Dream Journal #2

I was driving a truck, one of the huge semi’s you see on the freeways, and I was late.  I was impossibly behind schedule – The kind of late you really can’t recover from – and being late meant something horrible…something worse than not being paid…maybe the loss of a finger.    To make matters worse, I was out of gas so I stopped at a truck stop to fill my tank, and while it was filling up, I ran in and ordered a sandwich and a drink.  The coffee shop at this place was nowhere you’d want to eat, you could feel the grease in the air, permeating your clothing, your hair, your skin…everything.  The juke box was playing the most morose country music I’ve ever heard and the waitress was completely uninterested in getting my order right.  I could feel time slipping away and finally I just said, “Yes,” to whatever she repeated back to me and five minutes later she came back and told me they were out of bread.  All I could do was run back out to my truck and suffer through the hunger as I broke the speed limit getting to my destination, hoping that my punishment was only a financial one.


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.