Tim Barrus Blog
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Tim Barrus In The New York Times
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Trump knew in September. He claims he became aware of the virus in January.
America finds him amusing. The country is indifferent to the larger questions of life and death. Americans do not care.
A psychopathic personality makes a jump – in the same way a virus can – from…
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Night Run
that first weight in my balls/ we run at night/ through the streets/ as if something was chasing us/ it was at our heels, hunger/ another thin rope as a high wire act/ the grocery stores no longer throw away leftover food in dumpsters/ we are on our own, and…
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The Great Suspension of Disbelief
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We die alone. What of it.
We eat we fuck we joke we play we piss we hate we sing we dance we drink we smoke we tell stories we shit we run we race we love. We try to stay alive. We fail a lot.
Whelps. Kingdom of the…
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Dying Alone
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his wings in the jagged glass shadows have been clipped hideously/ they say sedation is this empty vacuum where you are not conscious/ this is a lie/ get used to it/ they’re going to lie to you and force feed you murmuring the dark selves songs/ curling discontent, you hear,…
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The First Time I Met Jasha
The first time I met Jasha was in Moscow. I knew right away exactly how talented as a photographer he was. Photography was his life. All my adventures with Jasha were road trips. Moscow to St. Petersburg. Then, later, New York to New Orleans. We were drunk on fun. It…
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Undocumented Boys Speak Directly to ICE During Quarantine
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following rules is not what we do
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morning just as clear/ yet i remain a little blury not unlike when the rain gets in your eyes or the fog between your teeth/ i arrive before they do/ with their cigarettes and coffee and groaning/ we have different school rules/ we would do social distancing, but most of…
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School
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I have been asked to return to teaching. It is a horrifying thought.
I have years of experience teaching on the Internet. School is a nightmare, and it sucks cock. Can you even imagine me returning to the digital classroom. A classroom is a classroom.
Hey, I’m just like the…
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Blackout
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The Walls of What Remains
Among the walls of what remains, there’s always writing.
If I am totally alone, and out on the lake on a winter’s night, I will walk across the ice, and looking up, there it is, the past. I can see the past. The Coma clusters have come undone. I make…