Dear God

Dear God-
Hey dude, I know it’s been forever since we talked and I realize I don’t really have the right to ask anything of you, what with not really being 100% on your team and all but hey, agnostic is better than atheist, right?  Baby steps, man.  Anyway look, my head hurts like fuck.  Like…if you took an overripe grapefruit and shoved it up a duck’s ass, that would give you an idea how I feel at the moment (my head is the grapefruit, not the duck’s ass).  It hurt like fuck when I woke up this morning and five hours, four Excedrin, and a bucket of caffeine later and things just haven’t improved enough.  So I was thinking maybe you could just grab that Universal Remote of yours and, I don’t know, fast forward through to about 6pm or so?  That’d be great, thanks.

Oh and hey, as long as I have your attention, if there’s any way you could arrange for a Sea Lion to destroy Tony Hayward’s ball sack, that would be delightful and very much appreciated.  If not (too cruel or some other bullshit), I totally get it.  Anyway, thanks for listening.



Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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