Best Easter in years, actually, and the only eggs I encountered were in my omelet.  But Jesus, coming back to work after a weekend of seaside fun and great food should be illegal.  It should, in fact, be mandatory to spend your first day back from a trip at the DMV so you’ll be grateful to be in your dull and soulless office, not getting any fresh air, not soaking up any sunshine, not living life.

Which is a mostly whiny-ass way of saying I spent Easter Sunday and Not Easter Monday in Dana Point and you can totally tell because I have an actual complexion and a spark of life behind my eyes hinting at more than just office-zombie dreariness.

Know what’s awesome?  Watching a hundred seagulls diving at the water during the sunset, looking for their dinner, as you smell the salt air and wonder why you’d live anywhere that didn’t smell like this all the time.  Know what isn’t?  Sales reports.

Just sayin’.


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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