By Brad Headington

To The Talkative

Talking to you takes
all the fun out of my beer.
So shut the hell up.

 

 

To The Alcoholic

Are you sauced?
No, I’m just juiced.

 

 

Eating Alone

In the microwave sits my mac and cheese
seasoned with spite, and selfish greed.
I shall eat it with a can of spam,
me, myself and I
will taste the errors of my ways
holding my dignity
in a foggy glass
of some fine boxed wine.
I will then lay down
to sleep like a baby left at a door step
while the wind whistles through the pines
but no one is home, and
no one is coming.

 

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• Poem: “Arch(r)ival”
• Poem: Denizens
• Poem: Self-Evaluation
• Independence Day: Transformers and Poetry
• Even Automatons Get the Blues