Mostly Pointless & Wholly Unsatisfying

I was stopped at a red light on my way to work this morning when this guy skateboards through the crosswalk in front of me.  He was skinny and pale and dressed all in black, including his shitty black hat with the brim flipped up in the rear, his long stringy hair hanging out the back.  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have given him a second thought but there was something about this particular skater that just wasn’t right.  Specifically, he was a 38-year-old man.  I know this because he and I graduated from the same high school.  I also know he’s the father of at least one child.  That’s all I know about him these days, which is actually how I’d like it to stay.  The last time I spoke to him, his hair was still blue so it’s been a while.  Maybe he won the lottery or inherited a ton of money or something and he’s just skating around town laughing at all of us fucking sheep, going to our mostly pointless and wholly unsatisfying jobs.  Hell, I hope so.  But…I don’t know.

Call me old fashioned but there’s just something sort of sad about someone who’s pushing 40, is a parent, and can claim he spent his morning skateboarding around town looking like a junkie.

On the other hand, I spend my days working at a mostly pointless and wholly unsatisfying job so what do I know?


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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