Mary was strangled, she got it the worst.
Six years later, Bryon took a shotgun
blast to the face, while Josephine and Douglas

got it from the back.  All four had
got on the bad side of Clarence Ray Allen,
a broken sociopath, who killed people

every time it seemed like a good idea.
Twenty-six years later,
after a buffalo steak and frybread,

he was taken into a room, and injected
with five grams of sodium thiopental,
which put him to sleep in a hurry.  They flushed

his veins with saline and another needle shoved
one hundred milligrams of pancuronium bromide,
paralyzing his diaphragm and lungs.

Another saline flush and a fifth needle
flooded his veins with potassium chloride, shutting
down the electric signals to his heart,

one switch at a time.  His heart,
acclimated to malfunction,
required a second dose, two minutes later.

And we gave it to him.


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.