my dad owns tap dancing shoes

now that i'm done with all my finals and three of my five grad school applications are mailed off (!!), i've been spending much of today cleaning.
a little while ago, my dad came home, and saw my pile of things to throw away.

Dad (from downstairs): I’m going to throw up a trash bag
Me: You feeling okay?
Dad: Yeah, do I seem like I don't feel well?
Me: You threw up a trash bag
Dad: Ahhh ha ….quit your trash talking
[pause] I’ve had enough of that garbage
[longer pause] That was just a waste
[really long pause] You need to clean up your act
[equally long pause]
Me: Any more dad?
Dad: I only have so many garbage jokes
[pause]
Me: I think all your jokes are garbage
[pause]
Dad: I think you need to put a lid on it

some photos

from a color project i did in my photo class a couple weeks ago.
(6 11x14"s mounted on foam core)

this is why

i love my job

unworthy wordiness**

there is so much
that is left unsaid
words left lingering, that
haunt the hallways of our head

words that ask questions
that give explanations
that offer apologies
that make accusations

what does it matter?
what does it mean?
words are never enough
words always seem
to fall short
and get lost
somewhere between
somewhere in the dead gulf
between you and me


**that's not the title of the poem, just the title of the blog entry...

i have decided

to become a ghost

cash-ola

because

how often do you get to have a stare down with a goat?