it's good, real good."
─do what he has just done. He has rustled too much the high grass. He sees the moment slipping away, sprinting away as he perches and feigns interest in the book he has very little intention of reading himself. It was not a mistake or an accident ─"No," he takes a moment to admit to himself, "It was not"─ but instead the impulsive action of a boy not ready for, well, much of anything.
It is a good book, real good; this much he knows. What exactly happened a moment ago? He is a touch less certain on this score. Thus limited in his knowledge and therefore his available categories of further conversation he knows that any further chase would be an exercise in frustration; his young legs are built for padding silently, not yet long or strong enough for open pursuit. Not much left to do but─
"Good. Good. I'll have to check it out sometime."
─cut his losses, call it a game, whatever the euphemism. The hunt is called due to weather; her nose is back in the book. He clumsily slips from the arm of the chair.

Posted on 2007.06.10 at 15:49

I hate it here when you're gone.

Posted on 2007.06.09 at 13:16
Current Music: wilco streaming concerts online
I try to stay busy
I do the dishes, I mow the lawn
I try to keep myself occupied
Even though I know you're not coming home

I try to keep the house nice and neat
I make my bed I change the sheets
I even learned how to use the washing machine
But keeping things clean doesn't change anything

What am I gonna do when I run out of shirts to fold?
What am I gonna do when I run out of lawn to mow?
What am I gonna do if you never come home?
Tell me, what am I gonna do?

I hate it
I hate it here
When you're gone

I caught myself thinking
I caught myself thinking once again
Have to try to keep my mind out of this
Try not to pretend

I'll check the phone
I'll check the mail
I'll check the phone again and I call your mom
She says you're not there and I should take care

I hate it here
When you're gone
I hate it
I hate it here
When you're gone

I try to stay busy
I take out the trash, I sweep the floor
Try to keep myself occupied
Cause I know you don't live here anymore

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