Tim Barrus Blog

  1. Open Letter to Patricia Cohen, Economist, New York Times

    Your analysis of economic survival is just plain wrong. I am writing this from a hospital bed. This bed is a black hole of ruin. American economics is not unlike genocide. It kills with a particular focus. The inevitable confrontation found in the structures of self-created inequality invented by the

  2. the lone and narrowing

    the lone and narrowing but now your left breast down to fatal wreckage behind the blur of cancer’s tomb you were at risk because the other one hiv has disowned diseased outcomes deep-buried and banished to the marrow’s snow whose frigid hands grab us all seeing as the sun has

  3. A Psychopath is a Psychopath is a Psychopath

    Rising heat is the enemy. But can we afford the time it will take to rid ourselves of the lack of values that blockades the Paris Agreement. Whenever I use the word, psychopath, the New York Times nervously runs, retreating behind the word civility. They will refuse to publish this.

  4. feeding the lion

    it’s like feeding the lion the ferocity of bone/ there are no other beds for him to sleep in/ his brother’s cock is a hardening of the weight he carries in the gravitas of the secret whips he knows he cannot speak to or for or of/ thin-framed and the

  5. The Family Ate the Family Dog

    the family ate the family dog appalachia is unconditional surrender replacement parts and arguments poverty and the truck shop passing through the bedroom window swallowed by the cardboard that has replaced what glass is left school bus in the morning frost of growling smoke pickled meats and vomit, dark corridors,

  6. pacemakers and arrhythmia

    i will never leave appalachia/ i know that/ it just is/ i do not love appalachia/ i do not know how to love a place/ i hold no romance for it to my naked breast/ the beauty of the blue ridge is more ruthless than you can know/ that soft,

  7. Ginger’s Pasture

    when old ned died, we had to drag the horse’s body with a tractor to a pit i had spent a day digging/ i had loved that horse, and could not shake the feeling that we were hurting him by dragging his dead weight with a rope tied around his

  8. THESE APPALACHIAN HILLS

    ginger is never here/ he tends bar in asheville, and he’s a drug dealer/ like i give a shit/ people make their own decisions/ consequences come and go/ he’s a great fuck, and we spent two weeks here a long time ago/ appalachia is about many things/ a long time

  9. in these appalachian hills

    in these appalachian hills groaning under not an anchor but a lack of them reading itself is like the scrap dealer bent so close to poverty one can only wonder why it is white people mainly cannot bring themselves to understand that reading is a warship that has kissed the

  10. and hovering

    i belong in that  place with the sacks of seed spilled upon the fallow ground salted with milkweed and armed with cameras and hovering