Tim Barrus Blog
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Truman Capote: “I go back to places I have lived.”
I was born a writer. It is a curse. You were born to consume. It is not the same.
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PARENTS NEED TO JUST GO HOME
I am a communist. Journalists and talking heads are exploring the houses of the shadows – government – as history buried in the infrastructure that holds the Capitol and Capitalism up to the light. Not unlike wine, and what we see are bacteria and fungi engaged in battle. Homo sapiens…
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The British Want to Be The Greeks
I am a communist. The other. I understand what I see is radically different from what you see is true. What is apology. What are reparations. I got pinned to the wall in an Esquire interview. Making the claim I was cravenly indifferent. I apologized. I will be sorry to…
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Some Will Some Won’t
I am a communist. You could always hear us coming down the hall. Kids looking around for codes and secret signs. We all do that anyway. Kids are kids on a good day. “But he had a rainbow on the door.” My ideas about health care begin with having the…
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Charlene Worked at Waffle House
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Bikes On Pause
We came home late last night on the bikes. The dogs barking. This morning, the bikes were on the ground, fallen over. I picked them up and parked them. I think maybe we just left them there, ourselves. It was that kind of night. Corn should be coming in soon…
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Make Sure To Park Close To The Door
High school boys stare. They do not know about multiples. They like the bike. They are not sleeping in a sleeping bag on the ground tonight. Andrew was a stripper. The good ones are dancers, too. Lap dance. I came in my pants. We hung out with whores. They sold…
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sometimes you sell whatever you have to survive and you and I both know that it can always get deeper and deeper
Your bones away in there.
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Dirt Bike Town
Mainly, they would pay us if we allowed them to suck our dicks. What you see could be prostitution. What I see is homelessness. I knew one trick who used to take me to his house where he fucked me in his son’s bed. I saw a picture of this…
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The Ides Of August
That comes before the swallows ride the hot winds up was innocence for innocence.